“Who is that?” Barrabus the Gray asked Herzgo Alegni when he caught up to the tiefling outside Alegni’s tent. Not far away, the twisted newcomer lurked around a copse of trees, fiddling his fingers in apparent spellcasting practice.

“No one of any concern to you,” Alegni answered, his voice rough-edged and clearly filled with aggravation.

“Good. I detest wizards.”

“Warlock,” Alegni corrected.

“Even worse,” said Barrabus, taking no pains to hide the utter contempt in his voice.

He noted that his response brought a strange look to Herzgo Alegni’s face, as if the tiefling was suddenly pondering something in a different light.

“No,” Alegni said, and his smile unsettled Barrabus. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily.”

“What does that mean?”

Alegni ignored him and walked past him. “Effron!” he called out to the warlock.

The young tiefling looked over, then began shambling awkwardly his way.

Barrabus couldn’t hide his disgust at the infirm being. “Shall I kill him and end his misery?” he asked, in jest of course, but the angry glare from Alegni, a flash of pure outrage beyond anything Barrabus had ever seen from the tiefling—and he’d seen, and evoked, more than his share of Alegni’s unrelenting anger!—told him he’d hit a peculiar nerve with his off-hand comment.

“Effron,” Alegni said when the warlock approached, “this is Barrabus, your new partner.”

“You can’t be serious,” Barrabus said.

“Oh, but I am.”

“He’s a child.”

“You’re an old human,” Effron countered.

“One to learn from the other, then,” said Alegni, clearly pleased with himself. “I expect that your respective skills will complement each other.” He turned to Barrabus. “Perhaps you will gain an appreciation of magic.”

“Only if it twists over itself and destroys its caster,” Barrabus muttered.

“And you,” Alegni continued, addressing Effron, “will perhaps come to understand the true power of the sword, the nobility and courage of he who confronts his enemies in mortal melee.”

“I understand the value of fodder,” Effron replied, turning a narrow-eyed stare at Barrabus, and only then did Barrabus notice the young tiefling’s weird eyes: one red, one blue.

“And woe to either of you if the other is killed,” Alegni finished. “Now be gone, the two of you. Find your place together and do not disappoint me.”

He turned on his heel and headed back to his tent. Barrabus glared at him, emanating hate with every step. When Alegni reached the tent flap, Barrabus glanced over at his new partner, and realized that this warlock, Effron, watched Alegni with equal consternation.

Perhaps they had a bit of common ground after all, Barrabus thought.

Sylora continued to stare at the surprising Brother Anthus for just a few moments longer then finally relaxed in acceptance at the undeniable truth of the young monk’s reasoning. Why would the Sovereignty need any spies? Sylora had witnessed telepathy often in her time beside Szass Tam, of course, and, since she often dealt with the undead, including powerful liches and vampires, she knew the dangers and powers of possession as well. But she’d never seen such a display of psionic strength to equal that single example offered by the aboleth ambassador and its servitor. The aboleth could do more than impart its thoughts to her through its slave, and relay back her responses with perfect translation.

She, too, had felt an intrusion in their time in the cavern, very brief, a mere flicker of invasion, hardly more than an introduction. But in that mere heartbeat of intrusion, the aboleth had stripped her emotionally naked. Sylora hadn’t tried to deceive the ambassador because she’d known from the instant she felt the intrusion that there was no way she could possibly do so.

She’d heard the rumors of the power of aboleths—the mighty umber hulks obediently lining the walls only served as a reminder to the creature’s ability to dominate—and now that she considered it, Sylora was relieved that she’d gotten out of that chamber without being enslaved.

She had no intention of returning to the underground pond and its otherworldly inhabitant. She looked at Valindra.

“Yes, Sylora, I’ll serve as your ambassador to the Sovereignty,” the lich said, as if reading her every thought.

Perhaps she was, Sylora feared. Perhaps the ambassador was even then scouring her mind, through Valindra’s eyes.

It occurred to Sylora Salm then that the sooner she completed the Dread Ring and moved on to a different mission in a far different location, the better off she would be.

“When you return to the cavern, take Jestry with you,” Sylora said.

Valindra’s laugh caught her off guard. “Your plaything is strong of body, but not of mind,” the lich explained. “He will likely be overwhelmed by the wondrous ambassador.”

“In that instance, he’s no use to me anyway,” Sylora replied. “Dahlia will soon return to Neverwinter, I am informed. I do not wish to waste my energies upon her. Jestry will be recreated to defeat her. The ring is the first piece only—now I need that which Arunika promised me.”

Valindra offered a bow in response, an awkward, stiff movement that created more than a bit of crackling noise in her dry skin.

Chapter 11: Devilish Pursuit, Devilish Deceit

DAHLIA CRAWLED THROUGH THE BRUSH. SHE WAS QUITE FAMILIAR with forests, having grown up in the thick boughs of one, and with her fine elf eyes, she was able to penetrate the darkness quite well, to separate flora from fauna and rocks from enemies. And her enemies were out there, she knew, probably in the trees, some crawling around the ground, sniffling for any scent of her and Drizzt. She had no idea how many minions Hadencourt might be able to summon from the Nine Hells, but she couldn’t deny the effectiveness of those he’d already sent against them.

She glanced back from where she’d come at that thought. She’d escaped the sting of the spined devils, but Drizzt had not.

Dahlia knew she might have to leave him to Hadencourt. He’d taken a vicious barrage of those poisoned quills, and when Dahlia cut them out, despite the drow’s stoicism, she’d seen the profound agony on his face, and the green poison flowing from his wounds.

The elf closed her eyes at that thought. Drizzt had saved her from the traps of Ship Kurth, and had saved her again in the fight with the legion devils and Hadencourt—she couldn’t deny that truth. They had been caught by surprise, and nearly overwhelmed, and the drow’s daring maneuver had given her room to flee. And now she might have to abandon him to his doom.

She didn’t like it, but she saw no alternative.

Dahlia hoped they could stay hidden long enough for Drizzt to recover.

I will tell the devil where you are, witch, came a voice in her head, a familiar voice, but one Dahlia had never expected to hear again. I will lead him to you and watch him devour you. Perhaps I will even possess your lifeless body, and torture it through the years.

“Dor’crae,” Dahlia spat, glancing around in horror.

She had no idea how the spirit of her vampire lover could speak to her. She had not only watched, but had ushered in the vampire’s seemingly utter destruction in the rushing wave of water elementals back in Gauntlgrym. But the voice in her head was that of Dor’crae! She knew it without doubt even then as she heard the vampire spirit’s taunting laughter.

You thought me destroyed, but I remain, the voice went on. I am more than my mortal trappings, you see. And indeed, I will need a new body. May I have yours, Dahlia?

Dahlia brushed away the taunts, and her surprise at realizing that Dor’crae survived, pressed by the importance of the actual threat he’d uttered. Could Dor’crae, apparently a disembodied, free-floating spirit, do as he’d suggested? Could he lead Hadencourt to Dahlia and Drizzt in their hiding place, a shallow cave, which was no more, really, than a narrow crevice between a pair of out-leaning boulders?

The elf rose from her crouch, turning slowly as if expecting the vampire to appear suddenly and strike out at her. Her finger went to a loop on her belt, where she kept a wooden finger-spike, a subtle stake to drive into Dor’crae’s black heart.

She waited a bit longer, concentrating to try to catch any hint of Dor’crae’s telepathy. Had she imagined it? Was this one of the devil’s tricks? Or was this, perhaps, a manifestation of her normally dormant conscience because she’d considered leaving Drizzt to die?

When she heard nothing more, Dahlia crept back through the brush to the overhang. She expected to see Drizzt lying on his back, sweating profusely and near delirium.

She didn’t understand Drizzt Do’Urden.

He was sitting up, and though his hair was disheveled and a bit matted from sweat, he managed a wry smile at Dahlia as he dug one last quill tip from his arm.

“I may need a new cloak,” the drow lamented, and poked his finger through one of the holes in his forest-green weathercloak.

“The poison?” Dahlia asked.

“By my word, it hurts,” Drizzt casually replied. He clenched his right fist, the muscles on his swollen arm tightening and forcing more blood and pus from the many wounds on his arms.

“Can you fight?”

Drizzt looked up at her. “Have I a choice?”

“Likely not,” said Dahlia. “I suspect we have a spy among us.”

Drizzt glanced all around.

“A spirit,” Dahlia said. She sighed deeply and looked around at the forest. “Dor’crae came to me.”

“The vampire?”

“Corporeally destroyed, but with a stubborn spirit, it would seem. And he mentioned our devil pursuers.”

Drizzt crinkled his brow.

“I think Hadencourt may soon come calling,” Dahlia said. “Can you bring back your panther?”

“No, Guenhwyvar needs to rest on the Astral Plane. The magic of the figurine can be broken if it’s sorely overused. It will be days before I summon her again—a tenday if there’s any way I can manage without her.”

Dahlia considered the odds. “Hadencourt has at least three legion devils remaining at his side, and perhaps some more of the spiny creatures.”

“The battlefield has to be of our choosing,” Drizzt explained.

Dahlia glanced back over her shoulder at the dark forest. “We should be gone, then, and soon.”

Soon after, Dahlia crouched in the brush atop a small hillock, looking down over their previous encampment, and indeed, Hadencourt’s minions were there, crawling all around the boulders.

Had it truly been Dor’crae who had come to her, and done as he’d promised? Was it possible?

She lay still and closed her eyes, listening to the wind and the rustle of leaves, trying to sense something more.

She felt it, then: a titter of mocking laughter—not aloud, but in her thoughts. Dor’crae had found her again.

The elf warrior got up and walked to a small clearing. She broke Kozah’s Needle into two four-foot lengths and set them to spinning and swinging. She knew this dance, had used it many times before to gather the weapon’s inner strength. Now she spun, bringing the poles together hard, a crackling blue bolt arcing out just briefly before being caught by Kozah’s Needle and sucked back in. And so it went, around and around, the staves clapping together and creating a jolt that Kozah’s Needle immediately absorbed.