Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

  Baltak stared a challenge at him. “I can see what Eldrinn gets out of it, saving his college from ruin, but what about the rest of us?”

  Q’arlynd raised an eyebrow. “Casting high magic doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “Not if I can’t remember how to do it afterward,” Baltak snorted. His eyes strayed to Piri’s corpse. “How do we know you won’t kill us, too, once we’re feebleminded?”

  Alexa snorted. “Don’t be stupid, Baltak. If he’d wanted to do that, he would have blasted us while we were still held by his spell.”

  The transmogrifist continued to stare at Q’arlynd. “No he wouldn’t. If he had, we wouldn’t have been around to cast his spell for him.”

  “Enough!” Q’arlynd snapped. “Can’t you see what’s happening?” He waved a hand at the walls. The Faerzress that infused them had brightened noticeably even in the short time it had taken to explain to his apprentices what he’d planned. It glowed with a steady, blue-green light.

  “The Faerzress is increasing in power by leaps and bounds. We have no idea what other ill effects that may cause. Divination and teleportation may only be the first of several strains of magic to be denied the drow. I know it’s difficult, but you’ve got to trust in the kiira—and in me. And in the school we’re going to build together. You’ve come with me this far. Trusted me. Why stop now?”

  He strode over to the dead wizard and touched a lorestone to Piri’s forehead. It instantly adhered. As Q’arlynd’s kiira had promised, Piri was restored to life. The demon-skinned apprentice sat up slowly, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  Q’arlynd turned to the others, rubbing his left arm. It still tingled from the poison. “It was a struggle, convincing my ancestors that we needed Piri, but they saw the wisdom in letting him participate. For our spell, we need a sixth caster.”

  “A sixth body, you mean,” Baltak grumbled. “Look at him; he’s no better than a walking corpse. The kiira’s in control.”

  “Piri will be restored to full awareness once we’re done,” Q’arlynd said. He bent down and returned the ring to Piri’s finger. “The kiira promised it.”

  “What if it’s lying?” Baltak countered. “What if you’re lying?”

  Q’arlynd returned Baltak’s stare. “Join minds with me. Look deep into my thoughts. Search for hidden motivations, hidden treachery. All of you, take a good, long look. And once you’re satisfied, perhaps we’ll get this done.”

  The instant Q’arlynd dropped his mental defenses, Baltak barged in. Alexa and Eldrinn joined their minds with Q’arlynd’s more tentatively. Zarifar drifted in last, his mind busy tracing the pattern their respective bodies formed. A hexagon, made up of Q’arlynd, the four apprentices who were not yet wearing kiira, and Piri, who was.

  For several moments, Q’arlynd felt his four apprentices rummaging through his secrets. Allowing this was difficult, the equivalent of permitting a hunting lizard to slowly run its tongue along one’s exposed flesh. When they discovered the memories of the additional spells he’d ensorcelled their rings with, he sensed their blunt anger. He also heard their mental nods as they learned that the “trade mission” he and Eldrinn had been on was a ruse—being drow, they’d anticipated the lie—as well as their surprise when they learned of the priestesses’ mission to the Acropolis of Thanatos. He could all but feel their eyebrows rising as they learned of Q’arlynd’s admission into the ranks of Eilistraee’s faithful, and their glee at learning some of the secrets of that forbidden faith. He also felt their sharp indignation at the revelation that the kiira were going to use their bodies—that the five apprentices would, at best, be conduits for the high magic they were about to cast.

  But they also, as they probed even deeper into Q’arlynd’s thoughts and memories, saw the dreams his mind contained. Dreams of founding something that was truly a unity of purpose, of will. Not the resurrection of a noble drow House, but the creation of something new. A union that would transcend the colleges and Houses from which they had each come.

  “Well?” Q’arlynd breathed. He asked the question both with his voice and with his heart.

  Eldrinn lifted his kiira. “I’m convinced.”

  “As am I,” Alexa said quickly.

  Zarifar opened his eyes and silently nodded.

  “Right,” Baltak said. He tried to step in front of the other apprentices, to take charge, but Q’arlynd placed a hand on his shoulder, restraining him. Baltak, for once, relented.

  “On my three-count,” Q’arlynd said. “And be sure to keep your minds linked with mine. One … two … three!”

  As the others pressed their lorestones against their foreheads, Q’arlynd felt the awarenesses that were the other five kiira join them. Each of the apprentices reacted as he’d expected: Baltak with a mental grapple, Alexa with tentative experimentation, Zarifar with a dreamy acceptance, and Eldrinn with cautious curiosity. An instant later, each succumbed as the kiira took hold. The lorestones spoke to one another through the linkage of the rings the six of them wore.

  The combined awarenesses of Q’arlynd and the kiira he wore answered them.

  It is time. Begin.

  Together, they wove a spell. Guided by the kiira, the six drow in unison spoke the words to an enchantment. As the spell waxed, the Faerzress brightened. Through Q’arlynd had to squint against its glare, he forced himself to keep staring at it. The Faerzress was their link to Kiaransalee’s minions, to the undead that drew their power from its negative energy, to the Crones who venerated and created those abominations—to the Goddess of Death herself.

  From each and every one of those minds, something was about to be erased. Not a memory, but a single word.

  In a roundabout way, the inspiration for the enchantment had come from Kiaransalee herself. When Q’arlynd had heard Leliana’s story about Kiaransalee erasing Orcus’s name from shrines and temples the length and breadth of Faerün, he’d accepted the story at face value. The goddess must have acted out of simple vanity, he surmised. Ever the conquering queen, she wanted to obliterate all evidence of one who had ruled before her.

  Q’arlynd had come to realize the deeper implications. All deities needed worshipers to survive. Without a steady stream of the faithful praying to them on Toril and later entering their domains after death, the gods and goddesses would slowly fade away.

  What better way to end Kiaransalee’s worship than by erasing her name from every worshiper’s mind? Even from the mind of the very goddess herself.

  Q’arlynd slapped a hand against the wall. “Kiaransalee!” he cried.

  His spell rippled outward through the Faerzress. Like fire through dry kindling, it burned the minds of Kiaransalee’s faithful. It arced through the Negative Energy Plane, streaking like a bolt of lightning through that vast void and exploding out into the corner of the Demonweb Pits that was Kiaransalee’s domain.

  Q’arlynd heard a tumultuous cry—thousands of voices, shrieking. Abruptly, they choked off into silence.

  The silence of the grave.

  It is done.

  He bowed in thanks. When he rose, he saw that the Faerzress which filled the corridor was muted. Yet it was still there.

  His eyes widened in alarm. “Did we fail?”

  We succeeded. We halted the progression of the Faerzress. But even high magic can’t turn back time.

  Q’arlynd nodded, exhausted. He wondered how Sshamath fared. Was divination magic still possible there? Would the College of Divination teeter and eventually fall? If it did, Q’arlynd would be right back where he’d started, without a master to nominate his school.

  At least he still had the kiira.

  His apprentices stood next to him, glassy-eyed. In unison, they began to move. Stiff as golems, they removed the lorestones from their foreheads, traced the House glyph of their kiira on Kraanfhaor’s Door, and pressed the lorestone against it. The door drew them into itself and its stone smoothed over, leaving no trace of their entry.

  Like humans suddenly awakened fr
om sleep, Q’arlynd’s apprentices shook their heads and stared wonderingly around. For several moments, each wore an expression as vacant as Zarifar’s.

  Then Baltak put his hands on his hips. “Where in the Abyss are we? And what’s that thing on your forehead?”

  Q’arlynd smiled wearily. “That’s a long story. When we return to Sshamath, I’ll tell it to you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Close enough, Cavatina signed.

  They halted near the front of the crowd. The Crones pressed tightly on all sides. The sphere of voidstone hung only a few paces ahead of them, looming as large as the temple had once been. Waves of negative energy crackled from it, chilling the air. The Faezress underfoot brightened with each pulse. The spirit floated above the voidstone, hands raised, leading the chanting in a mournful moan.

  Beside Cavatina, the disguised Kâras raised his arms and mouthed in time with the chant. Cavatina did the same. Odd, that it was a Nightshadow she’d wind up making her final stand with. And yet, somehow, appropriate.

  She caught Kâras’s eye and flicked a hand. Now.

  “Eilistraee!” Cavatina sang out, letting her disguise fall away.

  The nearest Crones spun to face her, their faces twisted with rage.

  Beside her, Kâras plunged his dagger into a Crone and touched Cavatina’s arm. Energy flowed into her, augmenting her prayer.

  “By my song, lay these foul abominations forever to rest!” Cavatina sang, even as the Crones leaped at her, their curved fingers raking wounds into her flesh that instantly festered. Beside her, Kâras slashed desperately with his dagger, trying to take down as many as he could.

  In answer to her prayer, moonlight streaked with shadow erupted from the holy symbol clenched in Cavatina’s fist. It spread through the ranks of the Crones in a flood. Several of the closest Crones collapsed as it washed clean the death magic that had animated them. Others—those who hadn’t yet embraced undeath—continued their attack. Cavatina went down under their scrabbling hands and lost sight of Kâras. But she caught a glimpse of the spirit as the pool of moonlight and shadow she’d summoned struck it. The ghost twisted, wailing, as Eilistraee’s holy song tore at its substance.

  Then the spell ended.

  The spirit remained.

  The ghost threw back its head. Its chest swelled. As it exhaled, a ghastly keening began.

  “Eilistraee!” Cavatina cried. “Lend me your—”

  The keening struck Cavatina like a clapper hitting a bell, sending her body into violent convulsions that choked off her prayer. The Crones, meanwhile, bore down on Cavatina. Their hooked fingers tore open her hand, and her holy symbol fell to the ground. The Crones nearest it reeled away from it, wailing, but others leaped onto Cavatina, knocking her down. Her chin cracked against stone and she tasted blood. Each new laceration was a sharp slash of pain. She struggled to rise but could not. She glanced left, and saw Kâras a pace or two away, no longer disguised as a Crone. He lay in a pool of blood, his flesh scored by dozens of wounds. He wasn’t moving.

  Cavatina felt cold—the chill of the grave. Barely conscious, she strove to choke out her goddess’s name through chattering teeth. “Eil … is … tr—”

  The ghost loomed before her. “You have lost,” she hissed, her whisper somehow carrying clearly above the enraged cries of the Crones. “When we are done with you, not a scrap of your soul will remain.” She drew back, cackling. A sweeping gesture took in both Cavatina and Kâras—and sphere of voidstone. “Throw them into it.”

  Echoing their head priestess’s laughter, the Crones hoisted Cavatina and Kâras into the air. Twice, they nearly dropped Cavatina. She was awash in her own blood, her body almost too slippery to hold. With the last of her strength, Cavatina fought to lift her head, to face her doom bravely. There was no use commending her soul to Eilistraee; in another moment it would all be over. As the Crones bore her to the crumbling lip of stone surrounding the voidstone sphere, Cavatina uttered one final, whispered prayer.

  “Eilistraee. Don’t let it end like this. Please.”

  “Now!” the spirit cried.

  The Crones swung Cavatina backward, preparing to toss her toward the voidstone sphere. But half of them collapsed, going from undeath to death in a blink. Those who remained—the living—struggled to hold Cavatina aloft, but weren’t strong enough. They dropped her and stumbled away, as if they’d given up on killing her.

  A skull smashed down into the stone a couple of paces away from Cavatina. Then another. She twisted around and spotted Kâras, also lying on the ground. Skulls tumbled from the ceiling above, smashing to pieces all around him.

  With the last of her flagging strength, Cavatina forced herself off the ground, one arm raised above her head to fend off the falling skulls. Something had just happened—but what? She looked wearily around, blinking the blood from her eyes.

  The spirit was gone.

  The Crones milled about, not paying the slightest attention to Cavatina and Kâras. A moment earlier, they had been purposeful and grim, but they grew confused confused. They stared at each other, at the corpses of the undead Crones who had fallen, at the silver rings on their own fingers, perplexed looks on their faces. One of them—a Crone who had been holding Cavatina aloft just moments ago—glanced down at Cavatina with a frown, as if trying to remember who she was.

  Cavatina struggled to her feet. The possibility occurred to her that whatever had just happened might be the work of Qilué. Had the Crescent Blade claimed a second deity? Was that why the high priestess hadn’t answered her summons a short time ago—because she’d been preparing to slay …

  She paused, uncertain. What was the name of that goddess again?

  Cavatina glanced around at the milling, gray-robed females. She remembered what they called themselves—Crones—and that they served a goddess of death. But try as she might, Cavatina couldn’t remember that goddess’s name.

  A skull slammed into Cavatina’s shoulder, nearly knocking her to the ground. She staggered to her holy symbol and fell to her knees beside it. One hand pressing against the miniature sword, she prayed.

  “Eilistraee,” she said through thickened lips. “Heal me.”

  Eilistraee’s grace flowed into Cavatina. Her wounds closed. She was not as strong as she might be, but at least she could stand. She dragged Kâras into the lee of a nearby wall, out of the rain of skulls. Then she swung around to face the voidstone.

  The sphere still hung above the ruined temple, but it was no longer expanding. The skulls that struck it vanished, instantly obliterated. The undead legions inside the sphere shouted and pounded against its walls, but could not escape. All the while, the Crones milled about between the fallen undead like club-stunned rothé. Shuffling. Uncertain. A handful of those that still lived were down, knocked to the ground by the rain of falling skulls. For several moments more, the ghastly rain continued. When it at last ended, a dirgelike moan filled the air. The Crones, mourning.

  The crowd had thinned enough so that Cavatina could see the bodies of the fallen Protectors, and the wizards Daffir and Gilkriz. Leliana lay among them, too, her singing sword beside her.

  Cavatina walked to it and picked it up.

  As she raised it, the weapon sang out a strident peal. To Eilistraee. To victory.

  “Qilué!” she called.

  A moment later, the high priestesses’s mind touched hers. Cavatina! Where are you?

  Swiftly, Cavatina described what had just happened. “Lady Qilué, was it your doing?”

  No. I wasn’t the one who killed … her.

  Cavatina noted the hesitation in Qilué’s mental voice. “What happened, then?”

  I can’t answer that. But now is the moment to strike. We need to deal with the surviving Crones—swiftly—before the effect is undone.

  Cavatina glanced around at the milling Crones. Their faces, no longer contorted with the madness of their faith, looked lost, tired, and sad. One of them touched Cavatina’s arm and looked pleadingly
into her eyes, as if seeking an answer to a question she didn’t know how to ask.

  Cavatina shrugged her off. “Should we offer them redemption?” she asked Qilué. “There may be some who—”

  Qilué’s mental voice lashed out like a whip. No. Kill them.

  “But—”

  Eilistraee demands their deaths. They cannot be redeemed. Kill them.

  Cavatina lifted her weapon. That had been an order. And a Darksong Knight did as her high priestess commanded. Cavatina told herself that the Crones had sown the seeds of their own destruction by choosing to worship … whatever evil goddess had just been slain. Cavatina was merely the scythe that fulfilled that grim harvest.

  Lips pressed together in a grim line, she swung her weapon. Right, left, cutting down Crones. Easy as reaping wheat.

  The remaining Crones didn’t even put up a fight. Sword blow by sword blow, they fell.

  Cavatina led fully three dozen priestesses—reinforcements from the Promenade—in song. They stood in a wide circle around the shattered ruin that had been Kiaransalee’s temple, swords pointed at the voidstone. As they sang, healing energy flowed up their blades and across the space between their metal and the sphere. Brighter even than a full moon, the raw positive energy spun the voidstone around, grinding it down like a pebble in a stream.

  Eight Nightshadows worked with the priestesses. They were less skilled in summoning the healing energies of the Prime Material Plane, but they had a role nonetheless. Their chant—whispered from behind their masks—would ensure that after the voidstone had been destroyed, any link with the Negative Energy Plane would be sealed.

  Elsewhere on the island, other Protectors chased down the few undead that had survived Kiaransalee’s fall. As for those priestesses and Nightshadows who had fallen in the earlier battles, their bodies were even then being carried back to the Moondeep Sea. They would be returned to the Promenade and resurrected, Eilistraee willing. So too would Daffir and Gilkriz, if possible. If not, their bodies would be returned to Sshamath for burial. The same would hold true for Mazeer, once her body was found.