He hardly registered the movement as a metal pole came down hard atop that sword, as a second metal pole, joined by a fine but strong line, wrapped down and under the sword, and as a third part of that staff, similarly fastened to the end of the mid-piece, wrapped up and over to smack the surprised devil across the face.
With the tri-staff wrapped around the sword, Dahlia yanked hard, turning the thrust and bringing the devil’s arm out wide. The beast responded with a roar and accepted the turn, twisting its shield horizontally and trying to jam its edge sidelong into Drizzt’s face.
Too late.
The drow dropped low, under the second attack, and both his blades thrust forth in front of him, double-stabbing the legion devil in the chest.
The devil tried to back off those scimitars, but Drizzt dug in his heels and pressed forward, holding faith that Dahlia would keep the sword trapped out wide.
She did, running beside, pacing the drow and his victim for several long strides until at last the devil slammed its back into a tree and Drizzt drove his blades right through the beast. They held that pose for a long while, the devil with its arms out wide, twitching as it tried desperately to hold onto the last moments of its life on the Prime Material Plane.
Then its shield slumped to its side, and Dahlia yanked the sword free of its weakened grasp.
Drizzt held the scimitars in deeply for several more heartbeats, then, with a sudden and fierce growl, he shifted the angle and dragged the dying beast out from the tree, turning as he went to throw the devil aside, and twisting his scimitars to rip open more flesh.
The drow stood tall as the devil spilled face-down into the dirt.
“You didn’t think I would desert you, did you?” Dahlia asked innocently.
Drizzt looked at her, but no smile came to him, and Dahlia’s confused responding expression lasted only the moment it took her to notice his right arm, stuck full of quills and swelling from the poison.
“Where is your cat?” Dahlia asked, coming to his side, for it became obvious that only his adrenalin in the rush of battle had kept the drow upright this long. She steadied him as he swayed.
“Gone,” Drizzt answered in a whisper, and he closed his eyes and fought back against the waves of pain.
As soon as he was steady on his feet once more, Dahlia moved to collect Taulmaril. “We’ll find a place to rest,” she explained, “so I can cut out those spines …”
“Do you think you can elude me?” roared Hadencourt’s booming voice, and it seemed to be coming from every direction at once, with echoes both near and far away.
Dahlia drew Drizzt’s gaze to the dead devils. “He knows where we are,” she explained. “He’s a malebranche, a war devil—his sight extends through the eyes of his minions.”
She was moving as she spoke, and so was Drizzt, neither wanting to face Hadencourt or any of his remaining soldiers just then.
“I will find you!” the unseen war devil roared with an accompanying burst of laughter. “You cannot hide!”
Drizzt and Dahlia stumbled off through the brush.
Chapter 10: The Misshapen Warlock
AN UNEASY HERZGO ALEGNI PACED AROUND A DARK THICKET in Neverwinter Wood. He knew another Netherese lord had come through the shadows. He could feel the presence. And the sickly sensation accompanying that feeling gave him a good indication of who it might be.
He was hardly surprised, but still dismayed when the withered old man made his appearance, his mottled robes masking his frame—a body that had once, long ago, rippled with the muscles of a warrior.
“Master,” Alegni said humbly, bowing his head and lowering his gaze to the ground.
“So you remember,” the old man said with a snort.
Alegni glanced up to look into the warlock’s face. How could he not remember such a thing? This man, Draygo Quick, had sponsored Herzgo Alegni into the Circle of Power, and had recommended Alegni specifically to lead the expedition in Neverwinter Wood.
As soon as he realized his faux pas, Alegni dropped his gaze back to the ground, but Draygo merely laughed.
“How many more decades will you need, my protégé?” the old warlock said, and the twist of sarcasm he put on that last word made Alegni wince.
“Oh, look up at me!” Draygo Quick insisted. When Alegni complied, he continued, “I didn’t sponsor you for this task so that you would forever live in Neverwinter Wood.”
“I know, Master,” Herzgo Alegni replied. “But much has happened here, much unexpected. We were on the verge of victory—the city’s main bridge had been named in my honor.”
Draygo laughed again, a wheezing sound that showed how his years of playing with diseases and rot had exacted a toll on his lungs. “I cannot deny that the cataclysm of the volcano was unexpected.”
“Once more, I make gains in Neverwinter,” Alegni assured the warlock. “And I’ve dealt the Thayans a vicious blow.”
“I know, I know,” Draygo said dismissively. “And not so vicious. You destroyed a few zombies and murdered a few zealots, who will no doubt rise as undead to fight you once more.”
“More than that!” Alegni insisted, but when Draygo’s eyes widened at his tone, the tiefling warrior sucked in his breath.
“I know … everything,” Draygo assured him. “I’ve had my understudy spying on our enemies quite thoroughly. This sorceress, Sylora Salm, who rises against you, is no small opponent.”
“She has begun a Dread Ring,” Alegni said.
“Nearly finished one, you mean,” said Draygo. “Fortunately for us, for you, there aren’t enough living beings to feed it properly, to give it full power. But that’s not the extent of your trouble. This lich who has joined with her …?”
“We chased her from the field,” Alegni dared to interject.
Draygo nodded, though his expression showed that he didn’t appreciate being interrupted by his lesser.
“She’s formidable, and grows more so by the day,” Draygo said. “I don’t know how, but she came through the Spellplague and as her mind clears, she seems possessed of magical dweomers from both eras. Sylora Salm has undoubtedly surrounded herself with powerful allies.”
Herzgo Alegni nodded.
“Too powerful for your forces, I fear,” Draygo added.
“I’m not without resources,” Alegni insisted. “I will defeat Sylora Salm.”
Draygo was shaking his bald head with every word. “Too many Shadovar have fallen. Too many years have passed.”
Herzgo Alegni stiffened and squared his shoulders. “You would take me from the field of battle?” he asked.
“I would bolster your cause.”
“More soldiers?” Alegni asked hopefully.
Draygo shrugged as much as nodded. “A few, perhaps. More importantly, I will bolster your ranks with one who better understands the way of the sorceress.”
Alegni’s eyes widened again and he started to shake his head, though he dared not openly oppose Draygo’s words. “Him?” the tiefling angrily retorted, and stammered, because he knew who Draygo Quick had in mind and it was no one Herzgo Alegni wanted anywhere nearby.
“Him,” Draygo calmly replied. “And I need not explain to you the pain should you not properly protect this one.”
Behind Draygo, the shadows coagulated and a thin form appeared, blurred by dark mist.
“He should be with Argyle in study—that was our bargain.”
“Our bargain?” Draygo laughed. “Our bargain is whatever I tell you it is. Your title is wholly my doing, and so I can undo it. I can undo everything … with a word. You wanted him. Indeed, you went to great lengths to bring him along.”
“That was a long time ago.” The regret rang thick in Alegni’s voice.
“Yes,” Draygo replied, “a long time ago, when you thought he would be strong of arm and a great warrior. Your contempt for warlocks—”
“Not contempt,” Alegni interrupted. “Nay, I understand and appreciate the power of dark magic.”
“But you relish the power of the sword. That is your failing, I fear. Ah, but it matters not. You’re being watched very carefully now, Herzgo Alegni, and by powers who grow more impatient with you than I. Secure the whole of Neverwinter Wood, and drive out the forces of Thay.”
Alegni knew he couldn’t push further, that there was no debate to be found here, and he bowed and accepted the edict.
“He’s smart, he’s powerful, and he knows your enemy,” Draygo assured him.
“He’s … I cannot look upon him.”
“Does he disgust you? Does his infirmity insult the great Herzgo Alegni, who could surely take him in his bare hands and snap his spine in half?”
Alegni ground his teeth and tried hard to steady his breathing.
“You will consult with him. You will listen to his words of wisdom. You will complete this mission successfully and soon. We have other business to attend, and I’ll not hold my forces here in Neverwinter Wood another decade. Nor will I have Sylora’s Dread Ring come to fruition. I hold you personally responsible to stop it. Know that most of all.”
“Yes, Master.”
Draygo Quick stared at him for a bit longer then slowly turned and walked away, the shadows gathering around him as he went. Barely a few strides away, his form became so blurred as to be indistinguishable, and he was gone, melting back into the Shadowfell.
Herzgo Alegni closed his eyes and brought a hand up to rub his face, feeling weary.
“You truly can’t even bear to look upon me,” came a scratchy and whiny voice from the same area where Draygo Quick had disappeared.
Alegni didn’t have to open his eyes to know the identity of the speaker. It was Effron the Twisted, of course, Draygo Quick’s understudy, who should have been at study with Argyle—at study with Argyle forever, or at least until Herzgo Alegni was dead of old age.
“Can you not even look upon me?” the newcomer asked, and Alegni opened his eyes to regard the young tiefling, who firmed his chin and lifted it.
Alegni knew him to be more than twenty years of age, but he looked like a young teenager. Frail and thin, so very thin, his eyes, one red, one blue, barely reached the top of Alegni’s broad chest. He sported ramlike horns, like Alegni’s, lifting from mid-scalp forward then rolling around in a tight outside circle and looping back, tapering to a point that just jutted forward of the front bend. His hair was black, shot with purple, swept back and hanging scraggly around his painfully thin and twisted shoulders. This battered creature had suffered great trauma, and just looking at him now reminded Alegni that he should not be alive. His left shoulder jutted out behind him, his useless and withered left arm hung limply down his back, swaying as he walked.
He wore what seemed more like a woman’s slip than a wizard’s robe. The clingy material emphasized his bony frame, his jutting ribcage, his narrow hip bones. He carried a black bone wand in his right hand, and constantly worked it in circles around his fingers. Yes, Alegni remembered that, too.
“I do so always enjoy the look upon your face when first you glance upon me,” Effron the Twisted said. It was obviously a lie, for the young tiefling struggled to hold his composure and keep the pain from his thin face.
