Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

  “Get out. Out of here. Must get …”

  She fell backward. Splashing water choked off her scream. She was cold and wet. Sinking. The water hugged her close, extinguishing the fire. Something brushed against her: a sticky net. She remembered it had caught another drow. He was the one trapped. She laughed, and watched languidly as bubbles danced above her face. There was something she should be doing. Oh yes, the bottle. She raised it to her lips and inhaled deeply. Water slid into her lungs, smooth as a wand into a sheath. She didn’t notice the coughing, or the hot flare of pain in her chest.

  The skull was gone. At last.

  She was free.

  Cavatina waited impatiently as Khorl cast his spell. A mirror of polished silver hung on one wall, enlarged by magic from a brooch the wizard had unpinned from his piwafwi. Khorl peered into it intently, oblivious to the harsh glare of the reflected Faerzress. The blue glow was painfully bright. Cavatina squinted, yet it still hurt her eyes. Backlit by its glare, Khorl’s head and shoulders were a dark silhouette.

  “Can you see anything?” she asked. “Mazeer told Qilué she’d found the way to the Acropolis. She mentioned a fissure in the rock.”

  “And a skull,” Eldrinn added. “You said she mentioned a skull.” He stood next to Daffir, fiddling nervously with a vial he held. If the boy wasn’t careful, he was going to drop his potion.

  Kâras pushed past him. “What about Telmyz? Is there any sign of him?”

  “Patience, all of you,” Khorl said. His fingers flicked in front of the mirror as if turning pages. “A scrying cannot be rushed.”

  Gilkriz stood to one side, arms folded and fingers drumming restlessly. One of his wizards had gone missing. Perhaps he’d already accepted the worst. According to Qilué, Mazeer had been incoherent when her message abruptly cut off. That—and the silence that followed—didn’t bode well.

  All the other search teams had returned safely, if unsuccessfully. Despite more than a day’s worth of searching, none had found the way to the Acropolis.

  Khorl’s hand dropped. “The mirror reveals nothing.” A wave of his hand shrank the polished oval of silver back down to brooch size.

  “Conjure up the eyes again,” Cavatina ordered. “We need to find Mazeer and Telmyz.”

  Khorl shook his head firmly. “A second application of that spell will only produce the same result.”

  Cavatina turned to the human wizard. “Daffir?”

  He inclined his head. “I will try, Madam.”

  As Daffir cast his spell, Cavatina brooded. The message about Mazeer and Telmyz hadn’t been the only sending from Qilué. There had been two other sendings from the high priestess a short time after that. The first had contained surprising news: Halisstra lived! She’d somehow escaped the Demonweb Pits, and had been spotted in the Shilmista Forest. Priestesses and Nightshadows had died there, at the hands of Lolth’s minions. Halisstra, however had managed to escape through the shrine’s portal.

  She’d portaled to the Moondeep, where Q’arlynd had spotted her. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t recognized his own sister. Halisstra wandered the mine tunnels, somewhere between the Moondeep and the spot where the party rested.

  Cavatina would have ordered a search for Halisstra, but Qilué had forbidden it. Eilistraee herself had warned the high priestess that Halisstra had some part to play in the attack on the temple—a role that might be disrupted if too many knew she was there. Cavatina had to trust in the goddess, to let Halisstra find her own path in the dance.

  It rankled Cavatina, but an order was an order. A Darksong Knight always did her duty.

  One thing was certain. The longer Cavatina and the others lingered there, the better the chance Halisstra would blunder into them. Knowing that, Cavatina had ordered the two priestesses guarding the shaft that was this tunnel’s only access point to contact her with a sending at once if they spotted anything resembling a demon, and not to engage it in combat themselves—to let her, the party’s only Darksong Knight, deal with any demons.

  Cavatina turned to the human mage. “Daffir. Anything yet?”

  Daffir leaned on his staff, eyes closed. “Mazeer and Telmyz are in a cavern.”

  “The Acropolis?”

  “No,” Daffir opened his eyes. “That much, at least, I am certain of. Had they reached it, the name Thanatos would have rung through my mind like a tolling bell.”

  “Are they still underwater?” Kâras asked.

  Daffir shook his head. “That, I cannot tell.”

  Cavatina struggled to keep her frustration in check. “Keep trying,” she told the wizards. She turned to walk back to the spot at the bottom of the shaft, where the others had set up a fortified position, but Kâras caught her arm. “Telmyz is dead,” he told her. “This was the wrong way to go.”

  Cavatina rounded on him. “We don’t know that.”

  “Yes we do. The prayer that allowed him to breathe water would have elapsed long ago. If he’s still submerged, he’s dead.”

  “Then we’ll recover his body. Return him to the Promenade, where he can be resurrected.”

  Kâras made a dismissive gesture. “That’s not worth the cost.”

  Cavatina was inclined to agree, for different reasons. Yet her duty was clear. “Our numbers are small. We can’t afford the loss of even one of Eilistraee’s faithful.”

  “Precisely,” Kâras said. “Which is why we should abandon this route and go another way. You heard the reports of the search teams. There’s a veritable labyrinth of passages down there. Trying to figure out which one leads to the Acropolis—if any even do—might take days. We should take a route that we know leads to the Acropolis. One that won’t cost us any more lives.”

  “This is our way in,” Cavatina said. “The Crones will be watching the other entrances.”

  “You said Mazeer mentioned a skull. Even if she did find the ‘back door’ the deep gnomes told you about, it may not be such a secret any more.”

  “He’s right,” Gilkriz said, stepping closer. “And the longer we sit here, the more likely we’ll be discovered. What if your svirfneblin ‘allies’ were lying entirely, and this is nothing but a dead-end? I don’t want to be trapped down here.”

  Cavatina stared down at him. “You’d abandon Mazeer?”

  Gilkriz unfolded his arms and tugged at his gold sleeves, straightening them. Despite immersion in the Moondeep, his clothes were impeccable. “If she’s dead, yes.” He nodded at the Faerzress. “Solving our problem as quickly as possible is what’s most important.”

  Cavatina glared at him. But she had to admit that Gilkriz was right. So was Kâras.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” she told them. “We’ll go in another way. One of those other entrances Kâras is so fond of.”

  His mask hid the smirk she knew was there.

  “But we stay together.”

  The smirk disappeared from his eyes.

  “Gilkriz, Eldrinn, assemble your wizards. Get them ready to move. Kâras, do the same for your Nightshadows.”

  “As you command, Lady,” Kâras replied.

  Cavatina gave him a tight smile. She knew that Kâras’s obedience was the calm before the storm. When he found out how she planned on entering that “side door,” he wasn’t going to like it. She’d had it with this skulking about. It was time for something bolder.

  She was just about to pass the word to the two priestesses who guarded the top of the shaft when one of them contacted her with a sending. Lady Cavatina, the demon you anticipated! Zindira just spotted it!

  Fall back to the bottom of the shaft, Cavatina ordered, praying they would obey quickly. If they made the mistake of attacking Halisstra, they likely wouldn’t survive. I’m on my way.

  She turned and spoke swiftly. “Kâras, keep the others together. Don’t let them follow me up the shaft.”

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Lady?”

  “Our guards have spotted something—possibly a demon.” She slapped the flask at her hip. “I’m goi
ng to deal with it. You’re in charge until I get back.”

  She sprinted away down the tunnel.

  Leliana set a brisk pace through the abandoned mine. Q’arlynd hurried along beside her, glad to be moving again. The sooner he had Eldrinn back in his sight again, the better. The boy might be talented, but he was little more than a novice. There were all sorts of things down there that could kill him. Gigantic undead heads, demonic drow-things … why, even something so mundane as a cave-in, Q’arlynd thought as he ducked under a fungus-dotted shoring timber that stank of rot. If Q’arlynd were ever going to unlock Kraanfhaor’s Door and plunder the riches that lay behind it, he’d need the secrets locked away in Eldrinn’s mind.

  In the meantime, he thought, glancing at the bluish glow that infused the tunnel, there was a job to be done: discovering what had augmented the Faerzress, and negating it before the College of Divination collapsed.

  They walked in silence for some time. Then Leliana spoke. “Aren’t you going to ask how Rowaan is, Q’arlynd?”

  Q’arlynd took a deep breath. Here it comes, he thought. “I intended to, Lady, once there was time.”

  She halted abruptly. “No time like the present.”

  Q’arlynd slowly turned. “Lady, they enslaved me with magic that proved even stronger than Qilué’s geas. I was forced to speak the words that—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The … the gate,” Q’arlynd faltered. “Didn’t Qilué tell you …?” Belatedly, he realized he’d just said too much.

  “She did. She said you were the one who opened the gate that allowed Eilistraee to enter Vhaeraun’s domain.”

  Q’arlynd raised his hands. “Not by choice, I assure you.” Then he realized what she’d just said. “Vhaeraun’s domain?”

  “Of course. That was a clever ruse you pulled.”

  She didn’t look angry, so Q’arlynd did his best to recover. “Qilué … told you about … that?”

  Leliana smiled. “She also swore me to secrecy. But now that we’re alone …” She glanced back the way they’d just come. “I can thank you. For saving Rowaan.”

  To Q’arlynd’s utter surprise, she stepped forward and clasped his arms. She was strong; her hands pinched as they squeezed. Then she stepped abruptly back, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion. That figured; she’d been raised in the Underdark, after all.

  “I’m surprised Qilué confided in you,” Q’arlynd said, relaxing at last. “But I welcome the opportunity to boast. That switch I pulled was rather clever, wasn’t it?”

  Leliana’s eyes glittered. “How did you ever trick them into reversing the spell? They were Nightshadows—didn’t they see it coming?”

  “Apparently not,” said Q’arlynd. Nor had he seen this coming.

  “I still can’t quite believe they’re part of our faith now, that they chose redemption,” Leliana continued. “I thought them too steeped in lies and deceit to stick with it. But some did, amazingly enough.” She paused. “I’m glad to see you still serve Eilistraee, as well.”

  “Of course.” Q’arlynd waved a hand. “That’s why I’m here.” It was a conversation he didn’t want to get any deeper into than he had to. “But you haven’t answered my question. How is Rowaan?”

  Leliana smiled. “She’s well. After I was promoted to the ranks of the Protectors, she took charge of the Misty Forest shrine.” Her voice deepened with pride. “There were other, more senior priestesses who could have been named its head priestess, but Qilué chose Rowaan.”

  Of course she did, Q’arlynd thought. The appointment would have ensured that Rowaan kept her mouth shut about what had really happened, that night in the darkstone cavern.

  He realized why Cavatina had failed to point him out during the briefing at the Promenade. She didn’t want to run the risk of him contradicting the official version of what had happened. She wanted her priestesses to believe that Eilistraee was stronger than Vhaeraun—that she had defeated the Masked Lord on his home turf.

  Q’arlynd wondered how closely held the true story was. Qilué knew it, of course, and Cavatina—as well as the priestesses whose souls, together with Rowaan’s, had been drawn to Eilistraee when the gate opened. Q’arlynd supposed those priestesses had been bought off, too. And that Valdar, the only Nightshadow to have survived the casting of the gate, had been tracked down and killed to ensure his silence.

  The ranks of Eilistraee’s faithful had come to include more than one assassin, after all.

  “We should get moving, if we want to catch up to the others,” he reminded Leliana.

  “Yes.” She touched a hand to the Faerzress. “Too bad we can’t teleport. You’d have us there like that.” She started to snap her fingers, then touched the Faerzress again, as if caressing it.

  The gesture disturbed Q’arlynd. He’d felt a similar urge himself. The soft hum of the bluish glow called to him. The Faerzress was beautiful, just like faerie fire, but what he felt went deeper than that. It drew him like …

  He realized he was touching the wall. He jerked his fingers back.

  Leliana’s eyes met his. She looked as uneasy as he felt. “You’re right,” she said. “We should get moving.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Q’arlynd saw a slight motion farther down the tunnel. A patch of wall dimmed and brightened again, as if the Faerzress had momentarily been blocked. Something was slowly creeping away from the spot where Q’arlynd and Leliana stood—something with an outline so blurred it was almost impossible to make out. It was the size and shape of a child.

  We’re being watched, Q’arlynd warned. He raised his chin slightly, indicating the tunnel behind Leliana. By a svirfneblin.

  Our guide?

  I’m not sure.

  Leliana turned and spoke aloud. “There’s no need to fear us. We’re the ones you came to meet. If we’d meant you harm, we’d already have—”

  She suddenly reeled back and groped for the wall. “Mother’s blood,” she cursed, her voice overly loud. “What did you do that for?”

  Q’arlynd understood at once what had happened. He too knew magic that could render someone blind and deaf. He shouted a word and flicked his fingers, triggering a ripple of energy that radiated from him, dispelling the effect. His spell revealed two svirfneblin standing only a pace or two away. One cradled a strongbox; the second held a hooked hammer in one hand, an egg-sized, blood-red gemstone in the other. The instant this fellow was revealed, he hurled the stone. It thudded into Q’arlynd’s chest. Q’arlynd jumped back and tried to raise a hand, but couldn’t. His arms felt weak, soft. He watched, horrified, as the skin shriveled on his hands and his fingers curled like dead leaves. He tried to cast a spell, but his fingers wouldn’t move. His arms hung limp and lifeless at his sides.

  He felt his eyes widen. Death magic! How in all that was unholy had the svirfneblin gotten hold of that?

  He could think of only one answer.

  Leliana, able to see again thanks to Q’arlynd’s dispelling, touched the holy symbol that hung against her chest and sang out a word. The svirfneblin who’d thrown the gemstone froze in place, held fast by her prayer. She whirled and began singing a second prayer—still not drawing her sword.

  “Leliana!” Q’arlynd shouted. “These aren’t the—”

  Though he spoke the word “guides,” he never heard it. Suddenly blinded and deafened, he stumbled about, desperately trying to cast a spell—one that didn’t require gestures, a touch, or the tossing of spell components. That left precious little.

  He felt someone jostle him—Leliana, at last come to her senses and skewering the deep gnomes with her sword? He hoped so. If it weren’t for the damned Faerzress, he might have conjured an arcane eye to see what was going on. Instead he did the only thing he could that would put him in the clear. He shouted the word that activated his House insignia, still not hearing his own voice, and felt himself rise.

  A hand yanked him down again. The instant it touched him, he shouted out a spel
l. Whichever of the deep gnomes had just grabbed him would be blind and deaf, too. That should even the odds a little.

  Suddenly he could see and hear again. Leliana lay on the floor, unconscious or dead from a wound that had bloodied her scalp. Her sword lay nearby. The deep gnome she’d immobilized a moment ago stood over her, his hammer dark with blood. A second deep gnome stood just behind him, glaring at Q’arlynd.

  Q’arlynd tried to draw his ice wand from the sheath on his belt—if his useless hands could just lift it, he might be able to blast the svirfneblin—but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur to his right and behind him: the third svirfneblin moving in. Q’arlynd at last fumbled the wand out of its sheath and turned. He struggled to point it at the blurred gnome.

  The two svirfneblin behind Q’arlynd moved right and left, flanking him. Backing him against a wall. Q’arlynd shifted his arms, trying to menace them with his wand. It fell from his withered hands and clattered to the floor. The svirfneblin who’d felled Leliana raised his hooked hammer, but the blurred gnome raised a hand.

  “Hold,” he told them.

  Q’arlynd stared at the blurred gnome but could make out no details. He was like every other svirfneblin Q’arlynd had ever seen: mottled gray skin, bald head, just over half Q’arlynd’s height, and wearing clothes the color of stone. Why had he just called off the attack?

  “Flinderspeld? Is that you?”

  The svirfneblin dropped his blur, revealing himself. It wasn’t Flinderspeld. He had a wider forehead, one ear that cocked at an odd angle, and his hands were more heavily mottled than those of Q’arlynd’s former slave. The deep gnome glanced at his two companions and said something in the svirfneblin tongue. They nodded and visibly relaxed.

  “I not Flinderspeld,” he told Q’arlynd, speaking in the pidgin language the races of the Underdark shared. “But I know him.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Durth.”

  “How do you know Flinderspeld?”