Dissolution

by Byers, Richard Lee

  Ryld shot, and his dart fell short of the tower. A split second later, the twin pulled back his bowstring and loosed his arrow in one fluid motion. The shaft looked like a gradually swelling dot, which meant it was speeding straight at its target.

  Ryld dodged back. The arrow whizzed past, and the archer shouted, “Here! I’ve got him here!”

  The weapons master scowled, feeling the pressure of passing time even more acutely than before. He didn’t want to be there when the rest of the enemy arrived, and the only hope of avoiding it was to dispose of his present opponent quickly. The longbow simply had his hand crossbow outclassed. He needed to get in close.

  He drew Splitter, sprang out into the open, and strode toward his foe. The archer sent one arrow after another winging his way, and he knocked them out of the air. The defense was considerably more difficult advancing across the irregular surface of the roof than it would have been standing still on the ground.

  Ryld began to sweat, and his heart beat faster, but he was managing. There came another shaft, this one aglitter with some form of enchantment, and he swatted it down. Rattling, it rolled on down the pitch of the roof.

  He took another step, slapped aside another missile, then heard something—he didn’t know what, just an indefinable change in the sounds around him. He remembered that some enchanters created magical weapons capable of more than flying truer and hitting harder.

  He spun around. The sparkling arrow had launched itself back into the air and circled around behind him. It was streaking toward its target and was only a few feet from his body.

  Ryld wrenched Splitter across in a desperate parry. The edge caught the arrow and split it in two. Spinning through the air, the piece with the point hit his shoulder, but, thanks to his armor, did him no harm.

  He lurched back around with barely enough time to deflect the next shaft, then marched on. Four more paces brought him to the end of the roof.

  The gap between this house and the next was five yards across. He took a running start, made himself nearly weightless, and jumped. The twin tried to hit when he was in the air, but for a blessed change, his arrow flew wild. Ryld thumped down atop the same structure his opponent occupied. It felt as if it had taken forever to get this far, even though he knew it had really been less than a minute.

  Not that he was done running the gauntlet. The arrows kept hurtling at him, including one that gave an eerie scream, filling him with an unnatural fear until he quashed the feeling, and another that turned into a miniature harpy in flight. Yet another struck two paces in front him and exploded into a curtain of fire. Squinting at the glare, he wrapped his piwafwi around him and dived through, emerging singed but essentially unscathed.

  After that, he was close enough to the tower to cancel most of his weight and leap up to the top. He sprang into the air like a jumping spider and alit on the platform. The twin hastily set down his bow and drew his scimitar.

  “Do you have any healing magic?” Ryld asked. “If so, give it to me, and I’ll let you go.”

  The other warrior smiled unpleasantly and said, “My comrades will start arriving any second. Surrender now, tell me where Pharaun is, and perhaps Princess Greyanna will let you live.”

  “No.”

  Ryld cut at the warrior’s head. The other male jumped back out of range, sidestepped, and slashed at the weapons master’s arm. Ryld parried, beat the scimitar aside, and the fight was on.

  Over the course of the next few seconds, the Mizzrym warrior gave ground consistently. Twice, he nearly stepped off the flat, round tabletop that was the apex of the tower but on both occasions spun himself away from the edge in time. He was a good duelist, and he was fighting defensively while he waited for reinforcements to arrive. That made him hard to hit. Hard, but not impossible.

  Pressing, Ryld feinted high on the inside to draw the parry, swung his greatsword down and around, and cut low on the outside. Splitter sheared into the Mizzrym’s torso just below the ribs, and he collapsed in a gush of blood.

  Magic trilled and flickered through the air. When Ryld spun around, the other twin and Relonor popped into being on the rooftop below. Obviously, House Mizzrym’s mage could teleport on his own, without the aid of the brooch Pharaun had pilfered.

  His voluminous sleeves sliding down to his elbows, Relonor lifted his arms and started to cast a spell. The newly arrived twin nocked an arrow and drew back the string of his pale bone bow.

  Ryld threw himself down on his stomach. He was ten feet above his adversaries, and he hoped that they couldn’t see him. Sure enough, no magic or arrow flew in his direction. He scuttled across the platform—enchantments in his armor deadening the sound of his footfalls—and grabbed his previous opponent’s bow and quiver, then scrambled to his knees.

  The twin and the wizard rose above the platform, the former levitating, the latter soaring in an arc that revealed some magical capacity for actual flight. The archer loosed an arrow, and mystical energy flashed from Relonor’s fingertips.

  The Mizzrym’s magic reached its target first. A ghastly shriek stabbed through Ryld’s ears and into his brain. He cried out and flailed in agony. The warrior’s arrow plunged into his thigh, and the razor-edged point burst from the other side.

  After a moment, the screaming stopped. Ryld could feel that it had hurt him, perhaps worse than the arrow had, but had no time or inclination to fret about it. Quickly as few folk save a master of Melee-Magthere could manage, he loosed two shafts of his own.

  The first took Relonor in the chest, and the second stabbed into the warrior’s belly. They both dropped down out of sight.

  Ryld looked at the twin with the sword cut in his flank. The male appeared to be unconscious, which would facilitate searching him. Ryld hobbled over to him to rifle his pockets and the leather satchel he wore on his belt.

  Blessedly, he found four silver vials, each marked with the rune for healing. Greyanna had indeed outfitted her agents properly for a martial expedition. It was the twin’s misfortune that he hadn’t had time to drink of her bounty before going into shock.

  His brother and Relonor no doubt carried healing draughts as well, and Ryld had no guarantee that they’d be unable to use them. They might come after him again any second, and he’d just as soon avoid a second round. He needed to beat a hasty—

  Enormous wings beat the air. A long-necked, legless beast passed overhead with Greyanna and the other priestess, the skinny one, astride its back. Glaring down at Ryld, Pharaun’s sister pulled at the laces securing the mouth of her bag of monsters.

  Ryld dumped the remaining arrows out of the quiver, the better to examine them. One was fletched with red feathers while the rest had black.

  He’d already seen his first foe shoot one fire arrow. Praying that the red-fletched arrow was another, he drew back his bowstring and sent it hurtling into the air.

  The arrow plunged into the sack, and burst into flame. The scarred high priestess reflexively dropped the bag, and it fell, burning as it went. The magic spores combusting inside turned the fire green, then blue, then violet.

  Greyanna screamed in fury and sent the foulwing swooping lower. Ryld looked for another magic arrow and found that none were left. He nocked an ordinary one, and his hands began to shake, no doubt an aftereffect of the punishment he’d taken.

  For a moment, it seemed to him that he was finished. If he couldn’t shoot accurately, he couldn’t hit one of the foulwing’s vital spots, or the riders on its back, for that matter. Nor was he in any shape to fight them hand to hand.

  Then he realized he still had a chance. He surrounded his arrow with a cloud of murky darkness, then shot it upward.

  The descending beast was a huge target. Even shooting blind with trembling hands, he had a fair chance of hitting in somewhere, and the foulwing gave a double shriek that told him he’d succeeded.

  He watched the mass of darkness he’d created tumble and zigzag drunkenly through the air. Stung, suddenly and inexplicably sightless, the
winged mount inside had panicked, and Greyanna was evidently unable to control it. She quite possibly could have dissolved the darkness with some scroll or talisman, but she couldn’t see either or lay hands on her equipment easily with the foulwing lurching and swooping about beneath her.

  Ryld snapped the head off the arrow in his leg and pulled the offending object out. He gathered up the healing potions, and quickly as he was able, activated the magic in his talisman, floated down off the roof, and limped away.

  chapter

  THIRTEEN

  As Quenthel skulked down the corridor, it occurred to her that at the same time, Gromph was casting his radiant heat into the base of Narbondel. Even revelers and necromancers were settling in for a rest. She, however, was too busy to do the same. She wouldn’t have a chance to relax until late the next night, unless, of course, she wound up resting forever.

  Fortunately, one of the Baenre alchemists brewed a stimulant to delay the onset of the aching eyes, fuzzy head, and leaden limbs that lack of rest produced. Quenthel extracted a silver vial of the stuff from one of the pouches on her belt and took a sip of it. She gasped, and her shoulder muscles jumped. Jolted back to alertness, she continued on her way.

  In another minute, she reached the door to Drisinil’s quarters. In deference to the status of her family, the novice resided in one of Arach-Tinilith’s most comfortable student habitations. Quenthel regretted not sticking her in a dank little hole. Perhaps then the girl would have learned her place.

  The high priestess inspected the arched limestone panel that was the door. She couldn’t see any magical wards.

  “Is it safe?” she whispered to the vipers.

  “We believe so,” Yngoth replied.

  How reassuring, Quenthel thought, but it was either trust them or use another precious, irreplaceable scroll to wipe away protections that probably didn’t exist.

  She activated the power of her brooch. When a novice came to Arach-Tinilith, the enchantments on certain doors were keyed to allow her to enter, based on the unique magical signature of her House insignia, rooms the high priestesses deemed it necessary for her to pass into. Only Quenthel’s brooch could unlock them all.

  She unlocked Drisinil’s door and warily cracked it open. No magic sparked, nor did any mechanical trap jab a blade at her. As quietly as she could, Quenthel crept on into the suite. Sensing her desire for quiet, the snakes hung mute and limp.

  She found Drisinil sitting motionless in a chair, her bandaged, mutilated hands in her lap. For a moment, Quenthel, thinking the other female must have a dauntless spirit to enter the Reverie at such a perilous time, rather admired her—then she caught the smell of brandy, and noticed the bottle lying in a puddle of liquor on the floor.

  Quenthel stalked toward the novice. It occurred to her that she was doing to Drisinil as the living darkness had done to her. The thought vaguely amused her, perhaps simply because she was finally the predator, not the prey. Smiling, she gently laid the vipers across the other drow’s face and upper torso. The snakes hissed and writhed.

  Drisinil roused with a cry and a start. She started to rear up, and Quenthel pushed her back down in her chair.

  “Sit!” the Baenre snapped, “or the serpents will bite.”

  Her wide eyes framed by the cool, scaly loops of the vipers, Drisinil stopped struggling.

  “Mistress, what’s wrong?”

  Quenthel smiled and said, “Very good, child, you sound sincere. After your first ploy failed, you should at the very least have rested elsewhere.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Drisinil’s hand shifted stealthily, no doubt toward a hidden weapon or charm. The vipers struck at the student’s face, their fangs missing her sharp-nosed features by a fraction of an inch. She froze.

  “Please,” Quenthel said. “This will go easier if you don’t insult my intelligence. You have spirit, you believe I punished you too harshly, and you’re Barrison Del’Armgo, eager to bring down the one House standing between your family and supremacy. Of course you’re involved in the plot against me. You’re also an idiot if you didn’t think I’d realize it.”

  “Plot?”

  Quenthel sighed. “Halavin tried to kill me last night, and she didn’t act alone. A single traitor couldn’t have drugged all the food and drink set out at various points around the temple. It would have required abandoning her station for long enough that someone would have marked her absence.”

  “Halavin could have tainted the meal while it was still in the kitchen.”

  “She was never there.”

  “Then perhaps the demon poisoned the viands with its magic.”

  “No. As I’m sure you noted, each spirit represents one of the facets of reality over which the goddess holds special dominion. Poison is the weapon of an assassin, while with its continually fluctuating form, last night’s assailant was plainly a manifestation of chaos.

  “The conspirators,” Quenthel continued, “had to contaminate each and every table because they didn’t know where I would stop and eat. Many fell unconscious, but you and the other plotters knew not to sample the repast.”

  Drisinil said, “I had no part in it.”

  “Novice, you’re beginning to irritate me. Admit your guilt, or I’ll give you to the vipers and interrogate someone else.” The serpents hissed and flicked their tongues.

  “All right,” said Drisinil, “I was involved. A little. The others talked me into it. Don’t kill me.”

  “I know what your little cabal has done, but I want to understand how you dared.”

  Drisinil swallowed and said, “You … you said it yourself. Each demon seeks to kill only you, and each in its own particular way reflects the divine majesty of Lolth. We thought she sent them. We thought we were doing what the goddess wanted.”

  “Because you’re imbeciles. Has no one taught you to look beyond appearances? If Lolth wanted me dead, I couldn’t survive her displeasure for a heartbeat, let alone three nights. The attacks resemble her doing because some blasphemous mortal arranged it so, to manipulate you into doing her killing for her. I’d hoped you conspirators knew the trickster’s identity, but I see it isn’t so.”

  “No.”

  “Curse you all!” Quenthel exploded. “The goddess favors me. How could you possibly doubt it? I’m a Baenre, the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and I rose to the rank of high priestess more quickly that any Menzoberranyr ever has!”

  “I know …” The novice hesitated, then said, “The Mother of Lusts must have some reason for distancing herself from the city, and we … speculated.”

  “Some of you did, I’m sure. Others simply liked the idea of eliminating me. I imagine your Aunt Molvayas would relish seeing me dead. She’d have an excellent chance of becoming mistress in her turn. We Baenre don’t have another princess seasoned enough to assume the role.”

  “It was my aunt!” Drisinil exclaimed. “She came up with the idea of helping the demons kill you. I didn’t even want to help. I thought it was a stupid idea, but within our family, she holds authority over me.”

  Quenthel smiled. “It’s too bad you weren’t more impressed with my authority.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No doubt that. Now, I need the names of all the conspirators.”

  Drisinil didn’t hesitate an instant. “My aunt, Vlondril Tuin’Tarl …”

  As ever, Quenthel maintained a calm, knowing expression, but inwardly she was surprised at the number of conspirators. An eighth of the temple! It was unprecedented, but then she was living in unprecedented times.

  When Drisinil finished, the Baenre said, “Thank you. Where did you gather to hatch your schemes?”

  “One of the unused storerooms in the fifth leg,” Drisinil said.

  Quenthel shook her head. “That won’t do. It’s not big enough. Convene the group in Lirdnolu’s old classroom. Nobody’s used it since she had her throat slit, so it will seem a safe meeting place.”

  Drisinil blinke
d. “Convene?”

  “Yes. Last night’s plot failed, so obviously you must hatch a new one. You’ve chosen a new chamber for the conference because you suspect the storeroom is no longer safe. Say whatever you need to say to assemble your cabal in four hours’ time.”

  “If I do, will you spare me?”

  “Why not? As you’ve explained, you only participated reluctantly. But you know, it suddenly occurs to me that we have a problem. If I send you forth to perform this task, how do I know you won’t simply flee Tier Breche and take refuge in your mother’s castle?”

  “Mistress, you already explained that such a course could only lead to my death.”

  “But did you believe me? Do you still? How can I be sure?”

  “Mistress … I …”

  “If I had my magic, I could compel you to do as you’re told, but in its absence, I must take other measures.”

  Quenthel raised the whip, sweeping the vipers off Drisinil’s face in the process, and slammed the metal butt of the weapon down in the middle of her forehead.

  The mistress then took out the silver vial. She pinched the dazed, feebly struggling girl’s nostrils closed, poured the stimulant into her open mouth, and forced her to swallow.

  The effect was immediate. The younger female bucked and thrashed until her eyes flew open.

  The high priestess hopped back down to the floor. “How does it feel? I imagine your heart is hammering.”

  Drisinil trembled like the string of a viol. Sweat seeped from her pores.

  “What did you do to me?”

  “That should be obvious to an accomplished poisoner like yourself.”

  “You’ve poisoned me?”

  “It’s a slow toxin. Do as I ordered, and I’ll give you the antidote.”

  “I can’t cozen the others like this. They’ll see something’s wrong with me.”

  “The external signs should ease in a minute or two, though you’ll still feel the poison speeding your heart and gnawing at your nerves. You’ll just have to put up with that.”