Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

  The slurping noises stopped. Lolth laughed—a gloating sound that was all Danifae. Halisstra felt herself gathered up off the floor by arms—drow arms—and cradled against a woman’s chest. Lolth had assumed drow form. Despite the disparity in their sizes, she rocked Halisstra back and forth like an infant, one hand caressing the half-dissolved flesh of Halisstra’s back as it slowly regenerated. Then she kissed Halisstra—a long, brutal kiss. The kind a matron would force on a House boy.

  Halisstra tore her mouth away and retched.

  Lolth stood, dumping her to the floor. “Weakling,” she spat.

  Halisstra hung her head. Even after nearly five years, the word still stung.

  Lolth strode in a circle around the room, her arms extended. Webs stuck to her skin, covering the body that had once been Danifae’s in a layer of overlapping white filaments. With a snap of her fingers, she summoned tiny red spiders. These scurried back and forth, weaving the webs into a long white gown. When they were done, the spiders dangled from the hem and cuffs in a living fringe.

  Huddled on the floor, Halisstra watched the goddess out of the corner of her eye, not daring to say what she was thinking. Before her fall from grace, Lolth had been the Weaver of Destiny. The goddess needed the help of arachnids to construct so much as a simple garment. Everything Lolth touched turned into a tangled mess; every web Halisstra had seen her spin had been lopsided and asymmetrical. As skewed in their design as the restless and confused mind of the Queen of Spiders herself.

  Halisstra felt the prickle of flesh knitting back together as her muscles grew into place, and the stretch of new skin spreading across her back. When she was strong enough, she rose to her feet and waited for the goddess to speak.

  “Do you know why I summoned you to my chamber, Halisstra?”

  “To feed?”

  The goddess laughed. “More than that. Guess again.”

  Halisstra felt her pulse quicken. It had been almost two years, by her rough reckoning, since Lolth had sealed her inside a cell, deep within her iron fortress. In all that time, she had removed Halisstra from the cell perhaps a dozen times, in order to feed. What new torment did the goddess have in mind this time?

  “You’ve taken me out because …” Halisstra paused, searching for the most unlikely of answers—something that would amuse the goddess. “… because you’ve decided to set me free?”

  Lolth spun and clapped her hands together. “Exactly!” she cried. “I’m sending you away from the Demonweb Pits.”

  Halisstra prostrated herself, hiding the thrill of anticipation she felt. “How am I to serve you, Mistress?”

  “Serve me?” Lolth tossed her head. “Think again, mortal.”

  Halisstra hesitated, uncertain of the goddess’s meaning. During the time she’d done penitence to the queen of the Demonweb Pits, she had come to know Lolth as well as any mortal could. Even so, she had no idea which twisted path Lolth’s mind was walking now. Anything, however, would be better than being locked away—practically forgotten—in a cell.

  That imprisonment, the goddess had explained, had been Halisstra’s punishment for helping to kill Selvetarm, the demigod who had been Lolth’s champion. He had been slain—in the Demonweb Pits—by a priestess of Eilistraee, the Darksong Knight Cavatina. When all had seemed lost, Halisstra handed Cavatina the sword that made Selvetarm’s death possible.

  Halisstra had expected to be commended by Lolth for her “cunning” in aiding the Darksong Knight. The Spider Queen had intended for her champion to be slain; that’s what she’d wanted all along. She’d gloated about Selvetarm’s death afterward—spoken with glee about how his priests had thrown down their temples and scuttled back to her, like flies to a web.

  Then she’d imprisoned Halisstra.

  “Where are you sending me, Mistress?” Halisstra asked.

  Lolth laughed, her lips emitting a gout of spiders. Then she waved a hand. The iron-walled room disappeared.

  Halisstra found herself standing next to Lolth on a featureless, wind-blasted plain illuminated by a pale yellow sun. She tasted salt on her lips and squinted against the wind-borne grit that stung like shards of glass. The wind whipped her hair around, flicking it against her face. It tore at Lolth’s web-garment, swiftly pulling it to pieces that streamed away on the wind.

  One of these brushed against a mound of salt, its sticky filaments pulling a little of the salt away. A heartbeat later, the entire pile collapsed as something crouched under it suddenly rose. Enormous bat wings flicked open, and a shaggy head shook off the dust that obscured the face. Massive horns protruded straight out from the creature’s head in the place where ears would normally be. His muzzle, when it opened in a lazy yawn, revealed row upon row of jagged teeth.

  A balor.

  The demon cleared his wide, flat nose in a violent exhalation that sent a gout of flame out of each nostril, and spat a gob of sticky black tar onto the salt-encrusted ground. He folded his wings over his shoulders and lazily scratched his blood-red chest as he stared at the Spider Queen.

  The wind died. A palpable tension filled the stillness.

  “Lolth,” the demon said. “At last.” Each word released a puff of oily black smoke.

  The demon had a sword strapped to his back; his flame-shaped blade glowed white-hot. Smoke curled lazily from the place where the weapon touched a strip of black hair that ran down the demon’s back, hair that curled around his buttocks to his groin. Within this dark tangle was something bulbous and red.

  “After so many centuries, have you at last come to play?” the balor hissed.

  Halisstra felt fingers lock in her hair.

  “No,” Lolth said, her voice a lazy purr. “But this one has.” She shoved Halisstra forward.

  Halisstra gasped as she realized what was happening. Lolth didn’t have a new mission in mind for her. She was discarding Halisstra like a toy she’d grown bored of playing with. “Mistress, no!” Halisstra gasped. “I can still serve you. Pl—”

  Lolth’s harsh laughter cut her off. “The Lady Penitent,” she mocked. “Pleading? You should know better than that by now.”

  “Mistress,” Halisstra whimpered, “let me prove myself. I’ll do anything.”

  “Of course you will,” Lolth said, her voice as smooth as freshly spun silk. “We both already know that, don’t we?”

  The demon moved closer, his clawed feet crunching against the salt-encrusted ground. He pointed a finger at Halisstra, then dropped his hand. Compelled, she fell to her knees. With the demon so close, she realized that he was not much taller than she was; had they stood side by side, their eyes would almost be level. Yet the raw power he exuded was nearly as great as Lolth’s own.

  Involuntary tears squeezed from Halisstra’s eyes and trickled down her face, carrying the taste of salt to her lips.

  Lolth laughed at Halisstra’s discomfort. A snap of her fingers brought a strand of web tumbling from the sky. She seized it with one hand, then turned back to the demon.

  “I’ll call for your services soon, Wendonai,” the goddess told him. “Until then, I’m sure you can find a way to amuse yourself.” She nodded at Halisstra. Then she scurried up the strand of web and was gone.

  The demon loomed over Halisstra. This close, she could smell the stench of scorched hair and the oily tang of his breath. He lowered his nose until it almost touched the top of her head, and inhaled deeply.

  He jerked back. “You’re not—” He halted, as if suddenly reconsidering what he’d been about to say. He forced her prone, then craned his head back. “Lolth!”

  No response came from the empty sky.

  “Lolth!”

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Halisstra peered up at the demon. He was upset about something. Her scent? Had it revealed the fact that she had once been a priestess of Eilistraee? That she served Lolth under duress? Whatever Halisstra lacked, it made the demon furious. As his agitation grew, the wind rose.

  The blowing grit crusted her nostrils when she
breathed. It filled the air with glittering salt dust, obscuring the landscape once more. Small drifts formed against the demon’s feet as he raged at the sky, still shouting Lolth’s name. Halisstra rose to her hands and knees, but the demon didn’t seem to notice. Encouraged, she began to creep away. Depending upon which layer of the Abyss they were in, she might be able to locate a portal back to the Prime Material Plane. Once there, she could prove to Lolth that she was no weakling, that she was worthy of—

  A clawed foot crashed down onto her head, slamming her to the ground.

  “Drow!” he roared. “There will be no escape. I am your master!”

  Halisstra tasted blood; the demon had split her lip. “Yes, Master,” she gasped.

  The wind stilled.

  “That’s better,” the demon said, shifting his foot from her head. He squatted beside her. “I’ll strike you a bargain. You want your freedom, and I want someone to play with. Someone more … agreeable to my tastes.” He reached out and hooked a finger under Halisstra’s chin, spearing her flesh on the point of his claw. “Think carefully. Is there anyone who might trade positions with you to save your wretched hide?”

  The rush of relief left Halisstra lightheaded. “There’s someone who … owes me a great favor.”

  “Her name?”

  “Cavatina.”

  “Cavatina.” The demon rolled the name around in his mouth as if sucking on something sweet. “What is she to you? Lover? Kin?”

  Relief flooded Halisstra. She’d gambled that the demon hadn’t heard of Cavatina—he’d been buried under salt for “centuries,” after all. It looked as though her gamble might pay off. Cavatina was a Darksong Knight, a hunter of demons. A slayer of demigods. She’d make short work of the balor. One swing of the Crescent Blade, and Lolth’s pet demon would be dead.

  That would make the Spider Queen sorry for tossing Halisstra to him.

  Halisstra shook her head in answer to the demon’s question, but the motion drove the claw deeper into her flesh, making her wince. “Cavatina is neither lover, nor kin. She’s a priestess of Eilistraee. I saved her life, once. I’m certain she would feel compelled to do the same for me.”

  The demon smiled, revealing jagged teeth. “Perfect.”

  He removed his claw from under her chin. He straightened, grabbed the claw with his other hand, and yanked. The claw came free in a burst of dark, tarry blood. Taking Halisstra’s left hand, he pressed the claw against her palm. It stung like hot wax as it was forced into her flesh. When it was done, only a dark, rough callus remained.

  “When you find Cavatina, touch her with this hand, and call my name,” the demon instructed. “Do you understand?”

  Halisstra rubbed her palm, already regretting what she’d just promised. The spot on her palm ached with a fierce heat. “I understand.”

  The demon swept Halisstra up as if her body were as light as a web and stared into her eyes. “Go. Find Cavatina.” Then he raised her above his head and hurled her into the air.

  The sky split open in a flaming crack, and a shrieking wind carried Halisstra away.

  Cavatina ran through the woods, heedless of the scratches the branches left on her bare skin. Off to her left she could hear the beaters crashing swords against shields, moving steadily through the forest. Most of the priestesses would be ahead of them, swords poised to skewer whatever monsters the lay worshipers flushed out, but Cavatina preferred to hunt alone.

  She’d stripped off even her boots for the High Hunt; she wore only her holy symbol. The dull-bladed ceremonial silver dagger bounced against her chest as she ran. She’d also left most of her magical items behind, trusting to the goddess’s blessings to protect her. She carried only her magical hunting horn, slung over her shoulder on a strap, and her sword.

  The sword sang as Cavatina ran, its silvered blade vibrating in the warm night air like the reed of a woodwind instrument. Gripping the hilt tightly in her right hand, Cavatina felt the weapon’s anticipation. It was one of twenty-four sacred weapons identical to Lady Qilué’s own blade—forged, according to the sacred hymns, by Eilistraee herself from a solidified moonbeam. The pommel was set with a translucent white moonstone that glowed faintly with a tinge of blue whenever the moon struck it. Half of the moonstone, however, had turned black—dark as the half of the moon that lay in shadow on this night of the autumn equinox.

  Dark as a Nightshadow’s heart.

  Cavatina didn’t want to think about that. Running alone through the moonlit woods, it was easy to pretend that the changes that began in the winter of that fateful Year of Risen Elfkin hadn’t happened. That Eilistraee’s worship was as it had always been. That the goddess herself was unchanged, more than a year and a half after assuming Vhaeraun’s worshipers as her own.

  Cavatina leaped across a fallen log as gracefully as a deer. She was tall, with a body narrow as a sword blade, her muscles honed by a lifetime of dancing and fighting. Her skin, black as a moonless night, contrasted with her long, ivory-colored hair. Normally, she wore her hair bound in a braid or bun so it wouldn’t fall across her face and distract her while she fought, but tonight she’d left it loose. Tonight she let herself run wild, open to whatever the Shilmista Forest threw at her. She prayed whatever monster Eilistraee caused to cross her path would be a challenging one. Something worthy of the singing sword, and the Darksong Knight who held it.

  She heard the blare of a hunting horn. Another of the priestesses had spotted something. A voice sang out through the night, calling for the others to join her. The cacophony of banging shields fell away; the beaters had done their work and were no longer needed.

  Cavatina ignored the exhortations to join in the kill. She ran until the voices and horns faded in the distance. She plunged down a slope and found a shallow stream that sparkled with reflected moonlight. On impulse she followed it, her bare feet dancing lightly from stone to stone. At first, the stream wound through verdant forest, but as Cavatina followed it downhill, the vegetation on either side grew increasingly sparse. She clambered over a dead tree that had fallen across the stream—a tree whose trunk had been eaten away on one side. Other trees on both sides of the stream showed similar gouges. Their bark hung in tattered strips. Some had been stripped of their branches, leaving only skeletal trunks that were dark against the moonlit sky.

  Something had been feeding on the vegetation there. Something big.

  Cavatina slowed, her senses alert. She was panting heavily from her run, but the singing sword was steady in her hand. It, too, fell silent as if listening. The only sound came from the stream that flowed past Cavatina’s ankles, chilling her bare feet.

  A faint splash came from the bank to her left. A tiny head broke the surface a moment later: a small black creature with a pointed muzzle and rounded ears, its bare pink tail lashing behind it as it swam. A rat.

  Swift as a striking hawk, Cavatina jabbed her sword down, skewering it. The creature squeaked as the sword point thrust it under water, a peculiar noise that almost sounded like a cry. When Cavatina lifted her sword again, the rat was dead. She flicked it from her blade, into the dead foliage at the side of the stream.

  Something else moved on her right—a second rat. It emerged from the stream and scurried uphill through the shadows that had given the forest its Elvish name. Cavatina saw the disturbance it made through the scatter of dead sticks and leaves as it climbed the bank, but made no move to follow it. She was already sorry she’d sullied a singing sword with the blood of vermin.

  She held the tip of the blade in the stream, letting the water wash it clean, and asked, “Is that the best you can send me, Eilistraee? A rat?”

  This hunt was already a disappointment.

  She walked on, following the stream. After several dozen paces, she noted movement to her left. The hillside shifted. She whirled to face it just as a tree toppled across the stream with a splash.

  A creature erupted from the earth: an enormous beetle the size of a cabin, with mandibles as big as stag an
tlers and a curved claw at the end of each of its six legs. Chunks of soil slid off its gleaming black carapace as it reared up; it must have been hiding just below the surface. It stared at Cavatina, its dimpled red eyes gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

  She smiled and raised her sword. Ready.

  The beetle sprang.

  Cavatina thrust her sword at its thorax. The blade sliced through chitin and cut deep into flesh. The sword sang a joyous peal as bright orange blood rushed from the wound. Then the mandibles scissored shut, their jagged points gouging into Cavatina’s sides. The beetle reared up to bring its front two legs into play, yanking her into the air.

  Shuddering with pain, blood flowing down her sides, Cavatina gasped out a prayer. A circle of blinding white appeared on her palm, and streaked from it to strike the beetle’s head. Suddenly weakened, it sagged backward and let Cavatina fall to the ground.

  Cavatina lurched to her feet, the singing sword still in her hand. It sang a soothing melody as she slapped her free hand to her blood-slippery side and prayed. Eilistraee’s moonlight sparkled brightly against Cavatina’s skin as healing energy flowed into her, closing her wounds.

  The beetle struggled to rise on trembling legs. Before it could recover, Cavatina danced in close and slashed. With a blow like an axe striking a heavy tree limb, she severed one of the mandibles. The beetle stabbed a leg down at her but Cavatina twisted aside just in time. The claw thudded into the fallen tree instead. The beetle yanked free, tossing the trunk aside like a stick. The log tumbled down the bank toward the stream, branches snapping from it.

  Though weakened, the beetle was still very much alive. Cavatina might hack at it all night and still not kill it—the beetle was that large. The hunting horn that hung from her shoulder was capable of taking the beetle down, but its blare would be heard throughout the forest. It would draw the other priestesses like moths. Cavatina wanted to make this kill on her own, with sword and spell, as was proper for the High Hunt.