Sacrifice of the Widow

by Lisa Smedman

  At one point one of the driders—one also with a pattern of scars on its face—attempted to cast an enchantment on him. Q’arlynd had been trained to shield his mind, and he laughed aloud when the drider tried to implant a suggestion that he flee. He pummeled it with a blast from his wand and ran on, searching for Leliana and Rowaan.

  He saw someone he thought was Leliana battling two driders, but when he got closer, he realized it was a different priestess entirely. She didn’t seem to need his assistance. Q’arlynd watched, fascinated, as she released her sword, which sang as it flew through the air. As the weapon slashed at one of the driders, keeping it busy, she sang a prayer. Her hands swept down, calling a brilliant white light down from the night sky. It slammed into the second drider, knocking it to the ground. In the same instant, her sword stabbed the first drider through the heart. Then it flew back to the priestess’s hand.

  The streak of light had left Q’arlynd blinking. As his vision cleared, he realized the priestess faced yet another opponent—not a drider, but a drow, a male in armor as black and glossy as obsidian, holding a two-handed sword with an intricate basket hilt. The warrior’s skin was covered in a tracery of fine white lines, similar to the scars Q’arlynd had seen on the driders’ faces, except that the lines were glowing.

  The warrior swung at the priestess, his blade hissing through the air. She dodged it—barely. The warrior whirled, his long white braid whipping through the air as he turned and slashed again. This blow the priestess tried to parry, but the warrior’s sword sliced her blade off at the hilt. The priestess threw what remained aside and tried to cast a spell, but even as her lips shaped the first word of her prayer, the enormous black sword slashed straight down, cleaving through her body from head to groin. One half of the body toppled to the ground at once. The other half wavered a moment before falling. As Q’arlynd watched, both halves blackened then crumbled like soot. Soon all that was left was the woman’s boots and armor, surrounded by a pool of rapidly blackening blood. This began to bubble, resolving itself into a foul slick of tiny spiders. The warrior dipped the point of his sword into them, and they scuttled up its blade. They disappeared into the steel, as if absorbed.

  Q’arlynd realized he was just standing there, staring. Suddenly coming to his senses, he rendered himself invisible a heartbeat before the warrior turned.

  The warrior stared in Q’arlynd’s direction. He swung his sword in a slow arc until its point was aimed directly at Q’arlynd. The invisibility Q’arlynd had cloaked himself in vanished. He fumbled for his spell components, cursing his shaking hands. He was a battle mage, damn it. He’d faced down powerful enemies before. What in the Abyss was it about this warrior that made him so unnerving?

  The eyes, Q’arlynd thought. Those pupils looked like spiders crawling around on the warrior’s eyeballs. It felt as though they were about to scuttle straight into Q’arlynd’s soul.

  The warrior smiled.

  Just as Q’arlynd finally found the spell components he’d been groping for, a drider called out to the warrior from overhead. “This way!” it shouted. “Another one that’s too strong for us.”

  Shouldering the two-handed sword, the warrior strode away in the direction the drider had indicated, leaving Q’arlynd behind.

  Q’arlynd closed his eyes and shivered. The warrior had let him go.

  Why?

  It took Q’arlynd several moments to regain his composure. When he had, he continued through the forest—less brazenly this time, constantly glancing over his shoulder for any sign of the spider-eyed warrior. He’d almost forgotten that he’d been looking for Leliana when he suddenly spotted her just ahead. She was on her own, surrounded by three driders, all with scarred faces.

  He reached into the pocket of his piwafwi then hesitated. No one else was around, and it looked as though Leliana would be fighting on her own. He decided to wait and see what happened. If the driders killed her, well and good. It would save him the trouble of doing something that a truth spell might later reveal.

  He stepped back behind a tree, out of sight, and settled in to watch, arms folded across his chest.

  Even though it was three against one, Leliana put up a good fight, but then a fourth drider pounced on her from above, dropping swiftly out of a cloud of darkness. The priestess smashed it aside with her sword, but one of the other three driders leaped forward and sank its fangs into her thigh, just below the hem of her chain mail. She cried out but didn’t immediately fall—possibly she had some magical protection against poison. Then the drider tore its fangs free of her flesh. Blood sprayed from the wound, splashing a tree several paces away. The bite had opened an artery. Leliana crumpled, her face ashen gray.

  That was it then. The driders had done the job for Q’arlynd, just as he’d hoped.

  Three of the driders levitated away from the body and scurried off into the treetops. The fourth, however, lingered. From behind the tree, Q’arlynd aimed his fur-wrapped rod at the creature and spoke a word, hurling a lightning bolt at it. The drider never saw it coming. The bolt struck the back of its head, blasting it from the creature’s body. Spider legs crumpled beneath a smoking corpse.

  Q’arlynd thought he heard movement in the woods behind him then. It was difficult to tell, with all of the noise of battle, but a quick glance revealed nothing. He walked toward Leliana, intending to ensure that she was dead. As he stared down at her body, he felt a momentary twinge of an unfamiliar emotion. It was unfortunate, really, that she had to die. Leliana was an attractive female, and he’d enjoyed their verbal sparring matches.

  He shook off the feeling. The world was harsh. Leliana had been about to carve Q’arlynd up for the amusement of her goddess. But instead she wouldn’t be able to tell the others about the priestess who had died in Ched Nasad. What was done was done.

  Or was it? Q’arlynd heard something that sounded like a ragged breath. He glanced down at his feet and saw the priestess’s eyelashes flutter. Was Leliana still alive?

  He readied a spell, one that would finish her off without leaving too much of a mark, but for some reason, he felt a lingering reluctance to do what must be done. Brutally, he shoved this useless sentiment aside and sighted along his finger at Leliana’s chest. A faint haze of magical energy danced at his fingertip.

  Behind him, he heard someone shouting Leliana’s name. Rowaan. She was practically upon him—close enough that she’d witness whatever he did next. That changed things. Adopting a protective pose over Leliana, Q’arlynd sent the magical bolt into the body of the drider he’d already killed. Then he turned and prostrated himself on the ground.

  “There were four of them, Mistress, attacking Leliana,” he cried. He gestured at the one he’d blasted with his lightning bolt. “I killed one and drove the others off.”

  Behind him, Leliana’s breath rattled raggedly in and out. In moments she would be dead.

  Rowaan barely acknowledged him. She fell to her knees at Leliana’s side, a stricken expression on her face. Q’arlynd raised his head slightly, watching. His wand was still in his hand, and he shifted position so that it pointed directly at Rowaan. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, he’d blast her with it.

  Rowaan ignored him. She lifted her right hand and brushed her lips against the platinum band on her index finger, whispering something. Then she clenched her hand and closed her eyes.

  Q’arlynd knew the moment he’d been waiting for had arrived, but curiosity stayed his hand. A moment later, his eyes widened as Rowaan cried out in anguish. He glanced around, expecting to see a drider, but no attackers were visible. By the time he’d returned his attention to Rowaan, she lay on the ground, her face gray and her breathing shallow and ragged. There was a ragged gash in her thigh, a wound identical to the one that had felled the other priestess, and Leliana, amazingly, was sitting up. There wasn’t a mark on her. It was as if the drider attack hadn’t even happened.

  Rowaan gave one final gurgle then died.

  Leliana’s firs
t action was to glance at Rowaan and cry out. Her second, upon seeing Q’arlynd staring at her, wand in hand, was to raise her sword.

  “Mistress, wait!” he shouted. He pointed at the lightning-blasted drider. “I tried to save your life by killing him. Is this the thanks I get?”

  She hesitated. She glanced at the dead drider and slowly lowered her sword. She turned to Rowaan and pressed her fingers against the dead priestess’s throat in several places, searching for a life pulse without success. Still ignoring Q’arlynd, she raised her own ring to her lips.

  Q’arlynd shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Those weren’t slave rings, they instead seemed to transfer wounds from one person to the next. Rowaan had willingly forfeited her own life to save Leliana, and Leliana was about to attempt the same.

  Eilistraee’s followers were insane.

  Or perhaps there was some other reason for their actions that Q’arlynd didn’t know about yet. Perhaps priestesses who died in battle received some boon from their goddess after death. Rowaan might have just snatched that honor from Leliana by dying in her place, and the other priestess wanted to take it back again.

  Except that the expression on Leliana’s face was not one of anger at having been cheated but of anguish.

  Before Q’arlynd could ponder that mystery further, another priestess came rushing through the woods—one of those Q’arlynd had aided earlier. Leliana lowered the hand that wore the ring. Apparently she wanted to continue living, after all.

  “Rowaan’s been killed!” she cried. “Help her!”

  As the priestess set to work, Leliana whirled to face Q’arlynd. “You followed us here. Why?”

  “I hoped to prove myself a worthy addition to Eilistraee’s forces, Mistress,” he said, bowing. He was used to angry females and knew exactly what to say, and his words were no longer constrained by a truth spell. “I thought that by joining the fight, I might atone for … that unfortunate accident in Ched Nasad. I arrived as you were battling the four driders. I managed to kill the one you see here, but the other three escaped. Surely, in light of the assistance I’ve just rendered, you will reconsider your earlier decision to kill me?”

  Leliana blinked. “Kill you? What makes you think—”

  A low groan interrupted her. The priestess who had just cast the restorative spell sat back and whispered a prayer of thanks to her goddess.

  Rowaan was alive again.

  Leliana fell to her knees and embraced her. She touched the ring on Rowaan’s finger. “That was bravely done, Rowaan.”

  Rowaan gave a weak shrug. “No need for thanks.” She nodded at the woman who had raised her from death. “I knew Chezzara would be along eventually.”

  “Even so,” Leliana said. “Death weakened you. Your magic will never be as strong.”

  “You would do the same for me, Mother. I know you would.”

  Q’arlynd’s eyes widened slightly at that. He gave a mental nod. He’d already noted the resemblance between the two priestesses, yet he was surprised to hear that they were mother and daughter. Normally, among the drow, that counted for little. “Blood,” as the old expression went, “was only a dagger-thrust deep.” Mothers, more often than not, outlived their daughters—the slightest hint of treachery was met with brutal retaliation. But Leliana and Rowaan seemed to share something more than a mere House name: one of those rare bonds of genuine affection.

  Elsewhere in the woods, swords clashed and a woman cried Eilistraee’s name, reminding them that the battle still raged.

  “I’m needed,” the priestess who had raised Rowaan said. She pointed at Q’arlynd. “And so is he. Whoever he is, he’s a formidable fighter, and it’s not just driders we’re facing. There’s a judicator fighting alongside them.”

  Both Leliana and Rowaan startled.

  The healer, that dire pronouncement made, turned and hurried away into the woods.

  Leliana helped Rowaan sit up then turned to Q’arlynd. She stared at him a long moment then inclined her head.

  “Thank you.”

  Q’arlynd bowed. “My pleasure, but before we rejoin the battle, I have one question. What’s a judicator?”

  “One of Selvetarm’s champions,” Leliana answered.

  “One of his clerics?” Q’arlynd asked. He shuddered at the memory of spider-pupiled eyes.

  “More.” Leliana’s expression grim. “Much more.”

  Judging by the abrupt way the scream had cut off, another priestess had just found that out.

  As the sun rose the next morning, Flinderspeld wandered through the forest, squinting against the harsh glare of the sun. Drider corpses were everywhere—draped over tree branches and splayed on the ground in a litter of shattered legs, blood, and smashed chitin. Strangely, he hadn’t seen any dead priestesses, though there was evidence that several had died. Three times, he found a breastplate sliced entirely in two, atop a crumpled pile of chain mail and boots and with a sword lying nearby. It was as if the women who had died wearing the armor had suddenly vanished, leaving their weapons and equipment behind.

  Flinderspeld was very, very glad that he hadn’t met up with whatever had done that.

  He spotted a living priestess a short distance ahead and hurried toward her. Torn links dangled from a slash in her chain mail, and her breastplate was drenched with blood. She stood, sword blade resting on her shoulder, staring down at another pile of empty armor.

  “Ah, excuse me,” Flinderspeld asked. “I’m looking for the priestess Vlashiri. Leliana told me to seek her out.”

  The woman looked at him with hollow, exhausted eyes. “You found her.”

  Flinderspeld couldn’t believe his luck. He held up the finger that bore the slave ring. “Leliana said you could remove the curse from this slave ring.”

  “That’s no longer possible.”

  Flinderspeld blinked. “But Leliana promised. She—”

  “Too late for promises,” the priestess said. “Vlashiri’s … gone. There isn’t anything left of her to resurrect.”

  “Oh.” Flinderspeld looked down at the empty armor, suddenly realizing that the priestess he was speaking to wasn’t Vlashiri, after all. “Is there anyone else who could …?”

  The look in the woman’s eye silenced him. “Not any more. Not at this shrine, at least.” Then she sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that … Try the Promenade, near Waterdeep. That’s our main temple. Several of the priestesses there are familiar with curses. Perhaps one of them could help you.”

  Flinderspeld nodded politely, though he had never heard of the place. Even if this “Waterdeep” was only a league away, he was unlikely to reach it. He’d managed to avoid his master during the frenzy of the past night’s drider attack, but with the battle over, sooner or later Q’arlynd would—

  As if on cue, he felt his master’s awareness slide into his mind, like a dagger into a well-oiled sheath. Flinderspeld turned and saw the wizard walking toward him.

  “Ah, Flinderspeld. There you are. I was worried you might have vanished.”

  Not a good choice of words, Master, Flinderspeld thought back, pointedly nodding at the empty armor.

  Q’arlynd paled. Flinderspeld wondered why Vlashiri’s empty armor unnerved his master so.

  “Vlashiri’s dead?” Q’arlynd asked, repeating aloud the information he had just plucked from Flinderspeld’s mind. The wizard glanced at the ring on Flinderspeld’s hand. “I suppose you’ll have to find someone else to remove that ring then, won’t you?”

  If that’s meant to be a joke, it isn’t funny.

  Q’arlynd wagged a finger at him. “Don’t be so bitter, Flinderspeld. This isn’t the time for it. I’m about to accept Eilistraee as my patron deity. You’re going to be my witness. Come.”

  Dutifully, Flinderspeld trudged after his master. He had no choice. If he disobeyed, Q’arlynd would take over his body and march him along like a puppet. Flinderspeld had borne that stoically, back in Ched Nasad—as a slave in a drow city, his only
chance at survival had been to obey his master, and Q’arlynd, for all his bluster, had never harmed him. After what Flinderspeld had seen the past night, he was starting to question his master’s decency. Flinderspeld, invisible, had followed Q’arlynd. He’d seen his master stand idly by while the driders killed Leliana. He’d also noted the flicker of magical energy around Q’arlynd’s hands as he stared down at her near-fatal wounds—a flicker that always preceded a deadly magical bolt. Until that moment, Flinderspeld had thought that his master joined the battle to prove himself to the priestesses, but he soon understood that Q’arlynd must have intended to kill Leliana and Rowaan all along.

  It was something Flinderspeld should have anticipated. He’d been stupid to think that his master was different from other dark elves.

  Q’arlynd led him to a section of the forest that was littered with broken chunks of stone, the ruins of buildings that had fallen long ago. Eventually, they came to an odd-looking structure that must have been a shrine to the drow sword goddess. It consisted of a dozen sword-shaped columns of black obsidian, set point-first into a circular platform of white stone. The hilts of the column-swords were flattened, and supported a circular roof, also of white stone, that had a hole at its center. The shrine looked ancient, its moon-shaped roof weathered until its edges were softly rounded.

  Flinderspeld admired the columns as they approached the shrine through the ground-hugging mist. Obsidian was a difficult stone to work with, its brittle edges constantly flaking and splitting. Whoever had carved the rounded contours of those sword hilts was a master, and they’d also known how to use magic. Even after centuries of exposure to the elements, the edges of those swords still looked sharp. There was dried blood on one of them—blood shed, presumably, by driders.