was the other fall that had troubled Dahlia even more, the loss of swagger, of lust, of the devil-may-care attitude that had guided her life for so very long.
“I have spoken with Szass Tam about you,” Sylora remarked as she sent the zombie on its way, out into the forest to hunt Shadovar. She turned a wry grin on Dahlia. “He is pleased by your willingness to submit to my will.”
Dahlia tried hard to keep the hatefulness out of her blue eyes, but not hard enough, she knew from Sylora’s widening smile. Of course Sylora would bring it to that. She had taken such pleasure in putting Dahlia in her place, day by day and year by year. She had never once exacted any physical punishment on Dahlia, as Sylora often did with the Ashmadai. No, her abuse of Dahlia had been strictly emotional, one game of mental cat-and-mouse after another, and with every remark holding a double meaning.
“Our beast is awakening once more,” Sylora went on. “It will rain greater death and destruction this time, feeding the Dread Ring, securing our hold here. Even without that, the agents of Shade Enclave are retreating.”
“They’re still about,” Dahlia dared say.
“But not in Neverwinter Town in any numbers,” said Sylora. “Their grip on that city was undisputed before I awakened the beast, was it not?” Her tone with that last question made it quite clear to Dahlia that she was actually seeking an answer.
“Yes, milady,” the elf warrior dutifully responded.
“Now they remain only because they seek some ancient elven relics in Neverwinter Wood, but what they find, day after day, are my minions, risen from the ash and eager to kill.” She paused and looked across the small field to a group of Ashmadai standing beside a trio of different zombies, not ash-colored, but darker hued. Two of the three carried garish wounds, as if their corpses had been fed upon, and indeed they had. “That is the genius of His Omnipotence, is it not? Other armies diminish with death, but his grows with every fallen enemy.”
Dahlia’s eyes fixed on the third of those corpses, one who had died from a single crushing blow to the side of his head. She had done that, defeating the man in single combat, and it had been a good kill against a worthy opponent. In times past, she would have savored that victory, but looking upon the corpse brought a bitter taste to her mouth.
“Go to Neverwinter Town in the morning,” Sylora instructed her. “I wish to know how many reside there now, and how many of the Netherese stalk her streets.”
Fists clenched at his sides, Herzgo Alegni looked down upon the town of Neverwinter, focusing his gaze and his anger on that beautiful winged structure that centered the rebuilding.
The Herzgo Alegni Bridge, it had been called, for just a few days. For several years after that, like everything else in Neverwinter, it had been called nothing more than part of the disaster, for there had been no one around to take note of it.
But its name was the Winged Wyvern Bridge once more. None of the new settlers had heard of that decade-old proclamation of Lord Hugo Babris.
Hugo Babris—dead like everyone else who had been in or around the city of Neverwinter on that terrible day, save those Shadovar nobles, like Alegni, who had shadowalked back to Shade Enclave.
And one other, the man who stood beside Alegni even then, and who had informed him—with a bit too much glee in his voice, Alegni thought—of the reversion of the bridge’s name.
“You are certain of this?” Alegni asked.
“It was one of the tasks you put upon me to prepare for your arrival,” answered Barrabus the Gray. “When have I ever failed you?”
That sarcastic response had the tiefling turning hateful eyes at his subordinate.
“We will not be welcomed in there,” Barrabus went on.
“Then perhaps we should not ask their permission before entering,” Alegni said with a sneer, and turned back to the distant town and the bridge he had so coveted.
Barrabus didn’t even wait until the tiefling had turned before offering a shrug in response, but he did add to it, “These are not enemies to be dismissed too easily, these men and women we will face in Neverwinter, nor are they any friends of the necromancers who pull forth undead from the ruins. These are seasoned fighters and spellcasters who have stubbornly held that patch of ground against a legion of zombies crawling up right into