“I invite you to join me in looking upon the enemy,” he told the other wizards. “Observe.”
With a flick of his fingers, he nudged the crystal ball with an unseen hand, causing the eye to turn to face the south wall. The bird in the cage below fell silent and still, wings folded and talons gripping its perch. Concentrating, Gromph peered through the eagle’s eye.
The walls of Sorcere seemed to melt away, and in an instant he was looking at Arach-Tinilith. His penetrating gaze swept past its spider-shaped bulk and on through the walls of the cavern, through stone and tunnel and stone . . . until at last it came to rest in a cavern in which four individuals stood. One was a drow male, dressed in immaculate gray clothing. The fellow next to him was a cambion known, at least by reputation, to them all. The other two were both duergar, squat and gray—one with a scar that ran the length of his cheek, the other cradling a stone scepter.
Leaving the eye focused on that scene, Gromph pulled his awareness back into this own body. Inside the crystal ball, the figures gestured and talked—in angry tones, judging by the way the duergar tapped the scepter against one palm as the half-demon loomed over him, his pointed, sharklike teeth exposed in a snarl. The drow, meanwhile, kept turning back and forth between the half-demon and the two drow, speaking rapidly and with placating gestures.
The other wizards stared into the scrying device, their expressions thoughtful.
“These are the leaders of the army that has besieged us?” Julani asked.
He had rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, and his steepled fingers were laced with angry sparks.
“I recognize Crown Prince Horgar of Gracklstugh and his bodyguard, and is that Kaanyr Vhok?” Grendan asked.
“The same,” Noori said. “The tanarukks that harry our southern approaches are his Scoured Legion.”
“That leaves but one,” Gromph said.
“The one in the middle—the drow,” Prath said, clenching his fists. “That’s Zhayemd—the bastard from House Agrach Dyrr who betrayed us at the Pillars of Woe.”
“His real name is Nimor,” Gromph said. “Nimor Imphraezl.”
“Is he a wizard?” Julani asked.
“I don’t think so,” Gromph answered. “Though there is a strong aura of magic about him; I think he’s more than he appears to be. And he certainly has enough magical devices. I can detect an aura of magic on his weapons, several items of his clothing, his rings . . .”
He paused for a moment, contemplating the two rings the man wore. One Gromph recognized as a protective device, but the other—the slim black ring that seemed no more substantial than a band of shadow—was quite unusual. Gromph had never seen anything quite like it.
Suddenly Gromph realized what it must be. Ever since Triel had told him that Nimor had somehow spirited an assassin into the inner most corridors of House Baenre’s great mound, Gromph had been puzzling over how that might have been accomplished.
That black ring on Nimor’s finger must be a magical device that conveyed the ability to shadow walk. That would make him a difficult character to corner, indeed. It was a good thing the wizards were striking from a distance, unseen—otherwise Nimor might have just shadow walked away.
Shaking his head, Gromph continued, “Our matron mother has learned that Nimor belongs to an organization known as the Jaezred Chaulssin. Unfortunately we know little about this group, save for its name.”
Zoran toyed idly with his wand of wonder, spinning it between his fingers.
“So we know his name. So what?” he asked insolently.
Gromph resisted the urge to fry the boy where he sat.
“A name is power,” he said, speaking to the others. “It helps us to define our target. A target that seems to be the lynchpin holding two otherwise unfriendly armies together.” He gestured at the figures in the crystal ball. They had not yet come to blows but were still arguing. “Remove the lynchpin—and the alliance will come apart. The duergar and tanarukk will fall upon one another, and victory for Menzoberranzan will be assured.”
Julani glanced at Gromph and asked, “What do you suggest?”
“A concerted attack,” the archmage answered. “All of us, casting our deadliest spells at once. Nimor will undoubtedly resist them, but some, certainly, will get through.”
Prath rose from his chair, unlacing the lid of a wand case at his belt.
“Are we going to teleport to the cavern?” he asked.
Gromph patted the air, motioning the impetuous young mage back to his seat.
“We don’t need to teleport anywhere,” he said. “We can cast our spells from here.”
Grendan raised a perfect eyebrow and asked, “How?”
“Through this,” Gromph said, pointing at the crystal ball. “Since its creation, I’ve imbued it with a few . . . extras, the knowledge of which you must swear to keep secret.”
“Ah,” Julani said. “So that’s why you summoned only House Baenre mages.” He placed the tips of curled fingers to his chest, over his heart. “May Lolth’s poison consume me, should I divulge whatever I am about to hear.”
Gromph stared at each of the mages in turn, and one by one they nodded their agreement and spoke oaths of silence.
“This is not just a scrying device,” Gromph told the others. “Once primed, it can be used to cast spells at a particular target—in this case, at Nimor. It will work not only for spells that can carry as far as the eye can see but also for those that are limited by distance. Now then, which spells are your most potent?”
One by one, the other mages described which spells they would cast. Gromph rejected some suggestions and approved others. When it was Noori’s turn, she spread her hands.
“I don’t know if my spells will be any use,” she said humbly. “They tend to be divinations.”
Gromph smiled and said, “On the contrary, Noori, you will contribute the most useful spell of all. In order to use the crystal ball, we must first cast a spell that will pinpoint the individual we wish to attack. Which is where you come in. Please cast a location spell on the drow.”
With a slight bow that didn’t quite hide her smile, Noori rose to her feet. She pulled a scrap of fur from her pocket and used it to polish the crystal ball. As she did, Nimor loomed larger inside the crystal ball, his face and chest filling it.
At a nod from Gromph, Noori resumed her seat. As she did, Gromph thought he saw Nimor follow her with his eyes. Had the drow sensed that someone was scrying him and glanced around in an effort to locate the source? Little matter; soon enough he’d be ducking spells.
Gromph pulled a pinch of sand out of a pocket of his piwafwi and flicked it into the air in front of him, chanting the words of a minor creation spell. A tiny hourglass appeared on top of the eagle’s cage, and the sand inside its uppermost globe began trickling away.
“Cast your spells when the last grain of sand falls,” he told the others. “Make sure your conjurations all end at precisely the same instant.”
After taking care to make sure his protective devices were still on his person and tucking Kyorli safely into his sleeve, Gromph began his own spell.
He chose a necromantic spell, one of the most powerful in his arsenal. Slowly, one eye on the hourglass, he rasped out words whose raw power scratched the inside of his throat, making it bleed. Dimly, he was aware of the magical conjurations of the other wizards.
Julani held both hands in front of him, the first two fingers forked in the gesture that would summon a powerful lightning bolt, and Grendan was kneading the air with his fingers, creating a hypnotic weave of shifting color. Prath had chosen an evocation that would summon a magic missile—a feeble spell, but probably the best the first-year student could manage. Zoran, meanwhile, slumped lazily in his chair, a grin tweaking the corner of his lips. Gromph longed to give the insolent boy a magical thrashing—but dared not interrupt his own spell. The hourglass was nearly empty.
As the last of the sand trickled out, Gromph spoke the final word of hi
s spell—and heard the others do the same. His pointing forefinger turned momentarily skeletal as a thin ray of bone-white erupted from its tip and lanced into the crystal ball, streaking toward Nimor’s chest. In that same moment, lightning erupted from Julani’s fingers, filling the air with the boom of thunder and the stench of ozone. Grendan’s hypnotic pattern rushed toward its target. Zoran had said he was going to cast a spell that would send Nimor into fits of laughter, incapacitating him, but instead he drew and fired his wand of wonder. A useless stream of gems erupted from its tip. Meanwhile the three magic missiles Prath had conjured up glanced harmlessly off some magical defense that surrounded Nimor, just as Gromph had expected.
No, they ricocheted—straight back at the boy. Which was impossible.
Gromph tried to shout a warning, but all he managed was, “Ward yourselves! The spells—”
Then his own death spell came hurtling back at him. The bone-white ray, chill as the grave, struck him in the chest, the precise spot he’d aimed for on Nimor. His enchanted piwafwi soaked up the spell, its hood, cuffs, and hem instantly crumbling away like ancient, rotted cloth. Even so, the spell rocked him to the side as if he’d been kicked in the head by a rothé. He tumbled out of his chair, winding up in an undignified heap on the floor.
As he fell he heard Prath grunt as his three magic missiles struck, punching deep, bloody holes into the boy’s chest. In the same instant, twin lightning bolts struck Julani, passing through his body in less than a heartbeat to explode out of his hands, feet and the top of his head, killing him instantly. Grendan, meanwhile, went slack-jawed as the hypnotic pattern he’d conjured appeared in the air in front of his face. Beside him, Zoran flung up his hands as the stream of gems from his wand rushed back at him, thudding into his chest. One caught him in the head, knocking what little sense he had out of it, and he fell out of his chair, unconscious.
Lifting his head, Gromph was just in time to see the crystal ball turn a solid white. It fell with a crash to the floor, knocking the eagle’s cage over and cracking in two. Inside the cage, the eagle screeed in anguish as its missing eyeball—split in two and weeping blood—returned to its socket.
Gromph looked at the destruction his plan had wrought and was furious with himself. His experiment had turned out most disastrously for House Baenre. Julani was dead, and Prath—judging by the sound of his labored, gurgling breathing—would soon die without magical intervention. Grendan would be a drooling idiot for some time to come, and Zoran . . . well, being knocked unconscious was precisely what he deserved for using so whimsical a weapon in such dire circumstances. Noori was unscathed but had only divination magic at her disposal. Besides, she was too busy fussing over her lover to be of any use, even were her spells more powerful.
Gromph had half expected Nimor to have magic that would protect him from spells, but only a handful of the spells should have been turned—not all of them. And certainly not those spells, like the hypnotic pattern, which targeted the air next to Nimor, and not the drow himself. Whatever device or spell protected Nimor must have been the result of a unique enchantment—one beyond the capabilities of most mortal wizards.
Gromph knew of only one spellcaster capable of such powerful magic: the lichdrow Dyrr.
Easing himself off the floor, Gromph was relieved to see Kyorli, unhurt, scurry out of his sleeve. As Gromph rose to a sitting position, a sharp object dug into his hip. He assumed it was one of Zoran’s useless gems but then realized it was something in the hip pocket of his piwafwi. He reached into the pocket—and to his surprise found a prism of quartz. Tiny yellow sparks as bright as miniature suns danced inside it, evidence of the light-producing magic that was trapped in its depths.
How had it gotten into his pocket?
He stared at it absently, half-listening to the gurgling, bloody breathing of Prath. All the while, he was thinking furiously. He alone must deal with Nimor—but how? Any spell that targeted the strange drow would only bounce back at its caster—even a spell that affected an area, rather than Nimor himself, couldn’t take him down. Yet Nimor must have a weak spot. One that seemed, on the surface, to be his chief strength . . .
Shadow walking.
Glancing at the prism, Gromph began to smile. Carefully, he tucked it back in his pocket. The insignificant little magical device—a trivial construct of the Surface Realms that was designed to serve no more noble purpose than to illuminate darkened corridors—would rid them all of Nimor Imphraezl.
Without having to cast any spells on him.
chapter
twenty five
A chorus of nearly fifty voices filled the air as Eilistraee’s priestesses, seated in a circle around a waist-high, rust-red boulder, gave worship to their goddess through evensong. Halisstra sat among them on one side of the crater that had been formed when a boulder fell from the heavens, centuries gone by. The crater was bowl-shaped and dozens of paces wide, its sides smoothed by a dusting of snow.
The evensong was one of thanksgiving for the forest that sustained them; for the sun that even then was setting behind the trees, filling the sky with rosy pink light; for the moon that would illuminate the darkness, reminding the drow that even at night the goddess still watched her children; and for the ground beneath their feet, which gave up its iron needed to forge the Dark Ladies’ swords.
“Up from the earth, and into the flame,” Halisstra sang, together with the other priestesses, “I temper my heart, in Eilistraee’s name.”
Though the evensong was a joyful one, it had an undercurrent of rage that night. Upon hearing of the death of a member of their faith at the hands of a yochlol, priestesses from all over the forest had gathered to pay tribute to the woman who had fallen. More priestesses were still emerging from the forest to join in the circle. Clad in chain mail and bearing shields they sank down beside the others, sat cross-legged with drawn swords placed across their knees, and joined in the song.
When it was done, Uluyara rose and walked down the slope to the boulder. Placing her left hand on it, she raised the sword she held in her right hand to the heavens, invoking the goddess.
“Eilistraee, hear me,” she cried. “Breena’s death shall be avenged. We shall hunt down the servants of the Spider Queen and put them to the sword! Dark Maiden, give us strength.”
As one, the seated priestesses raised their own swords and shouted, “By song and sword!”
Belatedly, Halisstra joined them, thrusting her own sword at the heavens. She glanced, nervously, at the priestesses on either side of her, worried that they might think her tardiness showed a lack of faith—or that they might cast a critical eye on the blade’s missing tip. But they were caught up in the moment, sighting along their own blades at the sky above.
“Whether they try to run on the surface or hide in Lolth’s dark depths, we shall hunt them down,” Uluyara continued, the fire in her red eyes matching that of the setting sun. “We will have our vengeance upon them and will dance in delight as they fall. Lady of the Dance, give us strength!”
Halisstra was ready.
“By song and sword!” she shouted, thrusting her songsword into the air at the same time the others did.
“We will tear through their web of lies and deceit and destroy all who prevent the dark children from claiming their rightful place in the light,” Uluyara continued. “Lady Silverhair, give us strength!”
“By song and sword!” the priestesses replied.
Then, all at once, they stood, and Halisstra scrambled to join them.
“Lolth will be defeated!” Uluyara cried. The blade of her sword was glowing with a cold, white light. “Eilistraee, give us strength!”
“By song and sword!” the priestesses shouted, raising their swords a fourth and final time. Then, reversing their weapons, they drove them point-first into the ground and shouted, “Lolth must die!”
Halisstra had shouted the first response together with the other priestesses but was taken by surprise when they thrust their swords down, in
stead of up. A heartbeat behind the others, she thrust Seyll’s songsword into the ground, forcing its blunted tip into the earth.
“Lolth must die!” she shouted—suddenly realizing that her voice was all alone in the abrupt silence.
She glanced up and found that all of them were staring at her—especially Uluyara. The high priestess had driven the point of her own sword not into the earth but into the boulder beside her. For a moment, the boulder reminded Halisstra of a slain spider, the red streaks of rust emulating blood. As Uluyara tossed back her hair, the silver radiance cast by the blade of her sword caught it, making it sparkle like moonlight. She beckoned Halisstra forward.
Deciding after a moment’s hesitation to leave the songsword in the ground where she’d thrust it, Halisstra approached the high priestess. Uluyara reached out for her hand, and when Halisstra gave it to her, she placed it on the hilt of the sword in the stone.
“This one holds a special place in Eilistraee’s heart, though she has but recently renounced the Queen of Spiders,” Uluyara told the others. “May the Lady of the Dance bless her and guide her sword well. Eilistraee give her strength.”
Halisstra, her palm damp with nervous sweat, spoke the ritual response: “By song and sword.”
As she said it, the sword she was holding quivered slightly. Then, seemingly of its own accord, it slid deeper into the stone. Halisstra, still holding its hilt, followed it down, pushing it into the boulder until its hilt struck the stone with a dull clank.
“By song and sword!” the other priestesses cried.
Then, as one, they broke into song, whirling their swords above their heads. A moment later, they were dancing in a circle around the stone.
Halisstra, still gripping the sword tightly, felt Uluyara place a hand on hers.
“Come,” the high priestess said. “Join the dance. When it is done, there is something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Halisstra nodded and allowed herself to be led into the swirl of dancers. On the way she plucked the songsword from the ground and waved it over her head. As she moved gracefully among the other priestesses, sword flashing, she could feel Eilistraee looking down from the heavens. Not just at the dance, but at her, personally. Filled with wonder, Halisstra realized the goddess had something in mind for her, something momentous. Would she be able to rise to the challenge? She who, like the yochlol, had so treacherously betrayed and slain one of Eilistraee’s priestesses?
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 23
