by Tim Waggoner
But Nathifa knew it was a foolish dream. She’d made a bargain with Prince Moren to get the supplies to repair the Zephyr, and the bill would come due soon—long before she could ever hope to acquire enough power to challenge Vol. Nathifa wondered if perhaps this wasn’t how her Queen had planned it all along. Vol might well have sent the Ragestorm, and Prince Moren had answered her summons rather quickly. Perhaps he’d been waiting close by at Vol’s command.
No matter, Nathifa decided. The die was cast, and events would play themselves out as they would. Let Vol’s reign continue. As long as Nathifa finally had her vengeance on Kolbyr, she would be satisfied.
Though the bulk of her concentration was focused on controlling the Amahau, she was able to spare a fraction of her awareness to monitor the progress of the battle around her. Skarm writhed on the crypt floor, his barghest physiology doing its best to fight off the web spider’s venom. Nathifa knew he was fighting a losing battle, though. The venom was simply too strong. Nathifa was pleased that Haaken had killed the web spider, but she was surprised to see the wereshark now fought with another lycanthrope. The lich had been aware that a werewolf numbered among Bastiaan’s companions, and she couldn’t conceive of a priest—especially one devoted to the Silver Flame—associating with such a monster. There was obviously more to that story than met the eye.
Nathifa saw no sign of Makala, and she wondered if the vampire had betrayed her and fled. Most likely not, Nathifa decided. Makala had many annoying qualities, but cowardice wasn’t among them. Makala was probably lurking about somewhere, alert for an opportunity to turn the tide of battle in her favor.
She was pleased that the web mummies and her dark-eye were proving effective at keeping Bastiaan and his friends busy. If the priest and his companions could be held off for a few more moments, she’d be able to—
Pain blossomed in the empty socket where Nathifa’s left eye had been, and the lich cried out, more in anger than in hurt. She didn’t know how, since she was only subconsciously connected to the dark-eye, but she knew Bastiaan had somehow managed to destroy it. This knowledge was confirmed a split-second later when warm viscous fluid pattered down onto her head and shoulders.
Not now! I’m so close …
But Nathifa knew her time was up. Weakened as she was by the sacrifices of her arm and eye, she couldn’t hope to stand against Bastiaan, especially not without the aid of her servants. Whatever power she had managed to drain into the Amahau would have to serve.
The lich had no need to check if Bastiaan was attacking. She knew he was as surely as she’d ever known anything in her long, foul life. She commanded the Amahau to cease absorbing magic from the items in Paganus’s hoard, and she pushed the dragonwand back into the inky-black substance of her shroud. Her body burst apart into dozens of shadowy scraps that resembled ebon leaves, and they swirled about the crypt as if in the grip of turbulent winds. One scrap passed near the ceiling, close to the ear of a black bat, and Nathifa whispered, “Time to leave.” Another scrap blew by Haaken’s head, and it whispered the same thing to the wereshark. The shadow-leaves then tumbled end over end toward the rough-hewn entrance Paganus had created when he first discovered the crypt millennia ago. She was aware of Bastiaan holding forth his arrowhead symbol, the silver light blazing painfully as she passed. But her form was too diffuse and moving too swiftly for the burning illumination to do more than cause her momentary discomfort. And then Nathifa was through the entrance, a black cloud of shadow-leaves tumbling down the tunnel toward the dragon’s cavern lair, her voice a chorus of delighted laughter as she made her escape.
Asenka watched as the web mummies broke off their attack and began a slow, shuffling retreat to the far side of the crypt. The undead things seemed almost afraid of them now, and she couldn’t figure out why, until she turned and saw that the tomb spider had been killed—and in an extremely messy fashion. Without their parent to command the web mummies, the egg-hosts had a new purpose: to preserve the lives of the spiderlings growing inside them. They would no longer risk damaging themselves, for to do so would endanger the lives of the children they carried. A distorted reflection of parental instinct, she supposed, but one that proved an advantage for her and the others.
Her hand throbbed from where the spiderling had bitten her. But though sweat dripped down the sides of her face, and she felt light-headed and sick to her stomach, she forced herself not to worry. Even if she had taken a large enough dose of venom to prove deadly, all she had to do was hold out long enough for the battle to end, and then Diran could heal her. She was Commander of the Sea Scorpions, the elite warriors of Baron Perhata. She could deal with a little bit of poison in her veins. After all, the ale in Perhata was so awful, it practically qualified as poison in its own right, and she’d quaffed enough of the bitter stuff over the years to build up immunity to any toxic substance, right?
She was horrified to see Leontis—in werewolf form—battling the wereshark, and the scene was so nightmarish that for a moment she feared the spider venom was making her hallucinate. But then she saw Nathifa break apart into a flurry of shadows, and she decided it had to be real. Even in delirium, she wouldn’t have been able to dream up something that bizarre. As the shadows flew out of the crypt, a bat descended from the ceiling and headed for Leontis and the wereshark. The bat changed as it landed, and Makala reached out and grabbed hold of Leontis by the scruff of his neck and saw that the werewolf was bleeding from dozens of cuts made by the wereshark’s claws The werewolf spun around, intending to sink his claws into whoever had the temerity to interrupt his battle with a fellow lycanthrope. But before Leontis could land a blow on Makala, Haaken took advantage of his foe’s distraction to snatch the werewolf from the vampire’s grasp. Before Leontis could react, Haaken hurled him away, and the werewolf soared through the air—
—straight toward Asenka.
She tried to avoid being struck by the werewolf, but he was moving too fast. Leontis slammed into Asenka, and she saw bright white flash behind her eyes, followed by darkness.
Ghaji ran toward Asenka, hoping to shove her out of the way before Leontis could hit her, but he was too late. The werewolf struck her and they both went down hard.
Leontis was momentarily stunned by the impact, but Ghaji doubted he’d stay that way for long. Though the half-orc’s axe wasn’t made of silver and no longer produced flame, it was still razor-sharp, so Ghaji rushed forward. As Leontis struggled to rise—broken bones already setting themselves and beginning to knit—the half-orc swung his axe and cleaved the werewolf’s skull in two. Blood and bits of gray matter sprayed the air as Leontis let out a sharp whine and slumped to the ground. Ghaji knew that as devastating as the blow appeared, it would do no more than slow Leontis. A creature that could heal as swiftly as he had from the fireblast in the forest would have little trouble recovering from even a serious head wound, but at least they wouldn’t have to deal with the werewolf while he healed.
Ghaji wanted to go to Asenka’s side and tend to the injured woman, but he was too experienced a warrior to lose his focus in the midst of battle. He forced himself to ignore his wounded comrade as he swept his gaze around the crypt, searching for the next threat. The web mummies had retreated, the tomb spider was dead, the crimson spiderlings that had been released earlier had scattered, the barghest was half-wrapped in webbing, and Nathifa was nowhere to be seen. The lich had evidently escaped, and Makala and the wereshark were running for the crypt entrance, obviously intending to follow their mistress’s lead. Diran, Tresslar, and Solus were moving toward Makala and Haaken, but the two monsters ran with inhuman speed, and it was obvious the priest and the others wouldn’t reach them in time. Diran held a silver dagger, and he hurled it at the wereshark, but Makala—no doubt anticipating Diran’s move—knocked the blade out of the air before it could strike the lycanthrope. Solus’s psionic crystals glowed as the construct marshaled his mental abilities, but as the wereshark ran he grabbed an object from Paganus’s hoard, a golde
n shield, off the ground and flung it at the psiforged with all his might. The shield whirled through the air and struck Solus a ringing blow in the face. The psiforged staggered backward, his concentration broken.
Tresslar rummaged in his backpack for a mystic device he might be able to use to prevent Makala and the wereshark from fleeing, but he was too late. The two passed through the opening in the crypt wall and disappeared into the tunnel beyond.
“We must not let them escape!” Diran shouted as he ran toward the tunnel.
Ghaji called out to his friend. The half-orc was unable to keep a note of concern out of his voice, and that, more likely than anything else, is what caused Diran to stop and spin around. When the priest saw Asenka lying on the floor near Ghaji, her body bent and broken, he forgot about the lich and ran over to kneel at the woman’s side. Diran saw Leontis then, lying on the floor close by, his lupine skull rent in two by Ghaji’s axe. The priest seemed to hesitate a moment, as if unsure who needed his help more. But then he turned away from Leontis and focused the entirety of his attention on Asenka.
Ghaji knew that Diran’s order forbade raising the dead, and as much as his friend might love Asenka, if she died, the priest would not bring her back.
“Is she …?” Ghaji couldn’t finish his sentence.
Diran placed two fingers against the vein in Asenka’s neck. “Her heart still beats, but weakly.”
Ghaji let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. As long as there was a spark of life remaining in Asenka, then there was hope.
The others gathered around as Diran clasped Asenka’s hand, closed his eyes, and called upon the power of the Silver Flame to work its healing magic through him. Ghaji had seen Diran heal people who looked as if they’d been chewed up by a tarrasque and spit out, but he couldn’t help thinking how awful Asenka looked. Her skin was almost white, and blood ran from her mouth, nostrils, and ears. Her head lolled at an odd angle, indicating her neck was broken, and both her arms and her right leg had snapped when Leontis had collided with her. The leg was especially bad, with a jagged end of bone protruding from the flesh. And though Ghaji was no healer, he’d seen enough battlefield injuries in his time to know that there was a strong likelihood that Asenka had suffered internal damage as well. Ghaji had never known his friend to fail in an attempt to heal, but the half-orc feared that even the power of the Silver Flame might not be enough this time.
A moment passed without any sign that Diran’s efforts were having any effect. And then Asenka’s eyes flew open wide and she drew in a gasping breath of air. Diran opened his own eyes and gazed down upon her face with tender concern.
“Asenka?” he said gently. “Can you hear me?”
Blood bubbled past her lips as she struggled to speak. “Diran? I … I …”
And then a gout of dark blood sprayed from Asenka’s mouth as she screamed. Her body stiffened as if her skeleton were trying to tear free from the flesh that trapped it, and then she fell still. Her eyes remained open, but they were glassy and empty, and Ghaji knew she was dead.
Diran, still holding Asenka’s hand, gazed down upon his lover’s slack features and staring eyes without comprehension at first. And then he turned her hand over to reveal a purple-black welt the size of a bird’s egg.
Tears flowed down Diran’s face, and when he spoke his tone was detached and devoid of emotion.
“The tomb spider and its progeny are creatures of negative energy. Once injected into a victim, their venom causes healing magic to have the opposite effect. Instead of repairing injury and restoring health it …” He took in a shuddering breath before going on. “Asenka must have been bitten by a spiderling, and though the amount of venom injected into her body was slight, the rest of her injures were so severe that when my healing magic interacted with the venom …” He trailed off, but there was no need to complete the thought. It was clear enough. Asenka had been on the edge of death, and Diran’s attempt to heal her had, thanks to the poison of the tomb spider, killed her.
Asenka was gone.
Ghaji wanted to say something, anything, to comfort his friend, but no words came to him. All he could do was step forward and lay a hand on the priest’s shoulder. Diran didn’t seem to notice. He just continued staring at Asenka’s face.
No one spoke for several moments, and then a scuttling sound broke the silence. The companions turned to see that Skarm was using a single clawed hand to pull himself toward the crypt entrance. But the wounded barghest was too weak to do more than scratch his nails against the stone floor.
Diran’s tears stopped as if a switch had been thrown somewhere inside him. He gently lay Asenka’s hand down and rose to his feet. He walked over and briefly knelt by Leontis’ side, then after a quick examination, he stood once more.
“Leontis should make a full recovery,” Diran said, his voice more toneless than that of a warforged. “Even now his curse is working to repair his wounds.”
Ghaji had to repress a shudder upon seeing the cold, dispassionate look in his friend’s ice-blue eyes.
“The barghest knows where Nathifa and the others are bound next,” Diran said. “I’ll go talk to him and find out. Alone.”
The priest turned and started walking toward the web-covered creature. He paused at the spot where Nathifa had been standing to gather up the daggers that had fallen when Solus stopped levitating them. Most of the blades he slipped back into their cloak sheaths. But a couple—the sharpest ones—he held onto with tight, white-knuckled fists.
Diran reached the barghest, crouched down next to him, and began speaking softly. So softly that even Ghaji’s excellent hearing couldn’t make out what the priest said.
Ghaji turned toward the others. “Now that the web mummies are no longer aggressive, it should be simple enough for us to destroy them. All we need to do is make a few torches and set them on fire, keeping watch for any escaping spiderlings as their hosts burn.”
“I have little psionic energy remaining to me, but I believe I have enough left to start a fire,” Solus said. “Unfortunately, it takes more energy to maintain control of such an ability than it does to merely wield it. If I attempt to create a flame right now, I might very well create a conflagration that will fill the entire crypt.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tresslar said, glancing sideways at Diran and the barghest. “We can manage by making torches the old-fashioned way.”
“You can help by guarding Asenka’s”—Ghaji had been about to say body—“guarding Asenka. If any spiderlings get past us, you can levitate them away from her.”
The psiforged inclined his head somberly. “It will be my honor to take care of our friend.”
Ghaji was about to tell the others to begin looking for material to make torches when the barghest’s first scream tore through the air. It was far from the creature’s last.
The first rays of dawn were just beginning to tint the eastern sky when they laid Asenka to rest. The companions stood before a funeral pyre fashioned from rocks and tree limbs, watching as flames tinted with silverburn wreathed the woman’s body. Though they had burned out the infestation of spider spawn in the ancient underground crypt, Diran had insisted on cremating Asenka, just in case any more of the giant arachnids might be laired elsewhere in the vicinity. The followers of the Silver Flame usually buried their dead, but Ghaji knew Diran couldn’t bear the thought of Asenka becoming a web mummy, and the half-orc didn’t blame him.
As Diran prayed for the Silver Flame to accept Asenka’s soul, Ghaji kept close watch for any sign of threat. They’d already lost two members of their party on this expedition, and he was determined that no one else would die, not as long as the merest scrap of strength remained to him.
Ghaji doubted Nathifa, Makala, or Haaken would return. For one thing, daylight was swiftly approaching, which meant Makala would need to seek shelter from the sun. For another, Skarm had told Diran everything about Nathifa’s plans, and the companions now knew all that had transpired s
ince the lich had stolen Tresslar’s dragonwand at the psi-forge facility within Mount Luster. According to the barghest, his mistress and her servants were on their way to Regalport right now. Skarm had been vague on what Nathifa hoped to accomplish once she arrived at the port city. It seemed the undead sorceress had only shared so much information with her underlings. But Ghaji knew that whatever the lich had planned, it didn’t bode well for the citizens of Regalport.
Ghaji glanced at Diran. The priest stood with his head bowed, speaking prayers in hushed, reverent tones. Leontis, in human form once more, stood next to his old friend, intoning the same prayers along with him. After Ghaji had split the werewolf’s skull with his axe, the beast had remained unconscious for some time as it healed, and by the time its wounds had finally vanished, the wolf had become a man again.
Ghaji was worried about Diran. He had traveled with the priest for some time now, and they had seen each other at their best and their worst. Ghaji understood that his friend had lived the first half of his life as a killer for hire, and he’d witnessed the assassin within Diran come to the fore on a number of occasions. But the half-orc had never seen Diran do anything as cold-blooded as the methodical way he’d “questioned” Skarm. Diran had taken his time, patiently waited for the barghest’s screams to die away so that he could ask the next question. And if he didn’t like the answer he got—or if Skarm was too hesitant in answering—Diran used one of his blades and the screaming would start anew. When Diran had been satisfied the barghest had told them all it could, Diran had told the creature that he was going to heal it. What the priest didn’t tell Skarm was that since he had a strong dose of tomb spider venom inside him, the healing magic would have the opposite effect. At least the barghest had died quickly.
