Raidon visualized his body, and that immaterial part of himself that recognized itself as his working mind. He visualized his thoughts as lines of energy. Normally serene arcs, his thoughts were a thicket, more tangled and disordered than he could have imagined. He nearly gave up then, but habit took over. He imagined the lines smoothing, the knots loosening, and the wells of inner strength opening.
He focused on his diaphragm, then expelled the air in his lungs with an explosive “Kihop!”
The mucus coating him shattered, and the energy of his own body flowed up his spine and into his limbs. It was a feeling he’d failed to embrace for far too long.
His focus was back, at least partially. Some parts of his mind were in too much disarray for Raidon to fully regain what he’d trained so hard to master. But what focus he had was enough. It allowed him to access that which tattooed his chest.
The Cerulean Sign blazed anew with a color akin to that of Angul. In its light, the aboleths around him shrunk back. For them, life would soon be over.
However, the light served as a beacon. Every occupied cavity in the throne chamber’s walls suddenly disgorged its owner.
Well over a hundred aboleths slithered toward the floor and the lone Keeper that fought, if not for his life, then at least for the moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)
Xxiphu, Throne Chamber
Anusha led the pack. Japheth was right behind her, and Yeva and Seren brought up the rear. She should have been fearless in her fleshless invisibility. But she couldn’t forget where the corridor she traveled led.
Even as they’d swarmed up the tunnel, another mighty psychic tug had nearly pulled her, and Yeva along with her, into the mind where the root of her spirit lodged. Japheth had saved her and Yeva yet again. However, he’d wiped his brow afterward, and a worried look flashed across his face. He’d almost failed to hold them. The next time the Eldest tugged, she would probably be gone.
Anusha tried not to think about it.
Then they emerged into Xxiphu’s throne chamber. All her fears were shown as hollow caricatures.
A fierce conflict raged across the shifting floor. A swarm of aboleths thrashed and fought to collapse upon a figure who shone like a cerulean star. Sky blue light blazed from the man’s sword, his chest, and even his eyes and fingertips. Everywhere the light struck, aboleths skirled in pain.
But he was one against an army. And even as he fought the creatures to a standstill, the larger elder aboleths whirling around in their ritual overhead continued their unearthly chant.
And the vast, many-eyed bulk that stared down from above seemed to gaze into her soul.
Anusha couldn’t tear away from the Eldest’s awful visage to gauge her companions’ reactions, though she heard someone gasp and Japheth voice a hoarse curse.
Japheth said her name. She blinked and broke contact with the dead eyes overhead.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“What is the half-elf trying to accomplish?” asked Yeva.
“To kill the Eldest,” said Seren.
The woman laughed. She said, “He’d better stop wasting his time with all the little ones, then, and start climbing.”
Japheth said, “Anusha, you and Yeva—help Raidon. You too, Thoster and Seren!”
“I am not getting close to that thing!” said Yeva.
“Help him with the swarm,” said the warlock, exasperation obvious in his manner.
“There are too many to fight,” Seren said, one hand to her throat.
“Perhaps, but see?” Japheth gestured at the scene. “The monk draws their attention with his symbol. The cerulean light maddens them. So, drive into their rear and cull them while they remain focused on him. Between the four of you and Raidon, you actually have a chance. Few things can stop Anusha or even see her, and the same is likely true for Yeva. And I’ve witnessed how potent your spells are, Seren, and how deadly you are with your blade, Captain.”
“And what will you be doing, warlock?” said Captain Thoster.
“I have a ritual of my own to perform. It will take some time, so I need to start immediately.”
Japheth fixed Anusha with dark eyes. “I will see you free of this, I promise. But in the meantime …” He waved a hand toward the fight.
Anusha nodded, not trusting herself to reply.
Japheth flashed a smile, then stepped into his cloak. A moment later, he was gone. Anusha looked around, but didn’t see him reappear. She wondered where the warlock had gone to perform his ritual. Hopefully to an out-of-the-way nook.
She turned to Yeva. “Should we take our revenge?”
Yeva said, “Better to die fighting than hiding.”
“Yes.”
“Wait!” said Seren. The wizard traced symbols in the air with her wand. Where it passed, fading magical traces followed. Arcane syllables tumbled from her lips. Her eyes took on a dull citrine glow.
“All right, that worked!” said Seren, gesturing with her wand at Anusha and Yeva. “I can finally see both of you, which means I won’t accidentally catch one of you in a spell.”
“I still can’t,” said Thoster.
Seren ignored the captain.
Anusha concentrated on her armor, imagining it even more impenetrable. She raised her sword, and imagined it so sharp it could cut a zephyr in two.
Then she ran to join the fray.
She sprinted across the changing floor. Quick as she was, a ball of wizard fire bloomed ahead of her, setting alight four aboleths at a single stroke. Good for Seren! She’d half expected the wizard to turn tail.
But there were so many aboleths! At least the flying ones above hadn’t yet engaged in the fight—not even the smallest, and thankfully not the largest. She was doubly glad, for among those chanting creatures, a few possessed a multitude of eyes like the aboleth able to see her in Xxiphu’s depths.
Anusha made contact with the enemy. Her blade swept through a creature with only the slightest tug. The aboleth died unaware anything had even threatened it. As it lay quivering and oozing dark fluid, she moved to the next. And the next. She whirled her sword around, maintaining its bitter sharpness with determined concentration.
Pain pinched her temple. She was exerting her dream form. If she pushed herself, she would falter and perhaps fall. But if she did not give Raidon—and by extension Japheth—a chance to succeed, the Eldest would wake, and nothing would hold back her mind from its concentrated consciousness.
She renewed her onslaught, laying about with her dream blade like an avatar of death itself, even as her head began to pound with the ache of her unrelenting exertion.
Seren’s breath was harsh in her own ears. She was terrified, and her hands, wand, and voice trembled with each spell she launched. Thankfully the creatures reacted to her magical lances as Japheth had predicted. The horde of aboleths were single-minded in their attempt to fall upon the blazing monk like a slime tsunami. None of her spells had so far piqued the interest of the attacking creatures, even those on the periphery.
Emboldened, she moved closer, until the rotting fish smell of the frantic aboleths became overwhelming.
Where had the warlock gone? Seren wondered if, despite all his brave words, the man hadn’t just used the cloak to transport himself away from the entire enterprise.
She believed that was unlikely, despite what she might consider in his place.
A bellow of triumph sounded in her left ear, and she flinched.
It was Thoster, slashing the posterior of an aboleth too busy trying to scramble over its siblings to guard its flank. The wound was deep, but the aboleth died from the poison before its organs could even react to the fluid spraying from it. More so than before, she was glad she’d decided to aid the captain instead of kill him when he’d revealed his strange condition to her.
Seren decided to expend a spell whose potency neared the height of her strength. She uttered the linchpin syllables and drew her wand
around in the air just once. A fist-sized globe of white light hurtled into the mass of scrambling aboleths. Just before falling into their ranks, the globe detonated in a prismatic burst, spearing several at once.
The creatures squealed as their flanks were scorched. Better yet, they reeled around in confusion as the dazzling radiance blinded them.
A grim smile briefly touched Seren’s lips.
She recited another incantation.
Before Japheth stepped from his cloak, he called again upon the utter darkness between the stars, whose hollow nothingness ate the light of neighboring constellations. He shrouded himself in that same obscuring darkness, then stepped forward into the very center of the throne chamber, where the floor was stable. The petrified gaze of the Eldest was a palpable force overhead so potent it vibrated the air, creating deep tones like massive cemetery bells. The warlock was careful not to look straight up.
Japheth took a quick survey to see if any creature was aware of his sudden appearance.
The main fight still raged.
The monk continued to harvest aboleths with his blade and Sign. Anusha, Yeva, Thoster, and Seren whittled away at the mass’s flanks. The oldest aboleths continued their chant of waking. Japheth hoped he could begin and finish his ritual before they concluded theirs.
From his cloak he removed a rod, a battered scroll, and a vial of powdered dragon scales. These were the same implements he’d earlier used in an attempt to free Anusha’s mind from captivity, minus a tome that hadn’t proved useful. And minus the ring wound with Anusha’s hair. In the frenzy of their arrival and the breaking of his pact stone, he’d failed to retrieve it from the angel of exploration.
Japheth hoped that Anusha’s dream form itself would prove a better guide than loose strands of her hair ever could.
He’d failed the last time he’d tried to free her, but only because the Dreamheart was not where her soul was rooted, as he’d mistakenly assumed.
No, her consciousness was snared by the Eldest itself. If she should falter and wake even briefly, her mind would be pulled into the beast and be consumed in an instant, becoming part of it. His heart beat in his throat when he imagined it.
A spectacular flare of light snapped his gaze back to the fight. Through the press of squirming aboleths, sky blue light blazed. Raidon had triggered some sort of exceptionally bright pulse from his chest.
Ignore it, he told himself.
Japheth pulled out the last two things he needed—the Dreamheart and the silver compact filled with his personal bane.
He set the relic down, facing the half-lidded eye upward. The voices of the chanting aboleths circling overhead broke for the briefest of moments before resuming. Luckily, none swooped down to pierce the darkness and relieve him of their progenitor’s prodigal eye. The creatures had felt the relic’s sudden proximity, even if they couldn’t yet see it. In some ways, the small orb at his feet was more vital than the entire bulk of the Eldest stretched overhead.
He took hold of the silver compact. Its touch dried his mouth with anticipation. Trying not to think about its contents, he popped it open and administered a dose of traveler’s dust to one eye. It occurred to him this would be the first test of his new pact. How well would it protect him from the symptoms of his addiction when tested? He blinked at the irritation. Too late now.
Before the red haze completely overtook his perception, he unstoppered the vial of crushed dragon scales and poured them over the stone orb. Its harsh odor burned his nostrils.
Even as the oceanic surge of the dust washed over Japheth, he unrolled the scroll, twin to the one he’d used last time, and laid it out on the cold floor. It tried to curl back into a cylinder, so he used the Dreamheart to weigh down the top and the toes of his boots the bottom. Its tip was broken off, but it was still serviceable. He picked up the jade rod blessed in a temple of Kelemvor. He bent forward, so he could both read the text and touch the end of the rod to the Dreamheart’s mottled side.
The eye in the relic blinked. The sphere rotated until it aimed its gaze at him.
He shuddered, but spoke the words of the ritual, doing his best to ignore the distracting, blissful detachment the dust leaked into his blood. He judged the dust’s ability to pierce veils was necessary, just in case his new spell that granted him the ability to see things unseen failed. He just had to make certain he wasn’t borne away in the initial rush it produced.
Blasts, shouts, and explosions resounded through the chamber. He thought he heard a yell of victory, followed by a woman’s shriek of pain. Not Anusha’s, though. Japheth didn’t stop chanting his ritual. He couldn’t afford losing even another moment. There was no time to help his friends. Better not to even look.
His only silver lining was that the passivity the traveler’s dust lent made it easier for him to ignore everything but the words on the curled page at his feet.
Raidon attempted to trace a great ring on the floor, one underlying the circle of aboleths flying above him. The Sign showed him the designs he must carve, one sigil at a time, with blasts of cerulean fire supplied by Angul. The ring was an integral ingredient required to wreck the aboleth’s waking ritual so violently that the Eldest would not only fail to rouse, but be snuffed out while it was at its most vulnerable.
In order to complete his counterritual circle, Raidon killed aboleths. All of which were simultaneously trying to kill him.
Every few moments, five or six tried to seize Raidon’s mind with formless psychic clamps. Angul and the Sign shattered each domination attempt without the monk being aware of them.
It required a larger fraction of his attention to dodge the constant barrage of slime, lightning, and who knew what else. He spun beyond the periphery of an exploding sphere of green energy, flipped over a bolt of another as he skewered an aboleth, and ducked a tentacle slap. All was wild motion as he whittled away at the press of nonstop attacks.
When a lucky tentacle or body slam hit him, or a ravening bolt of energy, he staggered and sometimes even fell down. But Angul’s balm instantly turned flaring pain into so much fading warmth, and his own trained reflexes righted him after each fall. Those lucky hits required only a minuscule portion of his awareness, but he had to reset his position each time he was pushed or knocked over. It was important he not lose his place on the floor.
Were he facing nearly any other enemy in such a multitude, Raidon would have long since been pulled under. Neither Angul nor the Sign promised unending vitality. However, these creatures were the nemesis of the Keepers and their implements. Both sword and seal sapped some portion of their permanent strength to feed the monk what he required to keep standing amid the storm of death that struggled to pull him under. But the energy Angul and the Sign used to heal him was dwarfed by the power he channeled in a brief burst toward the floor every time he stepped forward.
Raidon wondered if all three of them—sword, seal, and himself—would be drained to their final end as they finished. If providence were kind, it would be so.
A muscled, boneless arm smashed Raidon in the face, bursting some sort of cyst encrusting its end. The smelly, fatty material that sprayed across Raidon burned like acid. Even before he could grit his teeth to endure the pain, Angul purged the damaged tissue and grew new skin cross his face, neck, and left shoulder. Raidon bit his lip against the agony of the healing wave.
The Blade Cerulean’s repair was nearly as painful as the attack that caused the damage.
My reserves falter, the blade warned.
Raidon grunted and moved another step.
He swept the sword through an advancing aboleth, then pointed Angul down to scribe another quick sigil in cerulean fire on the floor.
He weaved beneath a blast of green energy, whirled, and leaned forward to thrust Angul up through the mouth of an encroaching aboleth. This put his left leg in position to snap a devastating back kick at another foe. He advanced another step into the momentary clearing he’d created, and dashed off the next symbol with Ang
ul.
If not for the press of lashing aboleths, Raidon’s curving path across the floor would have been far more apparent. He realized he’d completed more than half the circuit mirroring the route of the chanting aboleths swimming through the air overhead, countercurrent to their direction. Ironic, the monk reflected, that the mass of squalid bodies trying to smother him obscured what he was doing.
A tentacle grabbed his leg and pulled him facedown onto the stone. He felt bones in his face break. The Blade Cerulean roughly set the bones an instant later. But not completely.
Angul’s healing surges were no longer completely erasing his wounds. The pain of each wound was eased, true, but blood ran down one of his arms, and now from his nose as well. Each alone wasn’t enough to slow him, but the incomplete recoveries were adding up. It would be a close thing, whether he could finish his circle of binding before the swarm finished him.
It didn’t matter. He would finish the circle, or he would fail.
If he failed, the Eldest would fully wake.
If he succeeded, then the aboleth’s ritual would fail instead. One or the other. The fate of Faerûn depended on what happened. Not that he cared. Even as he fought forward another step to draw the next sigil in the sequence, he wondered at his persistence. Faerûn hadn’t been particularly kind to Raidon over the last dozen years. Or, now that he thought about it, for most of his life. Yet there he was, striving for all he was worth, to save the world.
Perhaps some shred of honor yet motivated him, finding one last opportunity to shine amid the fused jumble of his personality.
Or perhaps it was merely Angul.
Raidon noticed that the number of attacks he had defended against over the last span of heartbeats had dropped off. He spared a moment to glance up from his last scribed glyph.
He was astounded to see that, indeed, only about a dozen aboleths—at least of the original number that had sleeted down the walls of the throne chamber—remained to contest him. And half of those were receiving attacks on their flanks, even as they tried to squirm toward Raidon. Some unseen force was alternately carving into and dazzling these outlier aboleths, even as wizard fire rained down upon the creatures from afar.
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