Annihilation

by Athans, Philip

  There was a surprisingly loud rustle, and Pharaun looked up. Aliisza, her batlike wings spread out behind her, was slowly sinking toward him. He turned so they were facing each other.

  They were almost together when Aliisza asked, “Can your levitation hold me up?”

  Pharaun almost had a chance to answer before her arms folded around his neck and her full—though not substantial—weight fell on him all at once. He concentrated hard on the brooch, almost losing his defensive spell in the process, and managed to hold them both aloft. They bobbed a bit at first, but ultimately managed a tight embrace in the gloomy air near the ceiling of the Lake of Shadows.

  They were face-to-face, less than an inch apart. Pharaun could smell the beautiful alu-demon’s breath. The touch of her skin against him, the curves of her body in his arms again, and the soft caress of her fleshy wings folding around him, enclosing him, made his body react of its own accord.

  A playful smile crossed Aliisza’s full lips, and she showed a set of perfect white teeth with the exaggerated canines of a vampire. Pharaun remembered her habit of playing with her teeth. He didn’t bother wondering why he liked that about her so much.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “I remember you.”

  Pharaun returned her smile and asked, “So, what brings a bad girl like you to an evil place like this?”

  That made her laugh.

  “The Lake of Shadows?” she replied playfully. “Oh, I try to get here a couple times a year, if I can. To take the waters.”

  Pharaun nodded, smiled, but didn’t bother extending the banter. Kaanyr Vhok’s consort had come there for a reason, and he wasn’t quite smitten, or egomaniacal enough to think it was only to see him.

  “You’re spying on us again,” he accused.

  “No,” Aliisza replied with a pout, “I’m spying on you still. Doesn’t that make you feel important, having someone like me spying on you all the time?”

  “Yes,” he said, “and that’s precisely the problem.”

  “What do you hope to find in the Abyss?” she asked abruptly. Pharaun had to blink a few times to get his head wrapped around the question. “That is where you’re going in that wonderful old ship of chaos you’ve salvaged, isn’t it?”

  “What would Kaanyr Vhok care what we do,” he asked, “or where we go?”

  “Can’t a girl be curious?”

  “No,” he replied with some finality. “In this case, no, she can’t.”

  “You can be quite the rodent when you want to be, Pharaun,” she said, and she smiled again.

  “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

  Aliisza looked him in the eyes. Drow and demon were both smart and pragmatic enough to know they weren’t some pair of star-crossed human lovers. They might even be combatants on opposite sides of a war that could ruin both their civilizations—if Kaanyr Vhok’s ragged Scoured Legion could be called a civilization.

  “Can I come too?” she asked, tipping her head, and looking almost as if she were trying to read an answer written across his brow.

  “With us?” he asked. “On the ship?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll have to check with the purser to see if there’s a cabin available, but at first glance I’d have to say no way in all Nine Hells and the Barrens of Doom and Despair besides.”

  “Pity,” she said. “I’ve been there before, you know.”

  “Where else have you been?” Pharaun asked, intentionally jarring the subject away from her joining their expedition. “Have you visited the City of Spiders lately?”

  “Menzoberranzan?” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “News of home and all that,” said the wizard.

  Her wings tightened around him, and Pharaun liked the sensation. It was similar to the warmed blankets his favorite masseuse used to drape on him in Menzoberranzan. He’d been traveling too long.

  “You’re missing some of your comrades,” the alu-demon noted. “The big fighter with the greatsword and the other one. The scout.”

  “You have been spying on us,” Pharaun replied.

  He couldn’t imagine why she’d want to know that unless she was testing their strength, or …

  “Reporting back to Kaanyr Vhok?” he asked.

  She pretended to blush and batted her eyelashes at him.

  “Menzoberranzan is under siege,” he said. “I suppose you know that.”

  She nodded and asked, “You’ve sent your warriors back to aid in the defense of the city?”

  Pharaun laughed, and Aliisza looked put out. He didn’t care.

  “Tell me they didn’t run afoul of some less civilized denizen of the Underdark between Ched Nasad and here,” she said. “It would break my heart.”

  “Your heart will remain intact then,” he replied. “I don’t suppose it would hurt you to tell me who lays siege to my home.”

  “It might just,” she replied with a wink. “Let’s not risk it. Of course, if I knew what you know about the fate of your Spider Queen, that might cushion the blow.”

  “Ah,” he said, “I tell you the big secret, and you tell me the little one.”

  “There are no little secrets,” the alu-demon replied, “if you’re the one in the dark.”

  “You know, Aliisza,” Pharaun said. “We should get together and tell each other nothing more often. It beats preparing spells or getting on with my life.”

  “You’re a sarcastic little devil, Pharaun. You know, that’s just what I love about you.”

  “Please assume I feel the same,” was the mage’s reply. “So if we’re done not speaking to each other, can I go?”

  “We’ve spoken to each other, Pharaun,” said Aliisza, “I’m sure of it. For instance, until now I hadn’t imagined you didn’t know who was laying siege to your City of Spiders. Oh, and you told me you were going to the Abyss.”

  “Yes, well,” Pharaun said, unconcerned that she’d drawn those obvious conclusions. “Good for you. Do run along and change the course of life in the Underdark.”

  “You’re playing games with me,” the alu-demon said, ice in her voice and in her eyes like Pharaun had never seen. “I like that but not forever.”

  “You’re withholding information from me,” he retorted. “I never like that.”

  They floated in midair, wrapped in a tight, familiar embrace, staring into each other’s cold, uninviting eyes for a long time.

  “I could be your friend still, Pharaun,” Aliisza said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The Master of Sorcere found himself struggling for something to say. He knew they were finished, feared they were finished forever, and found himself wishing that weren’t true.

  Longing, Pharaun silently mused.

  Yes, Aliisza replied directly into his mind, longing.

  Pharaun pushed her away. Aliisza hung in the air for half a second before she started to fall. She stared daggers at him even as her wings opened to slow her descent. Pharaun thought she looked more hurt than angry.

  “We’ll talk again,” she said, then she was gone with a flash of dull purple light, and Pharaun was alone in the impenetrable shadows.

  I hope so, he found himself thinking. I really do.

  Something was missing.

  Halisstra could feel it—or rather, she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel the Binding. She couldn’t feel Danifae.

  Having a captive bound to her by that obscure drow magic was a strange and subtle experience. It wasn’t something she was conscious of really, not on a moment-by-moment basis. Rather it was always there, in the background, like the sound of her own breathing, the feeling of her own pulse.

  She was dancing when it stopped. The priestesses who had welcomed her into their circle danced often. They danced in different combinations of certain females and danced in different places both sacred and mundane. They danced naked most of the time, clothed some of the time. They danced wearing armor and weapons and danced with offerings of fruit or works of art. They danced
around fires or in the cold. They danced at night—in the dark that Halisstra still found comforting—or in the day. She was still learning the significance of each of those different venues, every subtle shift in components and approach, rhythm and movement.

  When the feeling came upon her, Halisstra stopped dancing. The other priestesses took no notice of her. They didn’t even pause, let alone stop their joyous ritual.

  Halisstra stumbled out of the circle and made her way quickly and with a sense of impending doom back to where she had left Ryld. The weapons master wasn’t included in the circles of priestesses, and she could tell that was wearing on him. Halisstra was gone hours at a time, and returned to questions she couldn’t always answer. She had no way to be sure Ryld loved her—she wasn’t entirely certain yet what “love” was, though she thought she was learning, but the warrior stayed. He stayed there in the cold, light-ravaged forest with her, surrounded by worshipers of what to him must have still felt like a traitor goddess.

  She staggered into the cool, dark chamber they shared, interrupting him in a meditative exercise she’d seen him do before. He was standing on his hands, eyes closed, toes pointed, legs bent back at the knee. The weapons master held that position for hours sometimes. Halisstra couldn’t do it for more than a second or two.

  He opened his eyes when she came in and must have seen something in her expression. He rolled forward in a single, smooth motion and was on his feet. There was no sign he was dizzy or disoriented.

  “Halisstra,” he said, “what happened?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but no words would come.

  “Something happened,” he said, and he looked around the room.

  “Ryld, I …” she started to say, then watched as he began to arm himself.

  He grabbed Splitter—his enormous greatsword—first then quickly buckled his sheathed short sword to his belt. He had his armor in his hands when she touched his arm to stop him. His skin felt warm, almost hot, but there was no sweat. Deep black skin was stretched over muscles so hard he felt as if he were chiseled from stone.

  “No,” she said, shaking the cobwebs from her head finally, “stop it.”

  He stopped, and looked at her, waiting. She could see the impatience in his eyes, impatience mixed with frustration.

  “What is it?” he asked, and she could see him comprehending even as he spoke.

  She smiled and he sighed.

  “It’s Danifae,” she said finally. “I can’t feel her anymore. The Binding has been broken.”

  His eyes widened, and she could tell he was surprised. Not surprised, necessarily, that the Binding had been broken, but it was as if he were expecting to hear something else.

  “What does that mean, exactly?” he asked, leaning his breastplate against the wall next to the bed they shared.

  Halisstra shook her head.

  “She died?” he asked with no trace of emotion.

  “Yes,” Halisstra replied. “Maybe.”

  “Why does that frighten you?”

  Halisstra stepped back—was literally taken aback by that question, though it was a logical one.

  “Why does that frighten me?” she repeated. “It frightens me … concerns me, that she’s free of me. One way or the other, I’m no longer her mistress, and she’s no longer my battle-captive.”

  Ryld frowned, shrugged, and asked, “Why does that matter to you?”

  She opened her mouth to respond and again could form no words.

  “I mean,” the weapons master went on, “I’m not sure your new friends would approve anyway, would they? Do these trait—I mean, other … these priestesses even take battle-captives?”

  She smiled, and he turned away, pretending to be deeply involved in returning Splitter to its ready position under their bed.

  “They aren’t traitor priestesses, Ryld,” she said.

  He hung his head briefly in response then sat down on the bed and looked at her.

  “Yes they are,” he said, his voice as flat and as beaten as his eyes. “They’re traitors to their race, as surely as we are. The question I keep asking myself now is, is it so bad to be a traitor?”

  Halisstra stepped to him and knelt. Draping her hands on his knees. He put out a hand and brushed her long white hair from her black cheek—the gesture seemed almost instinctive.

  “It’s not,” she said, her voice barely audible even in the quiet of their little room. “It’s not so bad. We can really only be traitors to ourselves anyway, and I think we’re both finally being true to ourselves … and each other.”

  Halisstra’s heart sank when she saw the look on his face, his only response to those words. He didn’t believe her, but she couldn’t help thinking he wanted to.

  “How does it feel?” he asked her.

  She didn’t understand and told him so with a twitch of her head.

  “Not being able to feel the Binding?” he said. She shifted her weight onto her hip, sitting on the floor, and leaned her head against his strong leg.

  “I can feel everything about my old life being replaced piece by piece with something new.”

  He touched her again, one finger gently tracing the line of her shoulder. Her flesh thrilled at his touch.

  “Lolth has been replaced by Eilistraee,” she said. “Dark has been replaced by light. Suspicion has been replaced by acceptance. Hate has been replaced by love.”

  An unfamiliar warmth and wetness filled her eyes. She was crying.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice a concerned whisper. Halisstra wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded. “Hate,” she repeated, “has been replaced by love, and apparently slavery has been replaced by freedom.”

  “Or was it that life was replaced by death?” Ryld asked. Halisstra sighed.

  “Maybe it was,” she answered, “but either way, she’s free. She’s gone to whatever afterlife awaits her. For her sake, I hope it’s not that empty, ruined shell of the Demonweb Pits. Maybe she still wanders the Underdark, alive and strong. Alive and free, or dead and free, she’s free just the same.”

  “Free….” Ryld repeated, as if he’d never spoken the word before and needed practice at it.

  They sat like that for a long time until Halisstra’s legs started to grow stiff and Ryld sensed her discomfort. He lifted her into the bed and drew her close to him as if she weighed nothing at all. His embrace was like a shell around her, a life-sustaining cocoon.

  “We have to go back,” she whispered. His embrace tightened.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” she whispered because she knew he wanted to go back underground and never come back. “The time has finally come to find Quenthel and her expedition.”

  “And stop them?” he asked, the words touching her neck with each exhalation of his hot breath. “No,” she whispered.

  “Follow them?” he said into her hair, his hand pressed into the small of her back.

  Halisstra moved into the warrior until she felt as if she were flattening herself against him, disappearing into his night-black skin.

  “Yes,” she said. “They’ll take us with them, whether they want to or not. They’ll take us to Lolth, and we can end it.”

  Halisstra knew that he began to make love to her then because he didn’t want to think about it, and she let him because she didn’t want to think about it either.

  Pharaun stood at the rail of the ship of chaos, staring into the empty darkness of the Lake of Shadows, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Valas and Danifae hadn’t returned from their supply mission, he had fed the ship enough petty demons to satisfy it, the uridezu captain was cowed and quiet, and there was no sign of Aliisza.

  The Master of Sorcere went over their conversation again in his mind and was still convinced that the alu-fiend had managed to tell him nothing but had gone away having learned nothing from him. Still, she’d found him and had seen the ship. She knew where they were going and what they hoped to accomplish there—but anyone who’d bee
n at the fall of Ched Nasad could figure that out easily enough.

  He put the alu-fiend out of his mind and peered deeper into the darkness, though there was still nothing to see. Pharaun didn’t have to turn around to know that Quenthel was sitting against the rail, absently chatting in some kind of silent telepathy with the bound imps that gave her venomous whip its evil intelligence. He couldn’t imagine the substance of a conversation someone might have with a demon trapped in the body of a snake that was stuck to the end of a whip.

  Whatever they talked about, it didn’t seem to be helping Quenthel. The high priestess, as far as Pharaun could tell, was going quietly mad. She had always been sullen and temperamental, but recently she had become … twitchy.

  Her half-demon nephew grew angrier and angrier the more bored he became. Jeggred sent a large portion of his hatred out through his eyes and into the uridezu. Raashub did an admirable job of ignoring him.

  Something caught Pharaun’s attention, movement out of the corner of his eye, and he stepped back from the rail as an emaciated, soaking-wet rat scurried along the bone-and-cartilage rail in front of him.

  Pharaun watched the rat run, absently wondering where it thought it was going.

  Anywhere dry, he thought.

  Noises echoed from behind him—Jeggred fidgeting.

  Pharaun stepped back to the rail and was about to let his eyes wander through the impenetrable darkness again when another rat crawled quickly past.

  “Damn it,” the Master of Sorcere whispered to himself.

  He turned to voice some impotent complaint to Jeggred, but the words stuck in his throat.

  There were more than the two rats that ran past him. There were dozens of them, hundreds perhaps, and they swarmed over Jeggred.

  Something’s wrong, thought Pharaun, marveling even as the words formed in his head at how slowly his mind was working after days of tedium aboard the anchored ship.

  The draegloth looked more annoyed than anything else. The rats were crawling over him, tangling themselves in his hair, nibbling at any loose fold of skin, but they could not pierce the half-demon’s hide. More of them were climbing onto the deck. Pharaun could hear splashing in the water on the other side of the demonic vessel. It sounded as if dozens, even hundreds more rats were swimming up to the ship.