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  Then Valindra waved her scepter and drove on her zombie legions. She nodded repeatedly, happily, as hundreds more swarmed out from the forest. She reached into the scepter, feeling its power, calling on that power to increase, to awaken fully. She held it out in front of her horizontally and closed her eyes, trying to find the tunnel gate to connect this place with the Nine Hells.

  She imagined the looks on the faces of those fools in the ruins of Neverwinter when a greater devil, a pit fiend, perhaps, walked into their midst.

  The ends of the scepter flared to life. Sylora had told her not to summon forth any denizens of the Nine Hells, but Valindra was too caught up in the moment to remember Sylora’s words, or to care.

  She spoke the name of a fiend, and ended with a great, ecstatic exhale as she closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, she expected to see a great devil standing in front of her, but alas, there was none. Just the scepter, its ends still shining, but hardly with the power Valindra expected. She closed her eyes and redoubled her efforts, demanding that a devil come forth.

  But as she looked more deeply into the magic, Valindra realized that there was no tunnel to be found.

  “Sylora,” she rasped, for Sylora had been in possession of the scepter earlier that day, and had shown some great control over it. Szass Tam had given it to Sylora Salm, not to Valindra, and Sylora had granted it to Valindra for the journey to the dwarven mines. Was it possible that the sorceress knew some other secrets of the item, some internal locks on some of its powers, perhaps?

  Valindra tried one more time to bring forth a devil, but she couldn’t-not even a minor manes or some other such fodder creature.

  “Clever witch,” she whispered, and she cursed Sylora a thousand times under her breath.

  From across the way came the shouts, and the field near the wall lit up with fire and lightning as Neverwinter’s wizards joined the battle. Before the thunderous retorts ended, however, the screams began. Not shouts of glory or cries of rage, but screams of pain.

  Zombies wouldn’t cry out in such a manner, of course. And other than the zombies, there was only the one living Ashmadai nearing the battle.

  Valindra uttered no more curses at Sylora or anyone else. She basked in the screams, found herself growing more animated by their beautiful pitch. If she’d had a beating heart then surely it would have thumped against her breast at that moment.

  She turned to the Ashmadai. “Surround me,” she ordered, and she, too, began drifting out to the open field to join in the battle.

  “This is the moment of our glory,” Jestry continued to complain as he and Sylora traveled swiftly south of Neverwinter.

  Sylora Salm had heard enough. She stopped abruptly and whirled on Jestry, her eyes and nostrils flaring. “You are my second-and I hold you there above others who are far more powerful than you and quite envious of you.”

  “Valindra,” Jestry said.

  “Not Valindra,” said Sylora. “Though she could destroy you with a thought. Nay, there are others about, of whom you do not know and will not know.”

  The Ashmadai brought his hands to his hips. His pout was just beginning to show when Sylora slapped him across the face.

  “You are my second,” she said. “Act as such or I’ll be rid of you.”

  “The battle is back there!” Jestry argued. “The moment of our glory-”

  “That’s a minor skirmish to placate Szass Tam,” Sylora shot back. Jestry’s eyes widened. “My lady!”

  “Are you afraid to hear the truth? Or can I not trust you? Perhaps I should now fear that you will betray me to Szass Tam?”

  “No, my lady, but-”

  “Because if you so intend,” Sylora went on as if not even hearing him, “then you should consider two things. First, perhaps I’m merely testing your loyalty in speaking so candidly to you, when in truth I’m not speaking candidly at all. And second, you should always be aware that I can kill you-too quickly for even Szass Tam to save you. I can kill you and I can deny you a place at the foot of Asmodeus, do not doubt.”

  “I am loyal,” Jestry weakly replied.

  “It doesn’t matter, as I’m higher in Asmodeus’s regard than a mere zealot,” she answered.

  “I’m loyal to you,” Jestry apologized.

  Sylora paused and let it all sink in, nodding for a few moments. “Our attack is merely a feint, Jestry,” she explained. “We must pressure the folk who attempt to rebuild Neverwinter, as I wish to see the limits of their powers. Valindra commands less than a fifth of my zombies this night, and only a small number of your Ashmadai. She will not risk herself against the walls of Neverwinter, for that’s not her mission. Perhaps some of the citizens will die this night, but we will not take Neverwinter, nor tear down her walls.”

  “But still, I would be there.”

  “We’ll learn-”

  “I would learn!” he insisted. “I’m no novice to battle, personal or grand.”

  Sylora sighed heavily. “It is naught but a prelude,” she said. “For we’ve now been offered the promise of a greater ally by far, one that might produce the cataclysm Szass Tam and our Dread Ring demands.”

  He looked at her curiously.

  “You were there!” she yelled at him.

  “The lady Arunika?”

  “Lady,” Sylora echoed with a knowing little laugh. “Ah, my young zealot, you have so much to learn.”

  “Do we go to her now?” he asked eagerly. “We can’t be far from her cottage.”

  Sylora grinned, and Jestry stiffened.

  “Intrigued?” Sylora asked.

  “No,” he blurted. “It’s just-”

  Sylora laughed and started away.

  Soon enough, they arrived at Arunika’s front porch. The red-haired woman greeted them warmly and invited them in. Never once did she take her impish gaze off Jestry.

  He couldn’t return the look. Everything about Arunika seemed right to him. He wanted to bury his face in her curly hair. As he passed her by, her scent filled his nostrils, and he could almost imagine a springtime forest on a warm and sunny day following a gentle morning rain.

  “Lady Valindra has told you of your, of our, potential ally?” Arunika asked, motioning for the two to take seats. Conveniently-though out of coincidence, magical prescience, or a prearrangement, Jestry couldn’t know-the woman had set out three chairs that night, two facing one. Arunika took the single chair, opposite Jestry and Sylora.

  “I’m intrigued,” Sylora replied. “Such creatures as you described to Valindra are known to me, of course, though I’ve never dealt with one personally.”

  “Nor should you,” Arunika replied, and Sylora nodded as if she’d already come to the same conclusion.

  Jestry had to work hard to keep up with the conversation, for he kept getting distracted by the mere presence of Arunika, by that springtime smell and her thick, curly red locks. Her allure was something unexpected. At one point, he looked from her to Sylora, and by every standard-her height, her form, her jawline, her nose, her penetrating eyes-Sylora had to be considered far more striking. Jestry had already declared his love for her, and none of that had changed, surely.

  But Jestry found that he couldn’t look at Sylora for more than a few heartbeats with Arunika sitting so near. He turned back to face the redhead, and found her staring back at him, a curious grin on her pretty face.

  Arunika knew something, apparently, that he didn’t. He tried to break her stare with a look of consternation as she became more intent, but she only grinned more widely.

  He felt a bit of panic welling inside him. He looked to Sylora, but found that she wore the same expression as Arunika.

  “What…” he started to ask as he turned back to Arunika, just as she stood up from her chair.

  The rest of the words caught in Jestry’s mouth as Arunika stepped right up in front of him and reached out with one hand to gently stroke his thick black hair.

  He wanted to say something, but couldn’
t.

  She kept stroking his hair, her other hand working the ties on her plain dress. She loosened it and brought her arms down by her side just long enough to let the dress drop from her shoulders and fall to the floor.

  She stood there naked and unashamed, and the incongruity of her actions, of her forwardness, as compared to the quiet temperament she’d shown to this point had Jestry in a near panic.

  Not for long, though. He glanced again at Sylora, who smiled and nodded, and turned back to regard Arunika. He could barely keep his eyes open as she again stroked his black hair, her delicate touch sending shivers throughout his body.

  She bent down to kiss him and he couldn’t resist, and when he tried to press more passionately, she teasingly drifted back from him, and when he tried to stand to pursue, she used but one small hand to easily hold him in place.

  Jestry didn’t fully comprehend this strange strength. Nor did he notice the small horns that had sprouted on the woman’s forehead. Even when her batlike leathery wings suddenly opened wide as she moved down atop him, Jestry took no notice, for it didn’t really matter at that point.

  He was lost and he didn’t want to be found.

  Barrabus the Gray watched the approaching zombies with a mixture of anticipation and disgust. He’d seen these creatures many times in his battles with the ridiculous zealots, and remained thoroughly horrified by the undead things.

  But he itched for battle, a true battle, chaotic and frenzied, where he could lose himself, where he could forget his plight.

  All around him on Neverwinter’s wall, men and woman rushed to and fro, calling out orders, organizing their defenses. Archers let fly, which Barrabus considered a waste of time and resources, since those puncturing missiles seemed to have minimal effect on the ashen zombies. More effective were the few wizards, filling the field with fire, lightning serpents, and pelting ice storms.

  Barrabus couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched a group of zombies rushing across a patch of ground that had just been iced over. The scrabbling creatures flailed suddenly and spun every which way.

  “Kill them when they mass at the base of the wall!” cried one of the guard commanders, standing beside Barrabus.

  “You won’t find the opportunity,” Barrabus corrected him.

  The man looked at him curiously.

  “They’ll not pause for a wall,” Barrabus explained. “Not these creatures.”

  “What nonsense are you spouting?” the commander said, staring down at Barrabus with contempt, as if the man had challenged him directly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Barrabus saw a zombie rush up to the base of the wall and climb it so easily that a casual observer might have been shocked to even realize that the plane in front of the running creature had turned vertical. The assassin thought to warn the commander, perhaps even to spring over and push the man out of the way.

  But he didn’t bother.

  The zombie came over the wall in a rush, leaping onto the proud guard commander’s back before he could even swing around. Together they tumbled into the courtyard, the zombie raking at the commander all the way to the ground.

  Another zombie was right behind the first over the wall, this one leaping for Barrabus.

  The assassin’s sword flashed, taking off the zombie’s hand. His dagger pierced the chin of the creature as it slammed in to bite at him. With barely a twist, not a hint of wasted motion, Barrabus deflected the skewered creature just enough so that it flew past him instead of taking him with it from the parapet.

  As soon as the creature had been turned aside, Barrabus paid it not another thought, for, judging by the panicked cries of city defenders, other zombies were pouring over the wall. Barrabus rushed down to the left, wading into a struggle between a pair of zombies and one overmatched guard. A heavy chop of his sword removed the nearest zombie’s arm. As it tried to turn, he bulled through it, heaving it into the second zombie. It tried to grab at him, but he swiftly took off its second hand with another sword chop.

  Barrabus went into a frenzy, sword and dagger working in fluid, circling motions, battering and stabbing and chopping at the pair of zombies, quickly reducing them to piles of gore on the parapet.

  Another undead monster came to the top of the wall, right beside him, and tried to leap on him. But Barrabus the Gray was too quick for that. He dropped to his knees and ducked.

  The creature flew right over him and into a guard who had foolishly moved beside Barrabus to battle against the other two zombies. Zombie and guard tumbled from the parapet. Barrabus could only grimace that his victory wouldn’t be clean, that his rescue of the guard wasn’t quite complete. Other city defenders rushed over to the fallen man and quickly dispatched the zombie. The fallen guard would live, at least, and that was more than he might have expected if Barrabus hadn’t intervened.

  Barrabus took pride in that, and the feeling surprised him. He wasn’t the compassionate type and rarely if ever cared about the fate of another. As his gaze moved back to growing brawl in the courtyard, with zombies and Neverwinter fighters scrambling all around, he shook his head.

  He didn’t dare climb down to fight beside the settlers. Their techniques were too sloppy and too unpredictable, and his own need for precision and coordination with those around him would likely get him killed among that crowd.

  So Barrabus turned the other way, to the field and the forest and the incoming hordes. With a shrug and a grin, he hopped over the wall.

  An arrow had painfully grazed her shoulder, but that was the least of the Ashmadai woman’s problems. She managed to arrive at Neverwinter’s wall, but while the ash zombies simply climbed it with ease, she could not.

  She ran up and down the barrier, looking for some handhold to help her scale it. Neverwinter’s defenders didn’t seem to notice her, for the zombies continued to pour up there for the fight.

  In short order, the Ashmadai looked behind her with more concern than when she looked at the wall in front of her. Valindra was there, coming out of the forest with the other zealots. Valindra would see her helplessly, foolishly, running up and down the wall like a mouse lost in a maze.

  Desperate, she ran on faster, until she found her salvation in the form of a small man.

  He landed from the twelve-foot fall in a beautifully executed sidelong roll. As a group of zombies rushed at him, he rolled over a second time and up he came to his feet, his weapons working with sudden ferocity-so sudden that the hungry zombies hadn’t even the time to lift their emaciated limbs to defend themselves.

  The Ashmadai assured herself that she wasn’t impressed, and she charged.

  At another point in Neverwinter Wood, to the north of the battlefield, Herzgo Alegni and his Shadovar forces watched with interest.

  Many wanted to charge into the fight, particularly when the Ashmadai came onto the field.

  But Alegni held them back.

  “Let the folk of Neverwinter know pain and loss,” he explained to those nearby. “The later we arrive to rescue them, the more the settlers will appreciate us.”

  “The undead easily breached their wall,” a nearby Shadovar remarked. “Many of Neverwinter’s defenders will die.”

  “They are expendable,” Alegni assured him. “More will come to replace them, and those who do will find the Shadovar among the settlers-Shadovar declared as heroes of Neverwinter.”

  “Perhaps we can greet them on the Herzgo Alegni Bridge?” another Shadovar remarked.

  Alegni turned to the woman and nodded.

  He hoped for that very thing.

  Barrabus rolled and rolled again, taking all the shock from his fall and moving far enough from the pursuing zombies to set his feet properly under him to defend. He came up tall in front of the scrabbling creatures. His sword drove them back with long cuts while his dagger stabbed hard into any who tried to come in behind that sword.

  He was surrounded, but that meant nothing to the agile warrior. He spun left to right, his sword slashing and stabbi
ng, and at one point, he even tossed the blade up a bit and caught it with a reversed grip. He turned his wrist then stabbed behind his back to skewer a leaping zombie behind him.

  Again he turned, yanking the sword hilt up high so he could bend back in under it, tearing it free of zombie flesh. He flipped it again, caught it with a normal grip and circled it over his head before slashing it across another zombie, shoulder to hip. The weight of the blow stopped the charging creature cold. It crouched as the blade tore down across its chest. Then the zombie bounced once, to the side, before falling away.

  Barrabus couldn’t savor the kill, for he stood alone out there and so many zombies sensed him, smelled his living flesh, and came at him without fear.

  But he kept moving. He kept swinging. He kept killing.

  He couldn’t think, and that was the joy. He couldn’t think of Alegni or the Empire of Netheril, or Drizzt Do’Urden, or who he’d once been or what he’d now become.

  He just existed, simply survived, in the ecstasy of battle, lost on the precipice of death itself. His muscles worked in perfect harmony, honed in the practice of a century. Every strike came at the last possible moment, barely quick enough because of the growing enemies around him.

  Eventually, even he wouldn’t be quick enough and his enemies would get through to him.

  To tear at him. To bite at him. To kill him?

  Could they?

  Barrabus the Gray was doubly cursed. The years did not diminish him, but he hated his existence.

  He couldn’t kill himself, for that sword, Claw, was inside of his mind and wouldn’t allow it. He’d tried-oh, how he’d tried!-in the early years of his indenture to the Netherese, in his service to Herzgo Alegni, but to no avail. He’d even built a contraption that would drop him on his knife to end his life, but it had failed because he had not properly secured the weapon-because that sword, Claw, had deceived him.

  Nor did it even matter when, indeed, he had been killed. For that awful sword and the mighty Netherese had not allowed him to easily escape through death. Even as he drew his last breath, his life was renewed, resurrected, by the awful, unrelenting devil sword.