R Salvatore: Gauntlgrym

Her fingers played along his ear and swirled amidst his long, thick black hair. She had been teasing him all night long, after all, and with sunrise nearing he hadn’t much time-not up in the many-windowed tower. He tried to walk her back to the bed, but she held her ground, and so he pressed in more tightly and bit down more forcefully.

“Be easy,” she whispered with a giggle that coaxed him on all the more. “You’ll not make me one of your kind.”

“Play with me through eternity,” Dor’crae replied, and he dared bite harder, his fangs finally puncturing Dahlia’s beautiful skin.

Dahlia lowered her right hand to her side and reached her thumb over the illusionary ring on her index finger, tapping the gem. She slid both of her hands onto Dor’crae’s chest, undoing the leather ties of his shirt and pulling the fabric wide, her fingers fluttering over his skin. He groaned, pressed in closer, and bit down harder.

Dahlia’s right hand felt his breast and slipped delicately to the hollow of his chest, and there she cocked back her index finger as if it were a viper readying to strike.

“Retract your fangs,” she warned, though her voice was still throaty, still a tease.

He groaned, and the viper struck.

Dor’crae sucked in a breath he didn’t need, let go of Dahlia’s neck, and eased back, grimacing every inch as the pointed wooden tip invaded his flesh and prodded at his heart. He tried to back away, but Dahlia expertly paced him, keeping the pressure just right to exact excruciating, crippling pain without killing the creature outright.

“Why do you make me torment you so, lover?” she asked. “What have I done to so deserve such pleasure from you?” She turned her hand just a bit as she spoke, and the vampire seemed to shrink before her, his legs buckling.

“Dahlia!” he managed to plead.

“A tenday has passed since I gave you your task,” she replied.

Dor’crae’s eyes went wide with horror. “A Dread Ring,” he blurted. “Szass Tam would expand them.”

“I know that, of course!”

“To new areas!”

Dahlia growled and twisted the tiny spike, driving Dor’crae down to one knee.

“The Shadovar are strong in Neverwinter Wood, south of the city of Neverwinter!” the vampire grunted. “They have chased the paladins from Helm’s Hold and patrol the forest unhindered.”

“Imagine that!” Dahlia exclaimed sarcastically at yet another bit of common knowledge.

“There are rumblings… the Hosttower… magical wards and unleashed energy…”

Wicked Dahlia cocked her shapely head despite herself, and eased up her prodding finger just a bit.

“I know not the full tale as of yet,” the vampire said, his words coming more easily. “It is shrouded in mystery older than the oldest elf, in a time long ago when the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan was first built. There are-” He stopped with a grunt as Dahlia’s wood-covered finger burrowed in.

“To the point, vampire. I haven’t an eternity.” She looked at him slyly. “And if you offer me eternity one more time, I’ll show you an abrupt end to your own.”

“There is magical instability there, due to the fall of the Hosttower,” Dor’crae blurted. “It is possible that we could create carnage on a scale sufficient-”

Again the woman twisted the words from his mouth, silencing him. Luskan, Neverwinter, the Sword Coast… the significance of that region was no mystery to Dahlia. The mere mention of the area rekindled memories of her childhood, memories she clutched close to her heart as constant reminders of the wretchedness of the world.

She shook the haunting images away-it was not the time, not with a dangerous vampire held at arm’s length.

“What more?” she demanded.

A panicked look came over the vampire, who obviously had nothing substantial to add and expected a sudden end to his existence at the hands of the merciless elf.

But Dahlia was more intrigued than she showed. She retracted her hand so suddenly Dor’crae fell to hands and knees and closed his eyes in silent thanks.

“There is no time you are near me when I cannot kill you,” the woman said. “The next time you forget that and try to afflict me, I will utterly, happily, joyously destroy you.”

Dor’crae looked up at her, his expression conveying that he didn’t doubt her for a heartbeat.

“Now make love to me, and do it well, for your own sake,” the elf said.

It had been a fine trip to the stream for water. The pollywogs had just hatched and the twelve-year-old elf lass had found hours of enjoyment observing their play. Her mother had told her not to rush, since her father was out on the hunt that day anyway, and the water would not be needed until supper.

Dahlia came over the rise and saw the smoke, heard the cries, and knew the dark ones had come.

She should have fled. She should have turned around and run back to the stream, and across it. She should have abandoned her doomed village and saved herself, hoping to rejoin her father later on.

But she found herself running home, screaming for her mother.

The Netherese barbarians were there, waiting.

Dahlia pushed away the memories, channeling them, as she always channeled them, into her need for dominance. She slapped the vampire aside and rolled atop him, taking full control. Dor’crae was a most excellent lover-which was why Dahlia had kept him alive for so long-and the woman’s distraction had given him the upper hand. But only for a short while. She went at him angrily, turning their lovemaking into something violent, punching him and clawing at him, showing him the wooden finger prod at just the right moment to deny him his pleasure while she experienced her own.

Then she pulled away from him and ordered him gone, and warned him that her patience neared its end and that he should not return to her, should not come into her sight, until he had more to reveal about the Hosttower and the potential for catastrophe in the west.

The vampire slunk away like a beaten dog, leaving Dahlia alone with her memories.

They murdered the men. They murdered the youngest and the oldest of the females, who were not of child-bearing age, and for the two poor villagers with child, the barbarians were most cruel of all, cutting the children from their wombs and leaving both to die in the dirt.

And for the rest, the Netherese shared their seed, violently, repeatedly. In their demented fascination with mortality, they sought the elves’ wombs as if partaking of an elixir of eternal youth.

Her dress was much like the one Dahlia had been wearing that same day, high collar, open neck and low cut, and none could deny that Sylora Salm wore it in an enticing manner. Like her rival, her head was cleanly shaven, with not a hair on her pretty head. She was older than Dahlia by several years, and though Sylora was human, her beauty had surely not dimmed.

She stood on the edge of a dead forest, where the diseased remnants of once proud trees reached to the very edge of the newest Dread Ring, a widening black circle of utter devastation. Nothing lived within that dark perversion, where ashes could be naught but ashes and dust could be naught but dust. Though she was dressed as if to attend a royal ball, Sylora did not seem out of place there, for there was a coldness about her that complemented death quite well.

“The vampire inquired,” explained her lone companion, Themerelis, a hulking young man barely into his twenties. He wore only a short kilt, mid-calf boots, and an open leather vest, showing off his extraordinary musculature, his wide shoulders exaggerated by the greatsword he wore strapped diagonally across his back.