Annihilation

by Athans, Philip

  “We failed?” the lich wailed. “We? No, you wretched son of a wyrm, you failed. You’ll go back to the Shadow with your dragon’s tail between your legs, repeating your feeble excuses to yourself over and over again. Blame me if you wish, Nimor, but I’m still here. Live or die, I’ll still be here, in Menzoberranzan, fighting.”

  “Perhaps,” Nimor said, the first waves of a profound exhaustion beginning to soften his tired muscles, “but not for long.”

  The lich screamed his name, but Nimor didn’t hear the first echo before he drifted into the Shadow Fringe and was gone from Menzoberranzan forever.

  Inside the temple walls was a city twenty times the size of Menzoberranzan. Like the walls and the surrounding plazas, the city was a battered, war-ravaged ruin that looked to Pharaun as if it had been abandoned for a thousand years or more.

  The architecture throughout mimicked all manner of dark elven dwellings, from the calcified webs of Ched Nasad to the hollowed-out stalagmites of Menzoberranzan. The only thing the structures had in common was that they were all at least partially collapsed and they were devoid of life.

  Valas appeared behind the mage as he always did, as if by magic. Pharaun didn’t bother trying to pretend the scout’s sudden appearance hadn’t startled him. The time for keeping up appearances and jockeying for position in the party had come and gone.

  Valas nodded once to the Master of Sorcere and said, “There’s more metal the deeper in we go.”

  Pharaun found himself shaking his head, unsure at first what the scout was trying to tell him. He looked around more closely and saw that Valas was right. Though they had seen jagged, twisted chunks of rusted iron and scorched steel in the plaza outside, the deeper into the temple they walked, the more they all had to step around larger and larger pieces.

  Valas stopped and reached out to touch a gently curving wall of steel three times the scout’s height.

  “It looks like it was ripped off of a larger piece,” the scout said. “I’ve never seen this much steel.”

  Pharaun nodded, examining the relic from a distance.

  “It looks like a piece of a giant’s suit of armor,” the wizard commented, “a giant bigger than any you might find on the World Above, but this is the Abyss, Valas. There could be such a creature here.”

  “Or a god,” the scout replied.

  “Selvetarm was that big,” Danifae said. Both the males turned to look at her, surprised that she’d stopped to join the conversation. The former battle-captive had been walking in silence with the draegloth never far from her side, apparently unfazed by her surroundings. “So was Vhaeraun.”

  Valas nodded and said, “There are other pieces, though, and there are things that don’t look like armor.”

  “The mechanical bits,” Pharaun interjected. “I’ve noticed those too.”

  “Mechanical bits?” the young priestess asked.

  Pharaun continued walking as he said, “The odd moving part. I’ve seen hinges and things that seem to act almost like a joint, like a shoulder or knee joint in a drow’s body but with wires or other contraptions in place of muscles.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Valas said, “some of them did look like legs or arms.”

  “Who cares?” the draegloth grumbled. “Are you two really wasting your time examining the garbage? Do you have no understanding of what’s happened here?”

  “I think we have at least a rudimentary understanding of what’s gone on here, Jeggred, yes,” Pharaun said. “By ‘examining the garbage,’ as you so eloquently put it, we might gain some understanding beyond the point where it can still be described as rudimentary. Alas, that’s not a state of mind with which you tend to be familiar with yourself, but those of us with higher—”

  The air was forced out of Pharaun’s lungs in a single painful grunt. The draegloth was on top of him, smashing him into a crumbling pile of bricks that had once been part of a soaring cathedral. The wizard brought to mind a spell that didn’t require speech but stopped himself from casting it when Danifae’s voice echoed across the temple grounds.

  “Jeggred,” she commanded, “leave it.”

  It was a command someone might give a pet rat distracted by a cave beetle. As the draegloth withdrew and Pharaun struggled to his feet, he wondered which was a greater insult, Jeggred smashing him to the ground or Danifae’s rude remark. The Master of Sorcere brushed off his piwafwi, did his best with the wild mop his hair had become, and cleared his throat.

  “Ah, Jeggred, my boy,” the wizard said, letting the sarcasm drip freely, “was it something I said?”

  “Next time you talk to me like that, mage,” he draegloth growled, “your heart will follow Ryld Argith’s through my bowels.”

  Pharaun tried not to laugh and said, “Charming as always.”

  “Come, Jeggred,” Danifae said, waving the draegloth into step behind her.

  Pharaun finished assembling himself, and as he was about to move on he stopped and turned, having caught someone looking at him from the corner of his eye. Quenthel Baenre stood partially blocked by another huge, jagged hunk of steel. The look the wizard saw on her face was ice cold, and if they had been back in Menzoberranzan it would surely have presaged Danifae’s death.

  After the echoes from Dyrr’s last, barely-coherent shout finally died away, came a moment of almost complete silence. The lich hung in the still air, trembling with rage. Gromph took a moment to survey the ruined Bazaar.

  The fires had burned themselves out, and the smoke slowly dissipated. Dozens of stalls, tents, and carts were ruined—burned or shattered. Great cracks and pits had been dug into the stone floor, which was scorched in large swaths of dusty black.

  A few whispered words drifted across the otherwise quiet space, and Gromph saw a few inquisitive—and unwise—drow beginning to wander into the edges of the ruined marketplace. They had sensed that the duel had come to an end, but Gromph knew how wrong they were. Something, and it wasn’t only Gromph’s ability to outthink him, had scared Nimor off, had given the Anointed Blade the impression that he had lost.

  Why did Nimor abandon the fight, Archmage? Nauzhror asked. What does he know?

  Find out, Gromph ordered then turned his attention to Dyrr.

  “We can finish this now, if you like,” Gromph said.

  The lich took a deep, shuddering breath and shook his head.

  “It’s as it should be,” the archmage added.

  “I suppose it is, my young friend,” the lich answered, his voice steady. “You, the highest ranking wizard in Menzoberranzan, and me, the most powerful. It’s only symmetrical that we eventually face each other. Power abhors that sort of imbalance.”

  “I don’t know,” Gromph answered with a shrug. “I don’t consider balance. I worship a demon. I serve chaos.”

  Dyrr’s answer was to begin casting a spell. Gromph stepped back and used his staff to levitate, hopping a dozen feet up into the air and hovering there. He looked down and could see a small group of drow—fifteen or twenty and mostly older males—begin sifting through the ruined stalls. They must have been the merchants themselves, finally unable to stay away, not knowing the fate of their livelihoods.

  Gromph thought to warn them off but didn’t. He didn’t want to.

  Dyrr finished his spell, and at first it looked as if the lich burst. He grew, ballooning up to twice, then three, then four times his normal size and bigger. He changed in every conceivable physical way and dropped from the air with a resounding crash that made the merchants scatter back past the edges of the Bazaar. Gromph watched the bystanders gape in awe and fear at what Dyrr had become.

  It’s a gigant, Nauzhror said. A blackstone gigant.

  Gromph sighed. He knew what it was that Dyrr had turned himself into.

  Under normal circumstances, a blackstone gigant was a construct, created by priestesses of any number of dark faiths to be used as servants, guardians, assassins, or instruments of war. Carved from solid blocks of stone, they were formida
ble creatures that could destroy a whole city if left unchecked. What Dyrr had done was change his form from his normally thin, aged drow frame to the form of a gigant. In the process he had become, for all intents and purposes, that new creature.

  The gigant was easily forty feet long from the top of its massive, drowlike head to the tip of its curling, wormlike tail. It had four sets of long arms with drowlike hands big enough to close over Gromph entirely, though the hands were oddly twisted with three multi-jointed fingers ending in black talons not unlike Nimor’s. The lich had opted to retain his black coloration, but the creature’s eyes blazed a bright blue. Shafts of light extended from them, cutting through the haze of smoke that still hung in the air. It opened its mouth and revealed fangs the size of short swords, set in rows. Slime dripped from its twisted lower lip. It was in constant motion, twitching and squirming like a maggot. The weight of it dragged ragged scars in the floor, and the sound of grinding, cracking stone overwhelmed all other sounds.

  The creature started to destroy everything it could reach, and it could reach a lot. What merchants’ stalls were still intact and unburned were ground to splinters under the colossal beast’s raw tonnage. The once curious merchants ran for their lives, but as the gigant writhed across the Bazaar, it rolled over one fleeing drow after another. When it rolled on to reveal them once again, instead of the mass of unrecognizable paste Gromph expected to see, there was left behind an array of what looked at first like statues. The petrified forms of a score of drow lay perfectly still, scattered across the ruined Bazaar. The touch of the gigant had turned them to stone.

  Its fit of destructive rage finished, the gigant turned its attention to Gromph. The shafts of light from its eyes fell on the archmage, illuminating him where he hovered a dozen yards above the floor of the Bazaar.

  Gromph cast a spell as the gigant came at him, gnashing its massive fangs and petrifying a handful more of the careless drow merchants. The spell made Gromph difficult to see. His form became cloudy, indistinct, and he dropped quickly to the ground. The boots he was wearing would help him run faster than any drow. Difficult to see and moving fast, Gromph managed to stay out of the raging gigant’s way.

  “Can you hear me, Dyrr?” Gromph called out.

  The lich didn’t answer. Gromph wasn’t sure if he could in his current state. The gigant growled and gnashed its teeth and came at him again. Gromph literally ran in circles in an effort to contain the dangerous beast in the Bazaar. Any living thing it touched turned to stone, and too many Menzoberranyr had perished already. If the siege truly was coming to an end, it was time for the wasteful killing to stop too.

  “Dyrr, answer me,” Gromph tried again, but again there was no response.

  Instead, the gigant glanced down at the petrified drow left in its wake. When the beam of light from its eyes played on their stone forms, the rock-hard drow lurched into motion. The petrified merchants drew themselves up, staggering slowly like zombies, and each one turned its head up to regard the gigant as if listening for orders. Dust fell from them in gently wafting clouds.

  The gigant hissed at each of them, and as it did so one after another of the animated statues turned to face Gromph and began to stagger slowly toward him.

  Gromph could move many times faster than the petrified drow, but there were a lot of them: a dozen, then more, and he knew that eventually he would have to do something about the blackstone gigant and its cadre of animated statues in the heart of Menzoberranzan.

  The lich isn’t answering you, Master, Nauzhror said. Perhaps he can’t. Perhaps he’s more gigant now than lich.

  What does that mean? Prath asked.

  It means, Gromph answered, that what a lich might be normally capable of, normally resistant to, may no longer apply.

  Like what? Prath asked.

  Gromph and Nauzhror projected the same word at precisely the same time: Necromancy.

  “That’s impossible,” Valas said. “It’s the size of a castle.” Pharaun shrugged, nodding, looking up at the enormous wreck.

  “Bigger,” the Master of Sorcere replied, “but it walked.”

  The wreck was once a sphere of polished steel three hundred feet or more in diameter. It lay amid the ruins of half a dozen smaller stone and web buildings, one side of it gone completely. On the whole it resembled a discarded eggshell, but in fact it had once been a walking fortress. Pharaun tried to imagine the sight of the thing intact, standing on legs that were left bent and torn underneath its bulk.

  “Some kind of clockwork contraption,” Valas persisted, “that big … It would have to have been built by a …”

  “A god?” Pharaun finished for him, when he sensed Valas hesitating to draw the same conclusion. “Or in this case a goddess.

  Why not?”

  “What would you use something like that for?” asked Danifae.

  “War,” Jeggred offered, though there was enough of a lilt in his voice to make it almost sound like a question. “It’s a war machine.”

  “It’s a fortress,” Quenthel said. There was a finality, a certainty in her voice that made the others turn to look at her. “It’s … it was Lolth’s own fortress. It once resembled a clockwork spider, and from within Lolth herself could traverse the Demonweb Pits, protected and armed with weapons the likes of which no drow has yet imagined.”

  “I think …” Danifae said. “I think I remember reading something about that but always thought it a fantasy, a bit of harmless heresy to thrill the uninitiated.”

  “You know this for sure?” Pharaun asked Quenthel, though he could see in her face that she had no doubts.

  The high priestess looked the Master of Sorcere in the eye and said, “I’ve been inside it. I’ve seen it move. It was inside that spider fortress that I first came before the Spider Queen herself.”

  Pharaun turned from Quenthel’s gaze to look at the massive wreck again.

  “She seldom left its confines,” Quenthel went on, her voice growing softer and softer as if she were receding over a great distance. “I don’t think I ever saw her leave it, in fact, in all the years I …”

  Pharaun didn’t turn back to look at the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith when he said, “We should go inside. If Lolth never left that fortress, perhaps she’s still in there.”

  “She isn’t there,” Quenthel said.

  “The mistress is right,” said Danifae. “I can feel it—or, rather, I can’t feel her.”

  “She might still be inside there,” the wizard said, knowing that he was taking his life in his own hands again by suggesting the possibility—even though he was sure each one of them had at least briefly considered it. “Her body might be, anyway.”

  No one said anything in response, but they did follow when Pharaun began the long walk to the fallen spider fortress.

  As minutes dragged, the walk grew increasingly difficult. Fatigue had long since made itself known, and though they occasionally stopped to eat and drink from the supplies that Valas had given each of them from his dimensional containers they were all hungry, thirsty, and ready to drop. That, coupled with an increasing denseness in debris and intervening walls of stone, web, bricks, or steel, reduced their speed to a quarter of what they hoped for.

  Still, the draegloth managed to get close to Pharaun’s side. The mage was reasonably confident that the defenses he already had running would prevent the half-demon from taking him down before he could defend himself, so he didn’t stop and challenge the draegloth.

  “You would like it,” Jeggred whispered to Pharaun. The draegloth’s whisper was as loud as a drow’s normal volume, but still no one seemed to have heard him. “If Lolth is dead in there and all we find is a skeleton, you’d be happy. Admit it.”

  “I admit nothing,” the Master of Sorcere replied. “As a matter of policy, actually. Still, in this case I truly hope we don’t find Lolth dead in there. If I did, what would you care anyway, draegloth? Would you run and tell your mistress on me? Which of your two mistresses would you
tell first? Or would you even tell Quenthel at all? Honestly, Jeggred, you’re acting as if you expect never to see Menzoberranzan again.”

  “Am I?” the draegloth asked. He was fundamentally incapable of sarcasm. “How so?”

  “You’re ignoring the wishes of Quenthel Baenre—” the wizard stressed that House name—“in favor of the whims of a servant. Here, in the very heart of Lolth’s power.”

  “Danifae is a servant no longer,” the draegloth said. “I have seen many—”

  Fire.

  The word formed in Pharaun’s mind even as his skin blistered and his clothing threatened to catch. The flames came at them in a wave, engulfing all five of them in blinding tongues of orange, red, and blue. Pharaun could hear his defensive spells crackling to hold out the heat, and though he was still burned, he survived it. Not all of the others were in as good shape, though, and Pharaun immediately searched his mind for a spell that would protect them all—and if not them all then Valas, Quenthel (she was the sister of the archmage, after all), Danifae, and Jeggred … in that order.

  He didn’t have a chance to bring any spell to mind, though, before another wall of fire passed him, burning him even worse as it went.

  Foul, coughing laughter echoed down from above, and Pharaun looked up to see a vicious tanar’ri hanging, by dint of at least some simple magic, in midair above them. The thing was like some kind of mad, twisted bull, and it lacked feet.

  Pharaun recognized it at once, even as he was conjuring a sphere of Weave energy around himself to protect him from certain spells. The tanar’ri was a glabrezu, and it looked familiar.

  “The ice …” Danifae suggested, her voice hissing through clenched teeth.

  Danifae and Quenthel bore shiny patches on their black skin. They had been burned worse than Pharaun but not quite enough to raise blisters. Quenthel drew the healing wand and lost no time passing it over her own skin.

  “I had it trapped in ice,” said Pharaun, “and left it there.”

  The mage glanced quickly around for Valas, but the scout was nowhere to be seen.