waggling its arms stupidly, was a small imp, a bat-winged little hellion whose smile might have been meant as disarming, but seemed more of a warning, somehow.
“A messenger from Arunika,” Sylora explained. “I assume that your meeting with the Sovereignty ambassador went well.”
“You assume? Or you already know?” Valindra asked, looking to the imp, who grinned wider still, that pointy-toothed smile almost taking in its batlike ears. It flapped its leathery wings and flipped over backward, landing easily back in place.
“I’ve been told that my champion is well prepared for the trials ahead.”
Valindra nodded. “And you have heard that the ambassador plans to support our cause with a strike at Neverwinter?”
“It pleases Arunika greatly,” Sylora explained with a wry smile. “Apparently the Netherese have now claimed a leadership role in the city. They’ll fill the role as the great protectors of Neverwinter, so they say. The new citizens are even naming landmarks after them.”
Valindra smiled at the delicious irony. Right after these Netherese proclaim themselves as protectors, the city would be battered to its core.
“They will find their city is built upon less than solid ground,” Sylora said.
“Will we join in this attack?”
“Only as a diversion,” Sylora replied, “to lure the Netherese from within the city.”
She turned away from Valindra then and back to the Dread Ring. She whispered a few words, then bent low, reaching into the ashen circle. When she turned back around, she held one of the Ashmadai scepters, a spear-staff, except that this one was more black than red, coal-colored and shot through with red steaks that appeared like living veins.
“An enchanted weapon?” Valindra asked.
“It draws power from the ring,” Sylora answered.
“For your champion.”
“Of course. A little added pain for Jestry’s opponents.”
Jestry appeared, hulking toward her. He wore a cape and a kilt, but his mummy wrappings were all too clear to see. He wasn’t moving as awkwardly as before. The wrappings had melded more fully with his skin, and the tightness and stiffness of the treated hide gave way to a more normal gait. He walked right up to Sylora and stared at her, unblinking, those parts of his face that were visible betraying no emotion.
“Does it hurt?” Sylora asked him, and she sounded compassionate. Jestry shook his head.
“Do you understand how powerful you have become?” Sylora asked.
The mummified champion smiled.
“You will kill her,” Sylora assured him. “You will serve as my great champion. All will fall before us—the Netherese will be driven from the forest. Szass Tam will know of your exploits, I assure you.”
“When we are done, will you restore me?” Jestry asked, struggling with each word as if the wrappings on his face had not loosened enough for him to properly formulate the words.
“I’m told that it won’t be necessary,” Sylora reached out and gently stroked Jestry’s face. “You will grow fully into your new skin. All of the sensations will return.”
Jestry’s hand snapped up to catch Sylora by the wrist, and he held her hand against his face for a long while.
“I have another gift for you.” Sylora held up the enchanted staff-spear.
Jestry’s eyes gleamed with hunger. He let go of Sylora’s arm and stepped back, taking the weapon in both hands.
“Go and practice with it,” Sylora bade him. “Learn of its new powers.”
Jestry looked at her curiously.
“Go,” she repeated. “Valindra and I have much to discuss.”
Jestry nodded obediently, turned, and ran off.
“You know his wrappings will not become like his old skin, of course,” Valindra said when he was gone. “The process is lethal. Jestry has barely months to live, if he’s fortunate. A year or so if he’s unfortunate.”
“He will serve me well long after that,” Sylora assured her.
Valindra looked at her, then at the Dread Ring. “The scepter,” she reasoned. “You’re attuning him to be fully raised into undeath.”
Sylora looked to the forest into which Jestry had disappeared. “I already have,” she replied.
Barrabus the Gray didn’t scream out, and that was a victory. The wracking pains had him doubled over. Only his white-knuckled grip on the bridge’s railing kept him from falling onto the cobblestones and writhing uncontrollably.
“The Walk of Barrabus,” Herzgo Alegni said for the twentieth time, and he twanged his fork against the blade of Claw, heightening the sword’s punishing waves of retributive energy. The large tiefling walked over and tugged Barrabus’s hand from the railing, then threw the man to the ground.
“Crawl!” he demanded. “Crawl the length of the bridge, and perhaps I’ll rename it again—no, another one, perhaps. Yes, we’ll call it the Grovel