The warlord shook himself from his wistful contemplation and moved his gaze to the Neverwinter River and the three ornate bridges crossing it. All were beautiful—the tradesmen of Neverwinter took great pride in their work—but one in particular, built with ornamental wings spread wide to either side, caught and held Alegni’s attention. Truly, of the three bridges connecting the halves of the city, north and south, it was the most impressive, for it was carved into the likeness of a wyvern taking wing, great and graceful. For many decades, the bridge had held strong and solid, its substructure supported by a metal grid forged by dwarves and continually reinforced. From a distance, it was beautiful to behold, and that feeling only grew on closer inspection. The bridge had been crafted to perfection in every facet—except for its name: the Winged Wyvern Bridge.
The fools had allowed the simple physical depiction, and not the artistry, to give the magnificent structure its mundane name.
Alegni started down the cobblestone road, determined to arrive on that bridge, the appointed rendezvous, before Barrabus. He hadn’t seen his assassin in months, after all, and wanted that first image he presented to be one that reminded Barrabus the Gray of why he hadn’t dared to move against the great Alegni.
He arrived at the bridge in short order, climbing the easy slope along the wyvern’s “spine” and taking pleasure in the way the mostly human folk of Neverwinter parted before him, scurrying to get far out of his way, every eye turning warily to his magnificent red-bladed sword, hung in a loop on his hip. He walked out to the bridge’s mid point, its high point, just behind the wing joints, and put his hands on the western stone railing, staring out to the other two bridges, the Dolphin and the Sleeping Dragon, while silently noting, with considerable enjoyment, how traffic on the Winged Wyvern had slowed.
It wasn’t just one of the many Netherese shades skulking about Neverwinter who had come out onto the bridge after all, but Herzgo Alegni himself.
Yes, he was quite pleased as he stood there, surveying the river and the coast, noting the disrepair showing on the lesser bridges, right up until the moment he heard the quiet voice behind him—somehow behind him, somehow unnoticed behind him. “You wished to see me?”
Alegni resisted the urge to draw his weapon and whirl on the man. Instead, he continued to stare straight ahead and answered, “You’re late.”
“Memnon is far to the south,” Barrabus the Gray replied. “Would you have me blow in the sails to speed the ship?”
“And if I said yes?”
“Then I would remind you that such a task is more fitting for those who fancy themselves royalty.”
The clever riposte had Alegni turning to regard the small man, and the warlord’s eyes widened at the sight. Dressed in black leather and cloth as always, with little ornamentation other than his diamond-shaped metal belt buckle that conveniently opened into a most vicious dagger, and a slight tilt to his stance, as if all the world bored him, Barrabus surely appeared as the assassin Herzgo had grown to know so well. But the man’s black hair had grown long and unkempt, and he wore a beard, of all things.
“Your discipline falters?” the tiefling asked. “After all these years?”
“What do you want?”
The warlord paused and leaned back, scrutinizing the killer more thoroughly. “Ah, Barrabus.… You grow sloppy, slovenly, in the hope that your skills will fail and someone will kill you and release you from your torment.”
“If that were the case, I would kill you first.”
Herzgo Alegni laughed, but instinctively put a hand on his devastating sword. “But you cannot, can you?” he taunted. “As you cannot allow your considerable skills to lapse, as you have with your appearance. It is simply not in your character. Nay, perfection is your defense. You fool no one, Barrabus the Gray. Your slovenly appearance is naught but a ruse.”
The small man shifted from one foot to the other, the only confirmation—and more than he would ever typically offer—that Alegni’s words had struck close to the man’s heart.
“You summoned me from Memnon, where I was not idle,” Barrabus said. “What do you want?”
Alegni wore a clever little smirk as he turned to watch the flow of the Neverwinter River once more, draining into the great sea just north of the bustling docks. “This is a fine structure, both beautiful and functional, don’t you think?” he asked, not turning to regard the killer at all.
“It gets me across the river.”
“Beyond its utility,” the tiefling retorted.
Barrabus didn’t bother to answer.
“The beauty,” Alegni explained. “No simple abutments or pillars! Nay! Every one covered in small designs destined to complete the whole of the image. Yes, the true signature of the craftsmen. I do so love when craft becomes art. Do you not agree?”
Barrabus didn’t answer, and Alegni turned to look at him, and laughed.
“As with my sword,” the tiefling said. “Would you not agree that it is a most marvelous artwork?”
“Were its wielder as much the artist as he pretends, he would not need my services.”
Alegni’s shoulders sagged at the relentless sarcasm, but only momentarily. He turned again on the small man, his red eyes glowing with threat. “Consider yourself fortunate that I am bound by my superiors not to eviscerate you.”
“My good fortune knows no bounds. Now, I ask you again, why did you bring me here? To admire a bridge?”
“Yes,” Alegni answered. “This bridge. The Winged Wyvern Bridge. Its name does not suit it, and so I wish it changed.”