“Who is that?” Barrabus the Gray asked Herzgo Alegni when he caught up to the tiefling outside Alegni’s tent. Not far away, the twisted newcomer lurked around a copse of trees, fiddling his fingers in apparent spellcasting practice.
“No one of any concern to you,” Alegni answered, his voice rough-edged and clearly filled with aggravation.
“Good. I detest wizards.”
“Warlock,” Alegni corrected.
“Even worse,” said Barrabus, taking no pains to hide the utter contempt in his voice.
He noted that his response brought a strange look to Herzgo Alegni’s face, as if the tiefling was suddenly pondering something in a different light.
“No,” Alegni said, and his smile unsettled Barrabus. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily.”
“What does that mean?”
Alegni ignored him and walked past him. “Effron!” he called out to the warlock.
The young tiefling looked over, then began shambling awkwardly his way.
Barrabus couldn’t hide his disgust at the infirm being. “Shall I kill him and end his misery?” he asked, in jest of course, but the angry glare from Alegni, a flash of pure outrage beyond anything Barrabus had ever seen from the tiefling—and he’d seen, and evoked, more than his share of Alegni’s unrelenting anger!—told him he’d hit a peculiar nerve with his off-hand comment.
“Effron,” Alegni said when the warlock approached, “this is Barrabus, your new partner.”
“You can’t be serious,” Barrabus said.
“Oh, but I am.”
“He’s a child.”
“You’re an old human,” Effron countered.
“One to learn from the other, then,” said Alegni, clearly pleased with himself. “I expect that your respective skills will complement each other.” He turned to Barrabus. “Perhaps you will gain an appreciation of magic.”
“Only if it twists over itself and destroys its caster,” Barrabus muttered.
“And you,” Alegni continued, addressing Effron, “will perhaps come to understand the true power of the sword, the nobility and courage of he who confronts his enemies in mortal melee.”
“I understand the value of fodder,” Effron replied, turning a narrow-eyed stare at Barrabus, and only then did Barrabus notice the young tiefling’s weird eyes: one red, one blue.
“And woe to either of you if the other is killed,” Alegni finished. “Now be gone, the two of you. Find your place together and do not disappoint me.”
He turned on his heel and headed back to his tent. Barrabus glared at him, emanating hate with every step. When Alegni reached the tent flap, Barrabus glanced over at his new partner, and realized that this warlock, Effron, watched Alegni with equal consternation.
Perhaps they had a bit of common ground after all, Barrabus thought.
Sylora continued to stare at the surprising Brother Anthus for just a few moments longer then finally relaxed in acceptance at the undeniable truth of the young monk’s reasoning. Why would the Sovereignty need any spies? Sylora had witnessed telepathy often in her time beside Szass Tam, of course, and, since she often dealt with the undead, including powerful liches and vampires, she knew the dangers and powers of possession as well. But she’d never seen such a display of psionic strength to equal that single example offered by the aboleth ambassador and its servitor. The aboleth could do more than impart its thoughts to her through its slave, and relay back her responses with perfect translation.
She, too, had felt an intrusion in their time in the cavern, very brief, a mere flicker of invasion, hardly more than an introduction. But in that mere heartbeat of intrusion, the aboleth had stripped her emotionally naked. Sylora hadn’t tried to deceive the ambassador because she’d known from the instant she felt the intrusion that there was no way she could possibly do so.
She’d heard the rumors of the power of aboleths—the mighty umber hulks obediently lining the walls only served as a reminder to the creature’s ability to dominate—and now that she considered it, Sylora was relieved that she’d gotten out of that chamber without being enslaved.
She had no intention of returning to the underground pond and its otherworldly inhabitant. She looked at Valindra.
“Yes, Sylora, I’ll serve as your ambassador to the Sovereignty,” the lich said, as if reading her every thought.
Perhaps she was, Sylora feared. Perhaps the ambassador was even then scouring her mind, through Valindra’s eyes.
It occurred to Sylora Salm then that the sooner she completed the Dread Ring and moved on to a different mission in a far different location, the better off she would be.
“When you return to the cavern, take Jestry with you,” Sylora said.
Valindra’s laugh caught her off guard. “Your plaything is strong of body, but not of mind,” the lich explained. “He will likely be overwhelmed by the wondrous ambassador.”
“In that instance, he’s no use to me anyway,” Sylora replied. “Dahlia will soon return to Neverwinter, I am informed. I do not wish to waste my energies upon her. Jestry will be recreated to defeat her. The ring is the first piece only—now I need that which Arunika promised me.”
Valindra offered a bow in response, an awkward, stiff movement that created more than a bit of crackling noise in her dry skin.