Barrabus could only look hatefully at his master, and couldn’t respond because he simply couldn’t pry his own teeth apart.
“How dare you?” Alegni asked, and he kicked Barrabus in the ribs.
The man hardly reacted to that impact, though, for the pain of the blow was nothing compared to the vibrations of that awful sword.
Alegni stepped back, sighed, and grabbed the tines of the fork, silencing it and halting the waves. The pain immediately ceased. Sweating, Barrabus crumbled lower to the bridge, gasping for breath, his face pressed against the stones.
“What am I to do with you?” Alegni said, his voice full of regret and sadness—and how Barrabus wanted to cut out his heart for that phony empathy! “I bring you glory and power, and you repay me with this treachery.”
Barrabus growled and forced himself over onto his back.
“Ah, yes, I know,” Alegni went on. “Don’t bother repeating your excuse that the citizens insisted. You knew, and you allowed it. You knew my designs on this magnificent bridge. You were the agent who first facilitated the name change I desired. No, deny not the truth. You wanted to wound me. You knew your barb wouldn’t stand, but you decided to play the game anyway.”
All signs of empathy gone, the angry tiefling kicked Barrabus hard in the ribs once more. The man grunted in reply, rolled up to his side, and curled defensively.
“Was it worth it?” Alegni asked him.
Yes, Barrabus thought.
“Was it?” Alegni asked again, and when no reply came, the tiefling turned and started away. “Come along,” he ordered coldly.
Barrabus rolled onto his back and took a few deep breaths. Then, before he could think it through—to do that would have been to warn the awful red-bladed sword—he threw himself over backward, tucking and rolling, coming to his feet and launching himself after Alegni.
He flipped his belt buckle free, the magical implement instantly transforming into a dagger, and moved to throw. He thought himself successful, thought his rash actions had eluded Claw just long enough to allow him one strike at that wretched Alegni.
But the wall of agony came on like a charging bull, stopping him in his tracks, freezing his muscles in place—and he realized he hadn’t come close to letting fly the knife.
Claw caught him, inside and out, and mocked him with its power. All strength flew from his every muscle and he simply crumpled where he stood. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t roll over, he couldn’t breathe. Nothing worked—he couldn’t even blink. It was as if all that was Barrabus mentally had been decoupled from all that was Barrabus physically.
This is death! he hoped. Oh, how he hoped.
But it wasn’t, and Barrabus gradually felt himself becoming whole again. He rolled onto his back and looked up to see Herzgo Alegni staring down at him. Before he knew what he was doing, Barrabus’s knife hand went up to hover above his own face. He felt the compulsion, and couldn’t deny it.
He brought the blade down to stab at his cheek, and when the blade slipped into his skin, he dragged it down to his chin.
Images of cutting off his fingers, his toes, his genitals, flitted through his thoughts, and he knew he couldn’t deny Alegni’s sword if it had ordered him to do any of those things.
His hand inched down toward his crotch, his bloody blade moving with purpose. He lifted his arm, blade pointed down, as if to plunge it home.
Under command of the sword, Barrabus held that humiliating and terrifying pose for many, many heartbeats.
Herzgo Alegni laughed and walked away.
The tiefling had barely gone a couple of strides when an explosion rocked Neverwinter. As the noise dissipated, cries from the wall told them that the city was once again under attack.
“Come along!” Alegni demanded.
The man pulled himself up from the ground. He felt drained, as if much of his life force had been stolen from him, and in his thoughts, he heard the voice of Herzgo Alegni’s sword, You are alive at my suffrage alone.
Barrabus instinctively countered that it was not a blessing, but a torment, but sarcasm was wasted on Claw.
He should have died many years before. He’d lived two lifetimes, but he hadn’t died. He remained vibrant, strong, and quick as ever.
The sword wouldn’t let him die. That weapon, which could steal a life force with the slightest cut, which could drive a spirit into oblivion, denying an afterlife, could reverse its murderous tendencies. He was alive