Annihilation

by Athans, Philip

  “For me?” asked Halisstra.

  “And for Eilistraee,” Feliane said.

  Halisstra’s mind reeled, but her eyes cleared of tears, and blood began to flow in her tired muscles. She felt alert, refreshed, even as she was overwhelmed.

  “She sacrificed herself,” Halisstra repeated, “so I could …”

  “So you could serve Eilistraee,” Uluyara finished for her. “So you could wield the Crescent Blade.”

  Halisstra put a hand on the hilt of the weapon that could kill a goddess and said, “I hesitated, but I hope not for too long.”

  “She’s awake,” Feliane warned, “or resurrected. She’ll fight back.”

  Halisstra thought about that. She tried to imagine facing Lolth herself in battle, and for the life of her she couldn’t.

  “We’ll follow the souls to Lolth,” Halisstra said, moving in that direction even before she finished speaking.

  Feliane and Uluyara fell in behind her.

  “No,” Pharaun muttered, “this way …?”

  He turned left when the corridor forked. He had cast a number of divinations and was doing his damnedest to follow them all.

  “None of your spells are working,” Quenthel asked, “are they?”

  Pharaun didn’t bother looking at her but continued along the corridor hoping he would stumble on something that might get them on the right track.

  “I’m getting … contradictory information,” he shot back, “but at least I’m doing something. You said you’ve been here before—why aren’t you taking us right to her?”

  Quenthel didn’t answer, and they shared a look that served as an agreement not to continue bickering.

  “It’s as if the farther we go into this spider fortress, the stranger our surroundings become,” Danifae said. “There were no right angles anywhere when we first walked in, but now there are. They seemed to appear the moment I got comfortable wandering the corridors without them. Still, we have seen nothing alive, haven’t been harried by a single guardian, and for all intents and purposes we have the run of the place. What does it mean?”

  “That Lolth wanted us to come,” Quenthel replied, shooting a contemptuous glance at Danifae.

  Pharaun and Valas exchanged a look that told each other they’d reached very different conclusions.

  The wizard paused in a section of corridor that had widened out to well over twenty feet. The ceiling was low, the darkness comfortably dense, and the smell of rot fortunately not as overwhelming as it had been most of the time. He cast another spell and concentrated on his surroundings, searching for signs of life. He could sense dead spots through which his magic couldn’t penetrate—walls perhaps lined with lead or some other particularly dense substance. Still, far at the edge of the limits of his perception, Pharaun could make out signs of life.

  “A light wash,” he whispered to himself, “but it’s there.”

  “What?” Quenthel asked. “What’s there?”

  The wizard opened his eyes and smiled at Quenthel.

  “There is something alive in here with us after all,” he said, “but the sign is strange—diffuse and distant as if the creature is either very far away, only barely alive, cloaked in magic that protects it from divination, or some combination of those things. I can’t get a … Mistress?”

  Quenthel dropped to her knees, and Pharaun instinctively backed away. The air was charged, and the Master of Sorcere’s skin tingled, but whatever was happening had a much more profound effect on the two females.

  Quenthel dropped to her hands, her face coming dangerous inches from smashing into the cold, rusted steel of the ruined spider fortress. Her muscles jerked and spasmed, and her face was twisted into either a rictus of agonized pain or a grin of some kind of feral pleasure—Pharaun couldn’t tell which.

  Danifae fell to the floor as well, but she was facing up. Her back arched, and soon she was touching the floor only from one tiny spot on her head and the tips of her toes. Pharaun couldn’t help admiring the curve of her body, marred as it was by the same petty wounds—cuts, abrasions, welts, and bruises—that they’d all accumulated along the way. Not sure he wasn’t seeing only what he wanted to see, Pharaun thought Danifae’s expression was one of total pleasure, complete physical abandon.

  Next it was Jeggred’s turn to fall. The draegloth dropped to one knee, his three remaining hands reaching out to grab blindly at the walls. He ripped jagged rents in one steel partition. Brown dust covered his fur, clinging to it in clumps until it looked like the half-demon was rusting the same as the spider fortress. Jeggred screamed so loudly Pharaun had to clamp his hands over his ears.

  Even as the draegloth’s scream faded into panting—desperate gasps for air—Pharaun looked at Valas. The scout seemed entirely unaffected, and Pharaun himself felt no burning desire to writhe around on the floor.

  “Whatever it is,” Pharaun said to the scout, “it only seems to be affecting the—”

  He thought at first that he was going to say “the females,” then he realized that it was affecting the priestesses and the one creature among them born of Lolth’s peculiar hell.

  It ended as abruptly as it began.

  Jeggred, who had been the one least affected by the sudden rapture, was the first to stand and begin to brush himself off. His face—normally difficult to read—gave Pharaun nothing.

  “What happened?” the wizard asked, but the draegloth ignored him. “Jeggred?”

  Quenthel sat back on her haunches and held her hands up to her face. Her eyes scoured her rust-dusted hands as if searching for something.

  Danifae took longer to recover, rolling into a fetal position on the unforgiving rusted steel floor and making a noise Pharaun at first thought was crying.

  “Mistress?” Valas asked, crouching to get to Quenthel’s eye level but not stepping any closer than the half dozen paces that already separated them.

  Quenthel didn’t speak, didn’t even give any indication that she had heard Valas. Pharaun didn’t bother asking what happened. He was beginning to understand what he’d witnessed.

  Quenthel began to speak.

  At first she moved her lips in a mute pantomime, then she whispered at the edge of hearing, then she chanted a litany in an ancient tongue not even Pharaun recognized.

  She continued for a minute or so then stopped. Pharaun’s eyes played over her, and he watched as all the cuts and bruises, scrapes and welts faded away, leaving her skin a perfect, almost glowing black. She even seemed to gain back some of the weight she’d lost. Her hair appeared cleaner, softer, and even her piwafwi and armor shone with renewed life.

  Quenthel Baenre stood and looked down at Danifae, who had uncurled herself to sit with her back to the wall, smiling as she whispered a prayer of her own that sealed her cuts, made her bruises disappear, and brought the twinkle back into her big, expressive eyes. A tear traced a path down one of her perfect ebony cheeks, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away.

  Pharaun looked back at the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, who stood tall and still in the darkness of the spider fortress, seeming to glow. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving.

  In one fluid, graceful motion Danifae swept up to her feet, her perfect white teeth shining in the gloom as she grinned from ear to ear. Pharaun found himself returning that smile. Jeggred rolled up onto his feet but in the same movement sank down to his knees in front of Danifae and Quenthel. The draegloth was breathing hard.

  “They are alive, and they’re here,” Quenthel whispered. She looked at Pharaun and more clearly said, “They are behind walls that shield them from your spells, and they are further protected from most divinations, but they are here.”

  “Who?” Valas asked.

  “I sense them too,” Danifae said. She put a hand on Jeggred’s wild mane and absently stroked it back into place. “I think I could find them. I think they’re actually waiting for us.”

  “Wait,” Pharaun said, stepping closer to Danifae—until a fierce growl from
Jeggred stopped him. The young priestess patted the half-demon’s head. and he calmed quickly. “Did what I think happened actually happen? Did she …?”

  “Lolth has returned to us,” Quenthel said.

  “She has,” Danifae agreed.

  She appeared as if she wanted to say more.

  “Is there something else?” Pharaun asked. “Is that it? Is our journey at an end?”

  “Mistress?” Jeggred said, looking directly into Danifae’s eyes. “What did the voice say? I couldn’t quite … it was too far away to …”

  Danifae ran her fingers through his fur and said, “The voice said—”

  “Yor’thae,” Quenthel finished for her.

  “Yor’thae….” Danifae whispered.

  “High Drow?” Valas asked, correctly identifying the language.

  “It means, ‘Chosen One,’” Pharaun explained.

  “One …” Quenthel whispered, shaking her head.

  At the same time, Danifae mutely mouthed the word, “Yor’thae.”

  Quenthel used her eyes to get Pharaun’s attention then said, “Our journey is far from over, Master of Sorcere. Lolth has not only returned but she has asked me to come to her, has invited me to be her chosen vessel. This is why she brought me back, all those years ago. This is why she dragged me from the Abyss and back to Menzoberranzan. I was meant to come here, now, and to be her … to be Yor’thae.”

  Deep in the heart of the First House, in a room protected from everything worth protecting a room from, Triel Baenre watched her brother fight for the life of Menzoberranzan.

  He was losing.

  She could see what was happening in the Bazaar, every detail of it, through a magic mirror, a crystal ball, a scrying pool, and half a dozen other similar items, most of which had been created by Gromph himself. She paced back and forth across the polished marble floor, looking from scene to scene, angle to angle, as the transformed lichdrow made a mess of the heart of her city.

  Wilara Baenre stood in one corner, her eyes darting from one scrying device to another, her arms crossed in front of her, her fingers drumming against her shoulders with barely contained frustration.

  “The archmage will prevail, Matron Mother,” Wilara said, not for the first time that day.

  “Will he?” Triel asked.

  It was the first time she’d replied to one of Wilara’s hollow reassurances, and it took the attending priestess by surprise.

  “Of course he will,” Wilara answered.

  Triel waited for more, but it became obvious that Wilara had nothing else to say.

  “I’m not entirely certain that this is a fight he can win,” Triel said, as much to herself as to Wilara. “If we’re all being tested and this is Gromph’s test, he will pass or fail on his own. If he fails, he deserves to die.”

  “Is there nothing we can do to help him?” asked Wilara.

  Triel shrugged.

  “There are soldiers and other mages,” the attending priestess went on.

  “All of whom are required elsewhere. The duergar still press, even if the tanarukks are turning away,” said Triel. “The siege of Agrach Dyrr goes on unabated … but, yes, there are always more soldiers, always more mages, and there is Bregan D’aerthe and other mercenaries. If the lich kills Gromph I certainly won’t let him rampage through the rest of Menzoberranzan turning our citizens to stone and smashing the architecture.”

  “Why not send those forces in now?”

  Triel shrugged again and considered the question. She had no answer.

  “I don’t know,” Triel said finally. “Maybe I’m waiting for a sign from—” She was back.

  Triel fell to the floor, her body going limp, her head spinning, her mind exploding in a cacophony of sound and shadow, voices and screams. Tears welled up in her eyes so she could only barely see Wilara lying in a similar confused, twitching, limp state on the floor across the room.

  The Matron Mother of House Baenre felt every emotion she’d ever known simultaneously and at their sharpest and most intense. She hated and loved, feared and cherished, laughed and cried. She knew the endless expanse of the limitless multiverse and saw in crystal detail the square inch of marble floor right in front of her eye. She was in her scrying chamber and in the Demonweb Pits, in her mother’s womb and in the smoldering Bazaar, in the deepest Underdark and flying through the blazing skies of the World Above.

  She took a deep breath, and one feeling after another fell away, each a layer of confusion and insanity. Pieces of her mind began to function again, then pieces of her body. It took either a few minutes or a few years—Triel couldn’t be sure how long—for her to realize what had happened and sort through the sensation that had been so familiar all her life, then was gone, then returned.

  Lolth.

  It was the fickle grace of the Queen of the Demonweb Pits.

  Triel didn’t try to stand at first but lay there and stretched, luxuriating in the wash of power, exulting in the return of Lolth.

  Gromph knew of so many ways to kill someone, he’d forgotten more than most drow ever heard of. There were spells that would kill with a touch, kill with a word, kill with a thought, and Gromph searched his mind for precisely the right one as he ran to both avoid the rampaging gigant and keep it contained in the ruined Bazaar.

  He wore the skull sapphire that gave him even more choices and afforded him protection from negative energy—like Nimor’s enervating breath. In his memory he stored a few more, and in time Gromph settled on one spell, with some input from Nauzhror and the small circle of Sorcere necromancers. The archmage gathered the Weave energy within him and brought the words and gestures of the incantation to mind. However, in order to cast the spell—and it was a powerful spell indeed—the archmage would have to stop running.

  It wasn’t the first time that the battle with Dyrr came down to timing. Would he have enough time to cast the spell before the gigant rolled over him?

  We can help you choose your moment, Nauzhror said.

  I know, Gromph answered, but there are always … variables.

  The archmage stopped running, turned, and began his casting.

  The gigant looked down at him, bathing Gromph in the light from its mad blue eyes. Gromph was sure he had time. The animated, petrified drow were too far away and moving too slowly to be of any concern, and the gigant had been slapping its tail around the Bazaar at random, as if Dyrr had little control over his new body. Gromph trusted in that.

  He was wrong.

  One set of trigger words from completing the spell, the enormous black tail of the blackstone gigant rolled over him. Gromph felt the words stop in his throat and felt his joints stiffen then nothing.

  Triel stood and looked from scrying device to scrying device, trying to sort out what she was hearing. The magically transmitted voices of a hundred mages, priestesses, and warriors filled the air in an incoherent tangle of confusion and undisguised bliss. The doors of the scrying chamber burst open, and a priestess whom Triel recognized but whose name she couldn’t instantly recall staggered into the room. Tears streamed down her black cheeks, and her mouth worked in silent, incoherent attempts to put into words what she, Triel, Wilara, and every other servant of the Queen of the Demonweb Pits all across the endless expanse of the multiverse had experienced.

  The matron mother’s attention fell on one image: Gromph, petrified.

  He had lost. The lich, in its freakish monster form, had turned the Archmage of Menzoberranzan to stone.

  Triel felt her jaw tighten then she stood for a moment, letting the anger wash through her.

  “Is this a sign?” she asked the Spider Queen.

  Lolth didn’t answer, but Triel knew she could if she wanted to.

  “It’s a sign,” the matron mother whispered.

  Triel pressed her fingertips together, bent her neck in a slight bow, and willed herself to the Bazaar. There was a momentary feeling of upside down weightlessness, a black void, then she was standing in a deep crack in the
stone floor of her city’s marketplace. The blackstone gigant reared up high above her, apparently having sensed her passage through the dimensions from House Baenre to the Bazaar. The creature opened its mouth to roar at her, but Triel spoke a few words, and it froze. The great, thrashing tail came to a sudden stop. It was as if time itself had taken a moment’s pause. Smoke still rose around her, and the animated stone drow lumbered on.

  “This has gone on long enough, lich,” Triel said, “all of it. I will have no more dead drow, no more of my city ruined, no more challenges to my power or to the power of Lolth.”

  Triel doubted the lichdrow could understand her. He seemed to have been subsumed by his adopted form, but she said it to everyone she knew was listening in, from House Baenre, Arach-Tinilith, Sorcere, and perhaps beyond the city into the command tents of her enemies.

  She called directly upon Lolth, beseeching the restored goddess for her most potent spell, asking for nothing less than a miracle.

  Lolth didn’t answer in a drow’s voice as she had in the past. There were no words, only a feeling, a swelling of power, a rush of blood in the matron mother’s ears.

  Triel sank to her knees amid a scattering of rough gravel and broken glass and pressed her forehead to the cool ground. She didn’t express her desires in words. She didn’t have to. What she was working was a wave of emotion, of feeling, of pure fear.

  The terror of Lolth herself blasted out in all directions at once, in an expanding circle of fear with Triel at its center. All across the City of Spiders, drow stopped in their tracks, fell to their knees, or lay prone. Some leaned against walls or collapsed on stairs, but all of them knew the purest fear, the fear of a goddess, the fear of the eternal, the fear of chaos, the fear of darkness, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the certain, the fear of treason, and a thousand other horrors that brought the city to a full stop.

  The blackstone gigant trembled and broke apart. Triel, still kneeling below it, didn’t dodge the falling black boulders, the pieces of the titanic construct, which disappeared before they hit the ground. Within seconds all that was left of the rampaging creature was the lichdrow, stunned, reeling, kneeling on the crumbling floor of the Bazaar a few paces in front of the matron mother. The animated statues stopped moving and stood frozen in place.