She looked so young lying there in the morning light, and so innocent, almost childlike. Indeed she was young, Drizzt reminded himself. When he was Dahlia’s age back in Menzoberranzan, had he even left House Do’Urden for the warrior school of Melee-Magthere?

Still, he knew, Dahlia was in many ways much older than he. She had served in the court of Szass Tam, the archlich of Thay. She had witnessed great battles and had known more lovers than he, surely. She was greatly traveled, and deeply experienced in life.

Drizzt knew better than to allow any condescension to slip into his thoughts as he considered Dahlia. Spirited and dangerous, it would not do for anyone associated with her, friend, lover, or enemy, to underestimate her, in any way. So was she manipulating him with this soft look of hers, the alluring and more innocent cut of her hair and her unblemished face?

The drow smiled as he considered the obvious answer in light of yesterday’s events. The hardened Dahlia, braid and woad, had argued with him and even invited him to leave her side. She would take care of Herzgo Alegni herself, she had proclaimed. But that would be no easy task, obviously, for Alegni was within the city, and likely surrounded by powerful allies, including Artemis Entreri.

And as the day had worn on, and Drizzt had remained at her side, though still without committing to join her, Dahlia had morphed into this alluring and gentle creature, less warrior, more lover.

Drizzt looked out at the snowy forest and chuckled at himself. It didn’t really matter if Dahlia was trying to manipulate him, he supposed. Wasn’t that simply the truth of relationships? Hadn’t Bruenor manipulated him and everyone else, facilitating his own “death” after the battle with Akar Kessell that they might abandon Icewind Dale and head out on the road in search of Mithral Hall? And hadn’t Drizzt, in truth, manipulated Bruenor into signing the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge?

The drow couldn’t help laughing as his memories spun back through the years. He recalled Bruenor’s deathbed drama back in Icewind Dale, when the dwarf had played out his greatest desires, so apparently lost to the winds of time. Coughing and sputtering and wheezing and obviously failing, clever Bruenor had shrunk before Drizzt’s eyes, as if entering the nether realm of death, until the moment Drizzt had pledged that they would head out and find Mithral Hall. Then Bruenor had hopped up, ready for the road.

Oh, what a fine play that had been . . . but also, of course, a deep manipulation.

That Dahlia was playing some games within the context of their relationship simply wasn’t that important, Drizzt told himself. He knew the truth of it, and within that truth crouched the hard fact that he could only be manipulated if he let her. It wasn’t simply lust, he knew, though surely Dahlia excited him. His intrigue with the elf went far beyond physical needs. He wanted to understand her. He felt that if he could learn about Dahlia, he would learn much of himself. Her way of looking at the world was foreign to him, a different perspective entirely, and that promised him an expansion of his own viewpoints. Perhaps he was drawn to Dahlia for the same reason he seemed forever drawn to Artemis Entreri—to consider the man, at least, if not to travel beside him. For both of them, Dahlia and Entreri, were possessed of a code of honor, albeit a stilted one in Drizzt’s eyes. Neither woke up in the morning with visions of creating chaos and suffering. Dahlia had shown as much with her inability to follow her master’s orders and release the primordial.

So, did he want to fix them? Drizzt wondered. Did he, somewhere in his heart, believe that he could redeem Artemis Entreri and guide Dahlia to a brighter light?

He glanced back at Dahlia again, just for a moment. He couldn’t deny his hubris. Likely, his desire to bring people out of darkness was part of the equation that had put Artemis Entreri in Drizzt’s thoughts so many times over the decades—nearly as often as he had wondered about Wulfgar.

It was much more complicated with Dahlia, he knew. For he was indeed drawn to her in ways he could never be drawn to Entreri or Wulfgar. He couldn’t deny it. No matter how many times he might convince himself that he should not be with the dangerous elf, that conviction couldn’t hold against the mere sight of her, particularly when she wore her hair and face softly.

He straightened up in surprise as he felt the elf ’s arm slide over his shoulder and wrap around his neck. Dahlia rested her chin on his other shoulder and kissed him on the ear. “A warm bed before a journey into the cold snow?”

Drizzt smiled. His expression only widened as Dahlia added, “And then we will go and kill him.”

Indeed.

He thought of Bruenor on that deathbed in Icewind Dale again and reminded himself that his bond with the deceptive dwarf had lasted more than a hundred years.

Indeed.

Chapter 2: The Lord of Neverwinter

Captain of the White Guard,” Herzgo Alegni corrected, and many eyes turned upon the tiefling warlord in surprise. Alegni sat at a small table along the side wall of the inn that served as their meeting house. He was opposite the hearth, about as far from the source of warmth as he could be in the room, and he had pulled open the window beside him.

Jelvus Grinch looked at him curiously. The city’s leaders had just been discussing Grinch’s place in Neverwinter's new ruling structure, and the Netherese lord had mentioned that Jelvus Grinch was a fine choice as the leader of the Neverwinter garrison, a role Grinch had handled for years by that point, in any case.

“The White Guard?” another in the room chimed in, voicing the question held by many in the room, obviously.

Herzgo Alegni stood up slowly, flexing his obvious muscles as he went and rolling back his shoulders to let them all witness the powerful expanse of his broad and strong chest. Slowly, taking the time to let the heels of his boots resound against the wood floor with every distinctive step, he walked to the front of the room, and even the powerfully built Jelvus Grinch seemed a meager being next to the huge and dominating tiefling warrior. Alegni’s attire, black leather and metalstudded armor, and the flowing cape that reminded all of his noble station, only added to the imposing image, as did that large red blade openly hanging from his left hip. The blood red of the metal contrasted sharply with the black armor, and as Alegni dropped his naked left hand to rest atop the weapon’s pommel, the sword seemed more an extension of his red tiefling skin than a separate item. It accented perfectly the red fires in Alegni’s eyes, those orbs a shining reminder of his half-devil heritage. Yes, that red blade . . . a weapon that had cut through an umber hulk and left the creature writhing in its death throes on a Neverwinter street, to the amazement and cheers of so many of Neverwinter’s citizens, many of whom were in this very room.

“What is the White Guard?” Jelvus Grinch dared to ask.

“The city garrison,” explained the tiefling. “I think that an appropriate name.”

“First Citizen . . .” Jelvus Grinch started to argue, for that was the title of honor they had bestowed upon Alegni.

“Do not call me that,” Alegni interrupted, and his tone changed then, not so subtly, and more than a few in the room, Jelvus Grinch included, shifted uncomfortably.

“The White Guard,” Alegni said more loudly, turning to face the larger gathering again. “It is fitting, for now Neverwinter has two garrisons, of course. The White Guard of your people,” he explained to Jelvus Grinch and the others, “and my own.”

“Who are to be known as . . . ?” Jelvus Grinch prompted.

Alegni considered that for a moment, then replied, “The Shadow Guard. Yes, that will do. So you will coordinate the White Guard.”

He wasn’t reasoning with them but rather dictating to them, something that was not lost on anyone in the room.

“And you will command the Shadow Guard?”

Alegni laughed at the notion. “I have my lieutenants in place to lead the guard.”

“Freeing you up to . . . ?” prompted a red-haired woman the townsfolk called the Forest Sentinel.

Recognizing the voice, Alegni looked at her directly. “My dear Arunika,” he addressed her.

“Freeing you up to assume lordship of the city,” Arunika stated, and when Alegni didn’t immediately disagree, the room erupted in whispered conversations, a few jeers, and several sharp complaints.

“We have scored a great victory!” Alegni addressed them in a booming voice, one that silenced the whole of the place. “Sylora Salm is dead. The fortress she was raising in Neverwinter Wood is in disarray, its magic failing. The Dread Ring itself is diminished, and greatly so.”

He ended abruptly and let that stunning news—for indeed, he had not revealed any of that until this very moment—hang in the air while he reveled in the blank expressions of the city leaders.

“How can you know?” Jelvus Grinch finally managed to stammer.

Herzgo Alegni looked at him as if he had to be a fool to even ask such a question.

“The threat is diminished and will be driven forth in short order.” Alegni paused and grinned. “Because of me.”

“And now you claim the lordship of Neverwinter,” Arunika surmised, and Herzgo Alegni smiled at her.

“Ye can’t be doing that!” one man shouted from the back, and Alegni’s smile disappeared in the blink of an astonished eye, and more than one in the crowd, the speaker included, ducked low under that withering gaze.

But another dared chime in, “You’ve not got the Crown of Neverwinter! You canno’ be Lord of Neverwinter without the Crown of Neverwinter!”

“And pray tell, where is this crown?” Alegni answered in a booming, clearly threatening tone.

The room filled with murmurs, and the person who had objected sheepishly replied, “None are knowing.”

“It is lost, then,” Alegni declared. “And so it is time to start anew—as you all have done in coming to rebuild the ruined city.”

“But if that’s the truth of it, then the lord’s to be one of them that’s been here the years, toiling!” another man protested, or started to, for as he spoke, Alegni moved toward him, and by the time he finished the thought, he was crouched over, covering up and cowering.

“You can’t be doing that!” the first protestor repeated.

“I just did it,” Alegni informed them all. “You needed me, and so you need me still. And I am here, at your service.”

For a moment, the whole situation seemed to be teetering on the edge of a razor, acceptance on one side and open revolt on the other, and Alegni had no idea of which way this group would fall. His right arm dropped down by his side and he flexed his hand, encased in the magical gauntlet companion of his red-bladed sword. If any made a move, Alegni intended to swiftly draw that blade and cut Jelvus Grinch in half in a single, powerful movement.

That would take the fight out of them.

“We named a bridge after you, as you wished,” Jelvus Grinch replied, his voice thick with apprehension. “We granted you the title of First Citizen for your help in our struggles. Now you intend to repay us by subjugating us?”

“That is a foolish way to view this,” said Alegni. “We are winning, but have not yet won. We have two forces in play. Your own, meager as it is, and mine, with resources and power far beyond your understanding. To complete the victory, we must be joined in purpose under a single voice. Do we agree on those points?”