“Here!” Yngoth cried from somewhere on the floor. “We didn’t see the demon until the last second. It is the darkness!”
“I understand.”
At least she wasn’t blind. She’d heard of demons made of darkness itself, though she had never had occasion to summon one. They were said to be hard to catch and even harder to bind.
“Guard!” she called.
This time she didn’t hear an answer and wasn’t surprised. The invader’s presence suggested the sentry was either a traitor or dead.
Quenthel sensed something rushing at her. She flung herself sideways, and something crashed against the patch of wall immediately behind the space she’d just vacated. The stone floor chilled her through her gauzy wisp of a chemise.
As planned, she fetched up against the stand where she kept certain small pieces of her regalia. She leaped up and groped about the rectangular stone tabletop. To her disgust, a couple items rattled to the floor, but then her fingers closed on a medallion of beautifully cut glass.
Squinting, she invoked the trinket’s power. A dazzling glare blazed through the room. Quenthel had to shield her own eyes, hoping the terrible light would destroy a living darkness altogether.
The magic light and the equally supernatural darkness made for a split second when the lighting in the room was as it was before the creature had entered. At least Quenthel could open her eyes.
Her assailant, seemingly unaffected by the light, was a ragged central blot with long, tattered arms snaking throughout the room, ubiquitous as smoke. Drinking in all the glow, reflecting none, it was dead black and deceptively flat-looking. It thrust a long, thin probe at the medallion and Quenthel jerked the token aside. The shaft of blackness veered, compensating, and struck the medallion hard enough to knock it out of her hand. The light died instantly when the glass medallion shattered on the floor.
Fortunately, the illumination had lasted long enough for her to note the locations of several other objects on the stand. She instinctively ducked, the tentacle swept over her head and tousled her hair, and she grabbed a scroll. As before, she would regret expending any of the spells contained therein, but she’d regret dying even more.
Conversant with the contents of the parchment, she didn’t need to see the trigger phrase to “read” it. She recited the words, and a shaft of yellow flame roared down from the ceiling through the spot where the core of the demon had been floating. The firelight showed that it was still there. The blaze passed right through it, and all its arms and streamers of murk convulsed.
The column of flame vanished after a moment, leaving, despite the care the drow had taken to shield her eyes, a haze of afterimage bisecting her vision. It took her a second to realize that dull, wavering stripe was the only thing she could see. The darkness had survived. It had clotted its essence around her to seal her eyes once more.
You’re a tough one, she thought, sending the unspoken words to the mind of the demon as she, a divine emissary of Lolth, was trained to do.
There was no response, and Quenthel felt no connection made between her mind and the consciousness of the demon. This was no servant of Lolth’s.
Alive and impossible to command, it would surely grab or strike at her, and this time intuition was failing her. She had no idea from where the attack would come, so she didn’t know which way to dodge to evade it. She simply had to guess, jump somewhere and not let blindness and indecision delay her. She pivoted, and something struck her shoulder.
At first it was just a startling jolt, then pain burned at the point of impact, and wet blood flowed. Either the darkness could harden its members into claws or else it had picked up a blade from somewhere in the chamber.
Quenthel was glad her teachers had taught her to suffer a wound without the shock of it freezing her in her tracks, helpless to avert her adversary’s follow-up attack. She kept moving, making herself, she hoped, a more difficult target.
Something hissed. The source of the sound was almost under her feet. Evidently, dragging the whip handle behind them, her vipers had been slithering about endeavoring to locate her in the dark. She stooped, fumbled about their cool, sinuous lengths for a moment, achieved the proper grip, and lifted the weapon.
The serpents reared, hissed, and peered, each in a different direction. Quenthel realized they could see what she could not. The darkness was preparing to attack.
The priestess deepened her psionic link with her snake-demon servants. She still couldn’t see where her adversary’s tentacles were poised, but she had a sense of them. That would have to do.
The darkness reached for her, and, turning and turning, she swung the whip repeatedly. Her aim was inexact, but the vipers twisted in the air to correct it.
Toward the end, she was breathing harder, and her actions were getting bigger, slower, and wilder, as any combatant’s will if she performs too many without a pause. Then something long and pointed plunged into the back of her thigh.
Quenthel knew at once from the flare of pain and the gush of blood that this puncture wound was worse than the gash in her shoulder. She staggered a step, and her leg began to fold. The whip vipers hissed in alarm.
She shouted to focus her will and quell the agony, to force the limb to obey. Throbbing, it straightened.
She spun and struck at the tentacle that had stabbed her, lashing it to pieces before it could do the same again. At that same instant, her serpent familiars detected hands reaching for her neck. She spun, destroyed those as well, and at last the shadow stopped attacking.
Feeling the blood stream down her leg to pool on the floor, her mind racing, Quenthel considered her situation. She must be causing the demon pain—if not it would attack relentlessly, never faltering until she fell—but that didn’t necessarily mean she was well on her way to killing it. From what she knew of such entities, it seemed entirely possible that she would have to do more harm to the nucleus at the end of the tendrils to accomplish that. Assuming she could reach or even locate it amid the obfuscating gloom.
It might be better not to try, to take advantage of this momentary respite and make a run for it, but she knew that if she moved the demon would move with her, which would mean she’d still be scurrying sightlessly along. In her suite, that wasn’t an enormous problem—she knew every inch of the space by heart—but outside, she could easily take a hard, incapacitating fall. If that happened or if her leg gave out before she found help, her foe would have little difficulty finishing her off.
No, she would kill the cursed thing by herself, quickly, while she was still on her feet. The only question was, how?
One of the weapons in her hidden closet might do the trick, but she had no way of reaching them. The demon would slay her while she fumbled in the dark to manipulate the hidden lock. She would have to make do with the resources in her hands, which meant using another scroll spell and taking a gamble as well.
The demon renewed the attack. Quenthel struck and deflected a tentacle with sawlike teeth on the edge. Next came an arm terminating in a studded bulb like the head of a mace. Poised to beat her skull in, that one was no use either. She sidestepped the blow, the vipers tore into the limb, and the living darkness snatched it back.
A simple tentacle, with no blades or bludgeons sprouting from its end, snaked toward her. It seemed as if it was going to try to grab and restrain her weapon arm. She pretended she didn’t notice.
The strand of shadow dipped to the floor, hooked around Quenthel’s ankle, and jerked her good leg out from under her. The change of target caught her by surprise, and she fell hard on her back, banging her head and shooting pain through her wounded limbs.
It took her an instant to shake off the shock. When she did, she sensed the fiend’s other limbs poised to slash and pound. She was almost out of time to recite the trigger phrase.
But not quite.
She rattled off the three words, and power seethed and tingled inside her flesh. She discharged it into the living darkness, an easy task sin
ce the demon was holding onto her. She held her breath, waiting to see what would happen.
Like allowing her adversary to seize her, this too was a part of the gamble. The magic she had just unleashed would weaken a dark elf or pretty much any other mortal being to the point of death. However, depending on its precise nature, the demon—or whatever it was—might simply shrug it off. It might even feed on the blast of force and grow stronger than before.
The ploy worked. The fiend was susceptible, at least to some degree. She knew it when the entity’s limbs flailed and thrashed in spasms, the one on her ankle releasing her to twist and flop about. The ambient darkness blinked out of existence for a second as the creature’s grip on its surroundings wavered.
One instant of vision was all Quenthel needed to mark where her enemy’s ragged core was floating. She scrambled up, charged it, and found that she was hobbling, every other stride triggering a jolt of pain. She didn’t let the discomfort slow her down.
The creature of darkness was recovering. Two tendrils squirmed at Quenthel. She ducked one and lashed the other, which flinched back.
After two more steps, she judged, hoped, that she’d limped within striking distance of the entity’s formless heart. She swung the whip, and shouted in satisfaction when she felt the vipers’ fangs rip something more resistant than empty air.
She struck as hard and as fast as she could, grunting with every stroke. Her snakes warned her of tendrils looping around behind her, and she ignored the threat. If she left off attacking the center of the darkness, she might not get another chance.
The darkness obscuring the room started rapidly oscillating between presence and absence. Quenthel’s motions looked oddly jerky in the disjointed moments of vision.
Tentacles grabbed and dragged her backward. She shouted in rage and frustration. As if responding to her cry, the arms dissolved, dumping her back on the floor.
Quenthel raised her head and peered about. There was no longer any impediment to sight. The murderous darkness was gone. Her last blow must have been mortal. It had just taken the creature another second or two to succumb.
“It’s dead!” hissed Hsiv. “What now, Mistress?”
“First … I’m going to sit … and tend my wounds, then we’re going to look … for my sentry,” panted Quenthel, attenuating her rapport with the vipers. In too deep and prolonged a communion, shades of identity could bleed in one direction or the other. “If she’s lucky, she’s already dead.”
She wished she were as undaunted as she was trying to sound, but it appeared that demonic assassins were going to keep coming for her. She’d hoped that the appearance of the spider demon might be an isolated incident. She’d thought that if any more such fiends did appear, the renewed wards would keep them out. Plainly, she’d been too optimistic.
At least Arach-Tinilith was the seat of her power. There, she could deploy a small army of retainers and a hoard of magical devices in her own defense, but those resources hadn’t helped her against the darkness, and she couldn’t help wondering how many hostile visitations a priestess in her condition could hope to survive.
chapter
EIGHT
Greyanna’s henchmen came floating down around her. Two were warriors, one a wizard, and the third was another priestess. All wore the half masks of true seeing, giving them the deceptively foolish look of actors in a pantomime.
Pharaun tried to levitate, but the net was too heavy. He willed his animate rapier into existence. The steel ring vanished from his finger, and the long, slim sword materialized outside the net. The blade started slicing at the thick ropes, but to little effect. A rapier was a thrusting weapon and not suited to sawing. Tensing his muscles against the remorseless pressure of the tightening web, he turned the floating sword around to threaten his fellow representatives of House Mizzrym.
Greyanna laughed. “Is that one little bodkin supposed to hold us all at bay?”
“Possibly not,” said Pharaun, straining to work his fingers closer to one of his pockets. “That’s why I instructed it to kill you first.”
“Did you, now?”
His sister motioned her warriors forward. Twin brothers possessed of the same slightly yellowish hair and deeply cleft chin, they carried pale bone longbows slung over their backs in preference to the more common crossbows.
Greyanna herself remained on her mount and produced a scroll from within her piwafwi. Thanks to his remaining ring, Pharaun could see from the complex corona of magical force shining around the rolled parchment that it contained, among others, a spell to disrupt the other fellow’s magic. Perhaps she intended to use it to render the dancing rapier inert long enough for her minions to break or immobilize it.
The wretched ropes were digging into the wizard’s flesh like knives. He would hardly have been surprised if they drew blood. They were certainly cutting off his circulation and numbing his extremities. Trembling with effort, he shifted his fingers another inch.
“My companion is Ryld Argith,” he said, “a Master of Melee-Magthere. He’s never done anything to you, and you will place yourself in debt to the warriors of the pyramid by killing him.”
Entangled as he was, Pharaun couldn’t even turn his head to look at his friend anymore, but he could hear Ryld grunting and swearing and feel him shaking the net. The swordsman was plainly trying to free himself, but it seemed unlikely that even his extraordinary strength would be enough if he was unable to bring one of his blades to bear, and apparently such was the case.
“I’ve kept tabs on you through the years.” Greyanna said. “I know Master Argith is your most valued comrade. I don’t need him trying to liberate or avenge you. Our mother will handle Melee-Magthere.”
On further inspection, Pharaun observed that the subordinate priestess had readied a scroll as well. That struck him as vaguely odd, but he supposed this was hardly the time to ponder the possible significance.
The warriors were approaching steadily but warily, and not merely, he suspected, because of the hovering rapier. Greyanna could neutralize the weapon, but they feared that Pharaun would work some terrible magic that only required speech, not gestures or a focal object. He was sorry to disappoint them. He did have one or two such spells in his memory but none that could annihilate all five of these unpleasant folk at a single stroke, and he knew that once he conjured some devastating attack, they would abandon any intention of taking him alive for a demise by torture. They would strike back as fast and murderously as possible, and immobilized in the mesh, he would have little hope of defending against their efforts.
“Actually, you ought to think twice about harming either of us,” he said, hoping that further conversation would slow the fighters’ advance, even if only for a second.
Greyanna chuckled. “Be assured, I’ve thought of it a thousand thousand times.”
“The archmage won’t like it.”
“I’m acting on behalf of the Council. I doubt he’ll deem it politic to retaliate … any more than Melee-Magthere will.”
“Well, Gromph won’t sign his name to your cadaver, but someday …”
Pharaun’s fingers finally jerked into the pocket and closed around a small but sturdy leather glove. With the net still tightening every second, it was just as hard to withdraw the article as it had been to reach it. He experimented to see if he could possibly fumble it through the proper mystical pass.
Such a cramped, tiny motion was neither easy nor natural for him. He was accustomed to conjure with a certain flair, making sweeping, dramatic gestures. Yet he had on occasion practiced making the signs as small as possible. It was good for his control and had a few times allowed him to cast a spell without an adversary realizing what he was about. So he had some hope of properly manipulating the glove. If only the web wasn’t so constrictive or his hand so dead and awkward.
“Excuse me,” Greyanna said, then suspended the conversation to read from her scroll.
It was of course divine magic, not arcane, and Pharaun d
idn’t recognize all the words. The effect, however, was unmistakable. The rapier jerked and fell to the ground with a clank. The masked wizard stepped forward and scooped it up. Pharaun was content at least with the fact that the rapier’s peculiar enchantment would make it impossible for Greyanna’s henchman to turn the weapon on him—at least not for an hour or so.
Pharaun recognized the mage, whose high, wide forehead and small, pointed chin were unmistakable. Pharaun had always thought they made the other mage’s head look like an egg. He was Relonor Vrinn, an able wizard and longtime Mizzrym retainer. He was still wearing his silk sash with the spell foci tucked inside and an eight-pointed gold brooch securing it.
Scimitars in hand, the warriors approached the net. Judging from their smiles, they’d decided there was nothing to fear and were looking forward to beating the two prisoners unconscious.
Pharaun was not yet satisfied with his employment of the glove, but he was rather clearly out of time. He would just have to try the pass and see if it worked. He shifted the focus one more time, meanwhile reciting an incantation under his breath.
A giant hand, radiant and translucent, appeared beneath the net. The instantaneous addition of another object lodged inside jerked the mesh even tighter. Pharaun knew the jolt was coming, but he cried out anyway.
The pain only intensified when, responding to the wizard’s unspoken command, the hand hurtled twenty-five feet into the air, carrying the net and its prisoners along. For a moment, Pharaun feared he would black out, but the pressure eased. As he’d hoped, and despite the best sliding, bunching efforts of the web of ropes, his own weight was dragging him free. He shoved and thrashed to speed the process along.
When he was able, he looked over at Ryld. The hulking warrior was wrestling free of the net as well, though he lost hold of Splitter doing it. The greatsword fell point first, narrowly missed plunging through one of the Mizzrym warriors, and stuck pommel up in the smooth stone surface of the street.
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