Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

  “Do business with him.”

  “Gems?” Q’arlynd guessed. Flinderspeld must have reentered the gem business after settling in Silverymoon. Q’arlynd wondered if the gem that had withered his arms had been destined for him. He shook his head, not quite believing the odds against this most unlikely of meetings. It made him wonder if Eilistraee really did watch over him. Or maybe she was just watching over her priestesses, he thought, glancing down at Leliana. Either way, Q’arlynd was thankful for Eilistraee’s mercies. He shrugged his arms and nodded down at them for Durth’s benefit. “Can you heal these?”

  “No.” Durth shrugged. “Maybe priestess can, if she wakes up. But she be mad at you for blinding her, I think.”

  The other svirfneblin laughed.

  Q’arlynd silently cursed as he realized it had been Leliana who had yanked him down after he levitated. He added a silent prayer that Leliana would wake up—and not just because he needed healing. To his surprise, he found he actually cared whether she lived or died.

  Durth turned to his companions and motioned for them to get the strongbox, which lay on the floor not far from Leliana. The lid hung from a single hinge and was split nearly in two—probably the result of one of Leliana’s sword blows. Inside the box, Q’arlynd could see a fist-sized lump of utter blackness that made his eyes ache whenever he looked directly at it. The thing hovered at the exact center of the strongbox, not touching any of its interior surfaces.

  Q’arlynd had seen something similar years before the fall of Ched Nasad. It had been housed in the Arcane Conservatory in a room with walls several paces thick. Great care had been taken so that, like the object in the strongbox, it touched neither walls, nor ceiling, nor floor: a levitation spell, made permanent and backed up by contingencies.

  One of the svirfneblin picked up the strongbox and tried to force the lid shut. Q’arlynd took an involuntary step back.

  “What?” Durth asked.

  “That’s voidstone,” Q’arlynd croaked.

  Even without eyebrows, Durth could still frown. “So?”

  Q’arlynd was horrified. The deep gnomes obviously had no idea what they were carrying. “It’s a solidified chunk of the negative energy plane,” he told them, trying to quiet the inner voice that demanded he run screaming from the deep gnome who so casually held the box. “Anything that touches voidstone is instantly destroyed. If that ‘rock’ falls out of the box, it won’t be pretty.”

  The deep gnome holding the strong box looked uncomfortable. He stopped fiddling with the lid.

  Durth glared at his companion. “We not afraid to die,” he told Q’arlynd. “Callarduran Smoothhands will—”

  “No he won’t,” Q’arlynd interrupted. “Voidstone destroys both matter and spirit. If that chunk spills from the box, there won’t be any souls left for your god to claim.”

  The deep gnome holding the box turned a lighter shade of gray.

  Durth glared at him. “We are paid for the risk.”

  “By Flinderspeld?” Q’arlynd asked. His former slave should have had more sense than to handle the stuff. “I hope, for your sake, it’s some serious coin he’s promised you.”

  Durth’s smirk confirmed it.

  Q’arlynd nodded at the box. “Is Flinderspeld buying or selling the stuff?”

  Durth’s eyes narrowed. “What business is that of yours?”

  “None,” Q’arlynd said. “I just … hope he knows what he’s dealing with, that’s all.”

  Durth scratched behind his cocked ear. He glanced down at Leliana. “She mean anything to you?”

  Q’arlynd kept his voice completely neutral. “She is the only one who can heal my arms.”

  Durth said something in his own language to the deep gnome who was holding the hooked hammer. The other gnome grunted. Leliana had just been granted a reprieve.

  Durth glanced furtively around and crooked a finger at Q’arlynd, inviting him to bend down to ear level. Q’arlynd did, and the deep gnome whispered in his ear. “When you get close to Acropolis, hang back a little.” He raised a hairless eyebrow. “Got it?”

  Q’arlynd did. “The Crones,” he whispered back. “You warned them Eilistraee’s priestesses were coming.”

  Durth nodded. “Drow against drow. Seemed fitting then, but I regret it now. The priestesses don’t know we play both sides, right?”

  The other two gnomes shifted restlessly, as if bored with the conversation and ready to move on. The one who wasn’t holding the box twirled his hammer back and forth on the cord that bound it to his wrist.

  Q’arlynd suddenly realized what was going on. That last question had been the key—the reason he was still alive. He played dumb by answering it. “That’s right.”

  “Too bad. But a friend of Flinderspeld …” Durth shrugged.

  Had Q’arlynd been a surface elf, he might have been caught off guard. But Q’arlynd was a drow, born and raised in Ched Nasad. Treachery had been in the very air he breathed. The hammer twirling had been intended as a distraction; Q’arlynd had seen the svirfneblin’s other hand slide stealthily into a pocket. When the deep gnome flicked a gemstone at him, Q’arlynd was ready. His cantrip required only the most basic of gestures; the caster had only to point. Q’arlynd flopped one withered arm in Durth’s direction, guiding the gemstone to the deep gnome’s chest. Durth’s eyes widened as it struck him. Then he collapsed.

  Q’arlynd lashed out with a foot. It sank into the throat of the deep gnome who’d just tossed the gemstone. The svirfneblin gasped and staggered backward. Q’arlynd twirled, causing his useless arms to windmill. He shouted out a spell as his left hand slapped the head of the deep gnome holding the box. Suddenly both blind and deaf, the deep gnome jerked in surprise. He backed away and halted. He carefully lowered the strongbox to the floor.

  Q’arlynd, meanwhile, snapped a second kick at the other gnome—one that slammed the little male’s skull into the wall, cracking his head against stone. The deep gnome slumped to the floor, unconscious. Meanwhile, the blinded svirfneblin blurred himself. He backed up the tunnel, trying to escape, but Q’arlynd’s foot swept out, tripping him. A kick rendered him unconscious, as well.

  Q’arlynd stood, panting. Durth lay on the floor a short distance away, snoring. The second gemstone, Q’arlynd realized, had contained nothing more lethal than a sleep spell. Harmless enough, but Q’arlynd was certain they’d intended to slit his throat the moment he was down.

  He didn’t have much time; magical sleep didn’t last very long. He fell to his knees beside Leliana to listen to her breathing. It was regular enough, but she showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

  “Leliana,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder. “Can you hear me? Leliana, wake up!”

  She didn’t stir.

  Q’arlynd stood. The strongbox had been knocked over in the scuffle. Fortunately, the voidstone hadn’t spilled out; magic held it in place. Gingerly, he touched his foot to the box and rocked it upright. Then he noticed something. The spot where the box had just lain glowed slightly brighter than the rest of the floor. Curious, he used his foot to ease the box to a different spot and tilted it until the open top was close to the floor. Once again, the Faerzress brightened to an eye-hurting hue.

  He rocked the box upright again. With a thought, he summoned up faerie fire, clothing his body in a sparkling violet radiance. He lowered one of his withered hands to the box—taking great care not to actually touch its contents—and saw the violet glow intensify.

  He straightened and nodded to himself. Qilué had been right about who was behind the augmentation of the Faerzress, as well as the involuntary manifestations of faerie fire by Sshamath’s mages. Whatever the Crones were doing with the voidstone that the deep gnomes were supplying was causing both effects.

  He stared down at the strongbox. The chunk of voidstone it held would be the expedition’s way in. They could disguise themselves as deep gnomes, carry the voidstone to the Acropolis, and learn what the Crones were up to. Put a sto
p to it. End the crisis and ensure that the College of Divination would not fall.

  Q’arlynd smiled. “Thanks, Eilistraee,” he said, only half-jokingly. He nudged Leliana again with his foot, glancing warily at the prone bodies of the deep gnomes. “Now if I could just ask one more favor of you …”

  Leliana, however, remained unconscious.

  Durth snorted in his sleep and rolled over.

  Q’arlynd grimaced. Then he remembered what Cavatina had told him, during the briefing. Perhaps Qilué would know what to do.

  He whispered her name. A heartbeat later, her voice filled his mind. Q’arlynd? What is it?

  “The svirfneblin,” he said aloud. “They betrayed us. They’re trading with the Crones. Supplying them with voidstone.” Swiftly, he summed up what he’d just learned, capping it with the fact that he and Leliana were alone—and in trouble.

  I will tell the others.

  “They’re too far away to get here in time! And these svirfneblin may wake up at any moment. Leliana’s unconscious, and my arms are withered. I can’t very well drag her away. We need your help. Is there anything you can do?”

  No. But there’s something you can do. Pray.

  With that, the communication ended.

  Q’arlynd raged at the high priestess’s sudden dismissal, even though it was to be expected. He was expendable. Despite his vital discovery of the voidstone.

  He stared down at Leliana, then at the slumbering and unconscious svirfneblin. The answer was simple, of course. He could just walk away and leave her there. It was the logical thing to do. The only sane thing to do.

  Instead he fell to his knees. Pray, Qilué had said. He snorted. As if Eilistraee had time to listen to him. But he was willing to give it a try. If it didn’t work, he’d go. At least then, if the deep gnomes killed Leliana, it would be Eilistraee’s fault.

  He flopped one arm toward the unconscious priestess, moving it until his hand touched her holy symbol. Resting his useless fingers on it, he mumbled a prayer. “Eilistraee, it’s uh, Q’arlynd. I pledged myself to you a couple of years ago. I need your help. Leliana needs your help. Heal her.”

  Durth stirred again. Still asleep, but starting to wake up.

  Leliana remained unconscious. Q’arlynd’s prayer hadn’t worked.

  He stood. That was it. He was out of there.

  Leliana’s eyes fluttered. “Q’arlynd?” She winced, as if speaking had hurt. One of her hands lifted slightly from the floor, grasping weakly.

  Q’arlynd fell to his knees beside her and gripped her sleeve with his teeth. He lifted her arm, positioning her hand over her chest, above her holy symbol. He released his grip, and her hand fell on the miniature sword.

  “Leliana, you need to heal yourself. If you don’t, we’re in big trouble.”

  Leliana nodded weakly. Her lips began to move. Her prayer came in whispered snatches, but a melody was there. Slowly, her voice strengthened. The song’s final note burst from her lips with a joyous peal, and her head wound vanished. She sat up, looked around at the svirfneblin, and immediately grasped her sword. She climbed to her feet, murder in her eye.

  “Wait!” Q’arlynd said. “We need them. They’re our way into the Acropolis. Heal me, and I’ll deal with them.”

  Leliana gave him a suspicious look but eventually nodded. Touching her holy symbol a second time, she sang out a prayer. Q’arlynd sighed in relief as a tingling rushed through his arms. A moment more, and they were functional again. He flexed his fingers and grinned.

  “Remember that trick I pulled on the lamia, back when we first met?” he asked.

  Leliana nodded.

  Q’arlynd grabbed one of the deep gnomes and dragged him over to where Durth lay. “Haul that other one over here. Once I’ve trapped them, you can use that truth-compelling prayer of yours. These three were on their way to the Acropolis to deliver the contents of that strongbox to the Crones. They’re about to tell us everything we need to know in order to do the same.”

  Leliana raised her eyebrows. “You missed your calling,” she said as she grabbed the other unconscious deep gnome and dragged him across the floor. “You should have been a Nightshadow.”

  “Perhaps I should have,” Q’arlynd whispered to himself. Then he cast his spell.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cavatina levitated up the mineshaft, fully on alert. The description the Protectors had given of the “demon” matched Halisstra, but Cavatina was still cautious. As she rose, she pulled the stopper from her iron flask. If this turned out to be a demon after all, she’d trap it.

  She landed softly at the lip of the shaft and looked around. The cavern was wide and filled with ancient debris. Tunnels led off from it in three directions. The glow of the Faerzress contrasted with the dark shadows of fallen timbers, winches, tangles of wire, and other abandoned equipment. Halisstra might have been hiding anywhere.

  So might any number of undead.

  “Halisstra?” Cavatina called softly. The sword in her hand hummed softly, a precaution against enchantments.

  She heard a scuffling in the tunnel to her left. “Halisstra?” she called again, slightly louder. She walked in the direction of the noise.

  Something scurried up a support beam beside her. Cavatina turned. A rat stared down at her from a sagging roof timber, eyes gleaming. It regarded her a moment, then scuttled away.

  Cavatina stood in silence, wondering if Zindira might have been seeing things—shadows turned into demons by an overactive imagination. Zindira was a Protector, and well trained, yet the encounter with the undead head might have left her jumpy.

  Something touched Cavatina’s shoulder. She whirled and brought her sword into play. At the last moment, she halted her thrust.

  Halisstra stared down at the sword point that touched her midriff, just below the lowest of the eight spider legs protruding from her chest. Her bestial face twisted in a pout. “Is this how you greet a friend?”

  Cavatina took a step back, sword still at the ready. If the creature was a demon, somehow impersonating Halisstra, it was doing a fine job of it. “Is that really you, Halisstra?”

  “You want proof?” The fangs protruding from her cheeks twitched. She pointed at Cavatina’s breastplate. “Those dents: they’re from Selvetarm’s teeth. You were in his jaws—helpless—when I passed you the Crescent Blade.” She cocked her head. “That’s something I’ll bet the ballads don’t tell.”

  Cavatina nodded. Indeed it wasn’t. She lowered her sword. “Halisstra.”

  Halisstra bent in a self-deprecating bow. “In the flesh.”

  “What happened to you after Selvetarm died? I went back to the Demonweb Pits to search for you but couldn’t find you. Where have you been?”

  Halisstra’s shoulders slumped. She was still twice Cavatina’s height. “Lolth captured me. She imprisoned me in her fortress.”

  “You escaped?”

  Halisstra shook her head. Her matted hair was stuck to her shoulders and didn’t move. “Lolth bored of me. She threw me out. She said I’d served my purpose.”

  “Which was …?” Cavatina prompted.

  Halisstra’s eyes gleamed maliciously. “To help you slay Selvetarm.”

  Cavatina’s lips parted in surprise. “Lolth wanted him dead?”

  “Of course,” Halisstra hung her head. “He’d outlived his usefulness, too.”

  Cavatina tightened her grip on her sword. It was unlike Lolth to simply cast a tool aside. The Spider Queen delighted in destruction and would shred a soul after only the slightest of provocations. Halisstra was probably wrong in saying that Lolth had no further use for her. Was she back under the Spider Queen’s thrall? Had she ever not been?

  “Did Lolth order you to help me kill Selvetarm?”

  “No. I did that of my own accord. Because …” Halisstra’s head lifted. “Because you offered me redemption.” She raised a hand and held it out imploringly. “I’m ready to accept it. To atone for all I’ve done.”

  Cavatina
stared at the proffered hand. The claws that tipped Halisstra’s fingers were filthy, jagged as broken glass. The hand itself was misshapen, bestial, its palm scarred.

  The gesture seemed sincere, but Cavatina was no fool. Decades of hunting demons had taught her caution. Had the Faerzress not prevented her from singing a divination, she might have found out if Halisstra was telling the truth—to find out if it was Halisstra, and not just some demon who had been told, by Lolth, the details of her champion’s death. As it was, Cavatina would have to resort to other methods.

  “Quarthz’ress,” she whispered.

  Silver light flashed out of the flask, striking Halisstra in the chest. Instead of recoiling, she glanced down dispassionately as the rays ricocheted off her glossy black skin. Slowly, the glow of the flask faded until only the bluish flicker of Faerzress remained.

  “You think I’m a demon,” Halisstra said. She gave an odd, strangled laugh and spread her arms wide. “Go on. Kill me, then.”

  “If you really are Halisstra, I can’t.”

  “Exactly.” Halisstra’s hand whipped out and caught the sword, midway down the blade. She yanked—hard—driving it into her own chest.

  Cavatina, horrified, yanked it out again. The sword keened as she danced away from the wounded Halisstra. She watched, horrified, as Halisstra doubled over, grunting against the pain. Halisstra braced one hand against the floor and shuddered, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Her other hand clutched her wound. Slowly her flesh closed. At last she rose.

  “You see?” she said. “It’s me. Lolth still won’t let me die.” Anguished eyes bored into Cavatina’s. “Please. Help me.” The hand lifted imploringly again. “Rip Lolth’s webs from my soul. Redeem me.”

  “Halisstra,” Cavatina said. “It really is you.”

  She lowered her sword and reached out with her free hand.

  Halisstra took it.

  A low chuckle escaped from Halisstra’s throat like a burble of blood. Then she threw back her head and howled, “Wendonai!”

  Suddenly, Cavatina and Halisstra were somewhere … else.

  Halisstra released Cavatina’s hand and leaped backward, laughing. Cavatina whirled. All around her was a flat, featureless plain whose sun-bleached ground glittered as if it had been seeded with salt. A hot wind howled past her, and grit stung her skin. A few paces away stood a pile of flaming skulls. A figure reclined lazily on them, basking in their heat: a demon with horns, folded bat wings and brick-red skin. A balor. He smiled at her, lazily scratching his groin.