Ascendency of the Last

by Lisa Smedman

  The kneeling priestess twitched; her paralysis was starting to wear off. Halisstra leaped off the throne and grabbed her minion, intending to tear her apart for her insolence—she hadn’t been given permission to move, Abyss take her—but a whisper of song distracted her. It was coming from the webs on the throne. Halisstra cocked her head, listening. The voice belonged to T’lar, the assassin who’d been the first to accept penitence and redemption.

  Lady Penitent, the webs sang. News from Sshamath.

  Halisstra dropped the priestess and climbed back onto her throne. Sing on, she ordered. It had better be good news, she thought. She wasn’t in the mood for more insolence.

  Streea’Valsharess Zauviir is dead. The temple is ours.

  Halisstra barked out a delighted laugh.

  There is something else you should know. There is a wizard in Sshamath who opposes us.

  “Hardly news,” Halisstra laughed. “All of Sshamath’s wizards are hostile.”

  This one will bear watching. His name is Q’arlynd Melarn.

  Halisstra’s breath caught. Her brother Q’arlynd, alive? “Impossible! He died in the collapse of Ched Nasad!”

  The webs fell silent for a moment. Halisstra frowned. “T’lar? Are you still there?”

  I do not believe the one who calls himself Q’arlynd Melarn to be an imposter, Lady Penitent, T’lar sang back. He told the Conclave he had a sister who was a bae’qeshel bard—a sister who died. He said her name was Halisstra Melarn.

  “Halisstra!” Halisstra howled. She broke into shrill laughter. “She’s Halisstra no more. She’s—” Suddenly realizing what she was saying, she snapped her mouth shut. Her spider legs drummed against her chest; She forced them still with an effort. “Describe this wizard,” she ordered.

  T’lar did.

  The description fit. It was Q’arlynd. Halisstra shook her head, wondering how he’d managed to escape the golem. Not to mention getting crushed by the stones of a falling city.

  There is one thing more, Lady Penitent. Q’arlynd Melarn has taken Eilistraee as his patron.

  Halisstra’s eyebrows rose. “He has? How dare he!”

  He refuses to repent.

  Halisstra’s lips curled in a sneer.

  Lady? T’lar’s voice asked. What is your will?

  Halisstra clenched her fists; her claws dug into flesh. “If he is Eilistraee’s,” she said slowly, “he must die. Kill him.”

  It will be my pleasure.

  And his pain, Halisstra thought grimly. She laughed at her own joke.

  The webs in her throne vibrated, shaking off the last drops of the dead priestess’s blood.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cavatina startled at Qilué’s message. “A new high priestess?”

  Leliana’s head lifted sharply. She’d been in Reverie, her sword across her knees and her head bowed. “What’s happened? Has Eilistraee spoken to you?”

  “Not Eilistraee—Qilué.” Cavatina repeated the sending she’d just received.

  “Was it Qilué?” Leliana looked nervously around. “Or another of the demon’s tricks?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Cavatina rubbed her forehead. Was it just her, or had the world grown heavier, of late? “I’m not certain about anything anymore.”

  Leliana said nothing.

  Cavatina realized the other priestess had been looking for strength, for leadership—for the Slayer of Selvetarm to come up with a way out of here. Cavatina wished she could help. Yet there seemed little she could do. She squinted against the green glow that filled the chamber. The magical barrier resembled an overbright Faerzress; she supposed it might very well be. It was difficult to see through it, to the cavern’s stone walls. If Cavatina had been a wizard or a druid, she might have bored a hole through that stone with magic, or transmuted the stone to mud. Then she and Leliana could have dug their way out with their bare hands, just like a—

  Cavatina gasped. That was it! They couldn’t dig through solid stone, but there were creatures that could. She thought back to those Kâras had listed when they’d planned their assault on the Acropolis. A purple worm would be too dangerous—it might swallow Leliana and Cavatina whole. An umber hulk was too volatile to control. Rather than dig, it would do its best to claw them to pieces. Delvers, however, were generally docile creatures. And—she smiled as her eye fell on the gilded pedestal—they were drawn to metal. Especially gold.

  None were creatures that prayers would ordinarily summon, but with Eilistraee’s blessing—with a miracle—it might be possible. Cavatina squared her shoulders. There was only one way to find out if it were possible.

  She outlined her plan to Leliana. The other priestess nodded. “Do you really think it will work?”

  “Eilistraee grant that it does.”

  They dragged the pedestal across the chamber and leaned it against the fused door. At Cavatina’s nod, each lifted her holy symbol and walked in a slowly widening spiral, singing her prayer. Cavatina reached out with her mind to the celestial realm. Her mind’s eye ranged over a host of creatures—lesser animals, elevated to celestial status, their bodies glinting with the metallic sheen that was the aura of all that was pure and good. None of them were the creature she sought.

  “Eilistraee,” she sang. Her voice harmonized with Leliana’s, their music in time with their shared footsteps. “Hear our prayer. Send us a willing servant, in our time of great need. Send us the creature we seek.”

  A sharp, acidic odor filled the room. The priestesses leaped back, their nostrils flaring, as a creature materialized in a burst of silver gold light. A delver!

  Its fat, pear-shaped body nearly filled the chamber. Yellowish spittle drooled from its gaping mouth. Its two clublike arms were tipped with blunt black claws. Its head twisted back and forth as its single, glossy black eye swept the room. Then it surged at the pedestal, heaving itself up on its arms, the rest of its body following on a rippling underbelly. As it moved, it left an acid-singed patch of dead black moss in its wake.

  A thick stench filled the air. Cavatina’s eyes teared, and her nose felt congested. On the far side of the room, Leliana wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Her expression, however, was exultant. The delver was doing its work. The gold-plated pedestal disappeared into its maw with a grinding noise, as did a chunk of the door. One bite at a time, the delver chewed at the stone. Rock dust filled the air, and the floor trembled. A head-sized hole appeared in the door, revealing the corridor beyond. As the delver gouged deeper, the hole widened. Chunks of brittle rock fell to the floor like scattered crumbs, hissing and bubbling from caustic spittle.

  Suddenly the delver disappeared. The prayer that had sustained it had waned. Eilistraee’s magic could hold a celestial on this plane only for so long.

  Cavatina strode forward. They’d done it! She crouched, ready to squeeze through the hole as soon as the rock stopped frothing. She heard a muffled peal: the alarms. She turned to Leliana. “Ghaunadaur’s fanatics must be inside the Promenade already.”

  Leliana listened. “Sounds like they’ve come well past the spot where Qilué planted her trap.” She shook her head. “So much for them walking into it ‘meekly as rothé.’”

  Cavatina squeezed through the hole. Leliana followed. Together, they raced through the High House.

  As they hurried down a corridor, Cavatina noticed the door to Qilué’s scrying room was open. She glanced inside and saw Meryl, standing beside a broken scrying font. The halfling was reaching for an object that lay on the wet floor: a metal cylinder as long as the halfling’s arm, with a knob at either end. Qilué’s blast scepter.

  Was it Meryl—or a dretch?

  Cavatina leaped into the room. Her sword flashed between Meryl’s fingers and the floor, preventing the halfling—or dretch—from picking up the scepter. Meryl jumped back, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. Her mouth worked to form words, but none came out. She pointed at the scepter. “I couldn’t … the font … the demon …”

  Cavatina glanced at w
here Meryl was looking. Bare, sickly-pale feet protruded from behind an overturned table: a dretch, lying prone and unmoving. A vial, its silver tarnished, lay on the floor nearby.

  “My mother’s name,” Cavatina demanded, her sword point against the halfling’s chest. “What is it?”

  Puzzlement crowded out Meryl’s fear. “Why … it’s Jetel. Jetel Xarann.”

  Cavatina lifted her sword. This was Meryl. She walked around the overturned table and ensured the dretch was dead.

  Leliana, who had run past, returned to the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

  Cavatina waved her away. “It’s under control. Go. Find Rylla. She’ll need your help.”

  Leliana nodded curtly and raced away.

  Cavatina knelt beside the halfling. She noted the tears spilling down Meryl’s cheeks, and the bloody scratches on the little female’s arms and hands. Cavatina patted her shoulder. “Good work, Meryl. You fought well.”

  The halfling sniffed. She picked up the blast scepter and held it out to Cavatina. “I couldn’t figure out how to work it. I had to use it like a club.” Her lips trembled. “That thing … scared me so. I wasn’t brave. Not like you.”

  “Yes you were. There aren’t many who can stand up to a demon’s magical fear.” Cavatina gently took the blast scepter from Meryl. “Stay here. Lock the door. Don’t answer unless you’re sure it’s a priestess.”

  “But how will I—?”

  “Get whoever knocks to sing a stanza of the Evensong.”

  Meryl drew herself up and wiped away her tears. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Go. You’re needed elsewhere.”

  Cavatina saluted the halfling with her sword, and hurried away down the corridors, to the residence’s main entrance. As she drew closer to the open double doors, she heard shouting over the ring of the alarms. From the distance came a dull whumph that sounded like an explosion.

  She sang a protective hymn and stepped outside. Just ahead, a priestess herded a gaggle of lay worshipers away from the direction the explosion had come from. A half-elf and a drow staggered after them, carrying a body on a drift disc that no longer worked. Cavatina couldn’t tell if the victim was male or female, as much of the body had dissolved. A Protector charged by in the opposite direction, singing sword pealing.

  She heard what sounded like a battle raging to the south, in the direction of the Stronghall. She hurried to the corridor that linked the cavern with that one. As she drew closer, she saw a figure running down the corridor. The floor behind him was covered in glittering sparks. These surged forward like a moving ankle-high carpet, contained within a gelatinous mass.

  An ooze—within the Promenade! How had it penetrated so deep into the temple? The Protectors should have thrown up a songwall to contain it.

  The running figure wore a purple robe with a leering black eye on the front of his tabard—Ghaunadaur’s symbol. His anxious expression and frightened glances over one shoulder suggested he wasn’t in control of the ooze. As it threatened to overtake him, he halted and raised his tentacle rod. He whipped it forward, lashing at the ooze with its tentacles. In that same instant, the monster bulged and squirted out a line of ember-like motes. Tentacles met glitterfire in a thundering explosion. Waves of heat and cold exploded out of the corridor.

  Qilué’s scepter grew warm as it absorbed the heat. But it proved no protection against the cold. Cavatina drew in a lungful of icy air, and shivered. She marveled at what she’d just seen: Ghaunadaur’s faithful, fighting each other?

  Before the fanatic could turn, she sang a hymn that rendered him rigid. He toppled. She ran to where he lay, intending to drag him out of harm’s way and question him at sword point. The glittering ooze was faster however. It was about to engulf her fallen foe.

  She raised the scepter. “Eilistraee!” she cried. “Smite this abomination with your song!”

  A peal sounded from the scepter—louder, even, than the clanging alarms. Sound waves shimmered through the air, expanding into a cone that slammed into the ooze. The glittering monster was blown back like a yanked carpet folding upon itself. The ooze surged forward again, but Cavatina blasted it a second time, and a third. As the third soundburst struck, the ooze exploded, splattering golden sparks onto the wall. These glowed for a moment, then faded. A few smears of mucous-like goo, dotted with black soot, were all that remained of the ooze.

  The fanatic groaned. His robe smoldered in spots, and was damp with melted frost in other places. As he flopped over, Cavatina recognized him. Kâras, in disguise! He must have been among the spies Qilué sent out.

  She dispelled her hymn and extended a hand. “What’s going on, Kâras?”

  The Nightshadow rose shakily to his feet. “I just came from Llurth Dreir,” he shouted back over the clangor of alarms. “Qilué’s orders: I brought Ghaunadaur’s fanatics through a portal. I was to lead them into a trap, but oozes followed us.”

  He yanked a black ring off his thumb and flung it aside, then kicked the rod after it. The rod rolled away, its limp tentacles flopping. He spoke a word, and his robe and tabard transformed into a close-fitting black shirt and trousers; his sash shimmered and became a mask. Tying it into place around his face seemed to calm him. All traces of the frustration he’d shown a moment ago disappeared.

  Cavatina shook her head in exasperation. “Couldn’t you tell something was wrong with Qilué?” She had to shout to be heard over the clanging alarms. “With this ‘plan’ of hers? It didn’t occur to you to question the logic of leading our enemies into the heart of the Promenade?”

  Kâras met her eyes. “She’s the high priestess. Through her, the Masked Lady commands—and I obey.”

  “Did the fanatics enter the trap?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see what happened. The ooze chased me this way.” He eased back a step, expecting a reprimand. Yet this wasn’t his fault. He’d only done as Qilué had ordered.

  Four priestesses ran past, toward the fighting. As soon as they spotted Cavatina, their fearful expressions vanished. They shouted that fanatics, backed up by oozes, had invaded the Stronghall. Cavatina waved them on, saying she’d lend her sword to the battle in just a moment. Kâras turned to follow the priestesses, but Cavatina caught his arm.

  “Kâras,” she said urgently, “Qilué was tricked. Her ‘trap’ is actually a portal—one that renders you ethereal. It leads to the bottom of the Pit. To a planar breach. That breach was intermittent when I saw it, but if the fanatics reach it, and open it fully, Ghaunadaur’s avatar will be able to pass through.”

  Kâras’s voice came out as a croak. “I don’t understand. Why would the Masked Lor—Masked Lady permit—”

  “I don’t have time to explain. What’s important is that we prevent the fanatics from getting to that portal. We’ll make for the ruined temple by different routes: I’ll go south, through the Stronghall, and you circle around through the Cavern of Song. Eilistraee willing, at least one of us will reach the portal in time.”

  Kâras stood, unmoving. His mask wavered slightly; he must have been praying.

  “Let’s move!”

  He swallowed, then bobbed his head in a nod.

  She watched long enough to make sure he was headed in the right direction, then sprinted down the corridor to the Stronghall. As she reached it, she saw a battle that could use her assistance. A priestess and three lay worshipers were fighting a jellylike mass of roiling shadow. Cavatina blasted it with the scepter as she ran by. Her attack drove it back, giving Eilistraee’s faithful the moment’s reprieve they needed to regroup. As she ran on, she heard them cheer her name behind her.

  Everywhere she looked, the faithful desperately fought tentacle-wielding fanatics and a host of Ghaunadaur’s minions. Cavatina spotted an ooze that looked like an enormous puddle of blood, glowing with searing heat; another like congealed fog, chill as a wind from the grave. A third resembled a roiling cloud of snowflakes. Yet another flickered with a purple light that twisted into glowing symbo
ls, deep within itself. The latter ooze spat out a snake from one puckered orifice, a centipede from another. Both animals glowed with a fiendish light that marked them as creatures summoned from the Abyss. Cavatina slashed at centipede and snake, killing both, and blasted the ooze itself with the scepter. The half-dozen lay worshipers who’d been retreating from the monster cried a prayer of thanksgiving.

  She had run almost the length of the Stronghall; the corridor leading to the ruined temple was just a short distance ahead. She pounded around the corner of a building, only to find the street blocked by a bone white ooze that had overwhelmed a Protector. The priestess lay, screaming, as the mass flowed onto the lower half of her body.

  Cavatina’s eyes widened. It was Tash’kla—the Protector who had fought so valiantly beside her during the expedition to the Acropolis.

  She raised the scepter, but realized that its sound blast didn’t discriminate between friend and foe. She sang a moonbeam into existence instead, and hurled it at the creature. The ooze shuddered as twined moonlight and shadow bored through it, carving a wound that bled sour-smelling clay. The ooze pulled back from the fallen Protector.

  It took Tash’kla’s bones with it, reducing her legs to empty, bloody sacks of muscle and skin. Cavatina watched, horrified, as the ooze splintered the bones and squeezed the marrow out.

  Furious, she attacked the ooze with the scepter. It took more than one blast to kill the thing. When the ooze at last exploded from the sonic attack, a bone splinter whizzed past Cavatina’s ear. She didn’t flinch. She moved to Tash’kla, kneeled, and touched her throat.

  No blood-pulse. Tash’kla was dead.

  Fortunately, the ooze hadn’t consumed her utterly. Enough remained that Tash’kla might be resurrected—assuming anyone from the Promenade survived to revive her. In this cavern alone, there were so many oozes that Cavatina was starting to have doubts about how the battle would go.

  She wiped a splatter of ooze from her forehead with a shaking hand. Was this how it had been for Qilué, when she and her companions battled Ghaunadaur’s avatar? Cavatina’s sword was slippery with foul-smelling slime, and its song was a dirge. She tightened her grip on the weapon, grimly wondering where the high priestess was. Trapped within her own body by the demon—forced to watch as her cherished temple fell?