Ascendency of the Last

by Lisa Smedman

  No, Cavatina thought angrily. It wouldn’t come to that. Eilistraee wouldn’t permit it.

  She ran down the street, and at last reached the corridor she’d been making for. It turned out to be choked with the bodies of the fallen. Most were unrecognizable, reduced by acid to weeping mounds of reddish flesh, or blackened by searing heat to unrecognizable lumps. She gagged at the sour smell of spilled entrails and charred flesh and pressed on, slipping and sliding on the fouled stone.

  Just ahead, the tunnel widened into a cavern that overlooked the river before turning sharply right. This gave her two options: she could follow the tunnel, or the river. She ran to the edge of the cavern and peered out, toward the bridge that spanned the river.

  What she saw sent a shiver through her.

  Ooze after ooze, differentiated from each other only by color, flowed across the bridge to the main part of the Promenade. At first Cavatina thought they were coming from the caverns on the far side of the river, but as she watched, a bulge formed on one of the three stone columns that supported the ceiling at the far side of the bridge: another ooze. As it plopped to the ground, quivering, another slime bulged out of the column. It was as if the stone wept slimy tears.

  That column must be the portal Kâras had led the fanatics through. She wondered how the Nightshadow fared—if he were any closer to the ruined temple than she was. No wonder he’d been so shaken; unleashing this horror on the Promenade would have driven anyone to tears.

  The voice of Erelda, Rylla’s second in command, sounded in Cavatina’s mind. Protectors! Fall back on the Cavern of Song. The oozes are converging upon it!

  Cavatina’s heart pounded as she realized the implications. Oozes were near-mindless things, driven by basic instincts like hunger—or the need to draw closer to their god. She could think of only one reason for them to converge upon the Cavern of Song: to reach the Pit. Had the fanatics already succeeded in wrenching open the planar breach?

  The seals, Cavatina sent back. Are they still intact?

  Erelda’s response came a moment later. The Mound is untouched. The seals are in place.

  Cavatina sighed in relief. There’s a planar breach at the bottom of the Pit, she warned Erelda. If the seals are destroyed …

  They won’t be. By sword or song, we’ll do whatever it takes to prevent that.

  Cavatina heard a sound behind her: another ooze, headed her way. She debated which way to go. The tunnel she’d been following was the most direct route to the ruined temple, yet its narrowness would make it easy for the oozes to block her way.

  She decided to swim, instead.

  She sheathed her sword—she needed at least one hand free to swim—and dived into the water, the scepter held out in front of her. The shock of hitting cold water made her sputter as she surfaced, but a quick prayer blunted the worst of the cold. As the current moved her to the bridge, she sang a hymn that rendered her invisible. It wouldn’t fool the oozes—they’d sense her footfalls the moment she climbed from the water. But it would conceal her from any fanatics who might be nearby.

  As if on cue, a drow tumbled out of the portal column. Even from this distance, Cavatina could see the eye symbol on the front of his tabard. As he stood, another of Ghaunadaur’s fanatics emerged from the portal. Then a third, and a fourth. They stood in a group as the first one pointed downriver—away from Cavatina, and away from the ruined temple.

  The bridge loomed, cutting off her view. Cavatina swam to the wall on the far side of the river from the fanatics. Above her was a cavern mouth. At the back of that cavern, down a short corridor, was a door leading to the ruined temple. If she could drive the oozes back, using the blast scepter, she might reach it.

  She climbed.

  Halfway up, she glanced over her shoulder to see where the fanatics had gone. She couldn’t spot them. She’d have to be wary, in case they’d crossed to this side of the bridge.

  As soon as she reached the ledge, she used the blast scepter to drive the oozes back from the cavern, then heaved herself up onto its acid-slick floor. Additional blasts from the scepter kept the oozes at bay. They retreated to the left and right, revealing the corridor that led to the ruined temple.

  Cavatina sprinted into it. The oozes closed ranks behind her, blocking the way back to the river. She blasted them over her shoulder with the scepter, forcing them back.

  The door to the ruined temple was closed. Cavatina pushed on it, praying it wasn’t locked. When she at last forced it open, a rush of liquid flowed out. She leaped back, worried it might be more acid. The force of the liquid inside the room pushed the door shut. She glanced down. Her boots were still intact, and her feet didn’t sting. The liquid probably wasn’t acid.

  An ooze slid into the corridor behind her. She turned to blast it with the scepter.

  Nothing happened. She’d used it once too often, draining it of its magic.

  She slammed her shoulder into the door, opening it again. She braced it as a rush of water flowed out. Something carried by the flow bumped against her knees: a body.

  “By all that dances,” Cavatina cried. “Rylla!”

  She dragged the battle-mistress’s body into the room with her, and let what remained of the water push the door shut. As she threw the deadbolt, she heard the wet slap of the ooze striking the door. She dropped the depleted blast scepter down in the ankle-deep water and bent to examine the battle-mistress. Rylla’s nose looked broken. Water dribbled from her open mouth as Cavatina lifted her. Rylla appeared to have drowned.

  Had her death been the fanatics’ doing, or Qilué’s?

  Cavatina lay Rylla down again and drew her sword. The weapon hummed softly, ready for battle. She looked around. The compulsion glyph Horaldin had inscribed on the wall was gone—had the portal been sealed, too? She sloshed to that corner of the room and sang a detection.

  The wall turned as thin as mist. The portal was still active.

  Had Qilué passed through it?

  Cavatina glanced at the chamber’s second exit and saw a dull brown ooze squeezing its way through the cracks between the door and its frame. Kâras wasn’t likely to show up, and she doubted he’d get past it if he did. The other ooze, meanwhile, was squeezing its way around the door she’d bolted shut.

  There was only one way out now.

  Into the portal.

  Cavatina didn’t want to leave Rylla behind. If her body was consumed by an ooze, the battle-mistress might never be resurrected. She grabbed Rylla with her free hand, dragged her body to the portal, and stepped through it.

  She emerged from the V-shaped curtain of shimmering silver into a jumble of misty-looking stone. She released Rylla—the battle-mistress’s body could remain where it was, for now—and moved cautiously to the ruined temple, sword in hand. She expected to see Ghaunadaur’s fanatics clustered around it, offering sacrifices. But as the foundation slab and its shattered columns hove into view, she saw no one. Had she reached it before the fanatics?

  She must have: the symbol wasn’t glowing. The planar breach was inactive; the necessary sacrifices had not yet been made.

  Nor was there any sign of Qilué.

  Cavatina hesitated. What now?

  Stand guard, she decided. Stay here and cut down any fanatics who made it through the portal. They would be rendered ethereal, just as she was. She could kill them. As she moved to the ruined temple, looking for the best place to make her stand, its tumbled stones came into sharper focus. A glimmer of silver caught her eye. Another portal? No, it looked more like a …

  Symbol.

  For a time briefer than a blink, Cavatina experienced a moment of terrible clarity. Qilué hadn’t lied: she had inscribed a symbol over Ghaunadaur’s: a powerful, potent symbol scribed in mercury and diamond dust.

  A symbol of insanity.

  Cavatina’s mind crumpled. She saw … She felt … That screaming! Make it stop! She dropped her sword and clapped her hands over her eyes. A bright purple glow penetrated the cracks between her
fingers. The symbol! No, the symbol. Bright—it hurt her ears. Her skin felt wet. Slime. Foul taste. She spat it out. Upside down? Why was it above …? The purple glow should have waned, but didn’t. The dancer’s name would save … Cavatina opened her mouth, but confusion came out of her ears. A presence moved past her now. Green. Slimy.

  Evil.

  Purple smoke. The smoke stared at her. At her. An eye smiled.

  My sacrifice.

  “No!” Cavatina shrieked. She spun, tumbled, flailed. Clawed away, rolled, swam through rubble. Rock bubbles. She couldn’t … her sword gone …

  She had …

  Failed.

  Leliana ran out the door of the High House and caught the arm of the nearest priestess. “Where’s the battle-mistress? Have you seen Rylla?”

  The priestess shook her head. “No! Erelda’s taken command.”

  “What about the high priestess?”

  “Qilué?” Another head shake. “Haven’t seen her either.”

  Leliana stopped a lay worshiper who ran by, and a Nightshadow. Their answers were the same. Behind her, Cavatina left the High House and ran south, to the Stronghall. Everyone seemed to be headed there. From that direction, she heard sounds of battle.

  Asking questions was futile. No one knew anything—except that the Promenade was under attack from the south by Ghaunadaur’s fanatics: the demon’s plan, put in motion. It was the second attack, the one from within, Leliana dreaded. Where was Qilué?

  A lay worshiper ran by—with, of all things, a lute strung across her back.

  “Hold it!” Leliana cried. “You there. Is that lute Rylla’s?”

  The novice halted and glanced over her shoulder at the instrument as if seeing it for the first time. “I—I don’t know. I must have slung it over my shoulder when I helped carry the body to the Hall of Healing.”

  Leliana stiffened. “Whose body? Rylla’s? Is she dead?”

  “Whoever it was, she was wounded. Bad.” She swallowed hard, then shuddered. “Her face….”

  Leliana touched her holy symbol. If it was Rylla, and the battle-mistress could be healed, perhaps she might know where the high priestess was.

  She sprinted down a corridor in the direction of the Hall of Healing. As she neared the Hall of Empty Arches, she passed Chizra, leading six lesser priestesses in the opposite direction. A seventh priestess remained on guard within the hall, a bundle of prayer scrolls tucked under one arm. She looked unhappy at being left behind. Leliana saluted her and ran on, following the corridor to the enormous hall that had been reclaimed in Eilistraee’s name.

  The Hall of Healing was choked with people. Lay worshipers bustled in with the wounded on makeshift stretchers. Priestesses moved from one injured person to the next. The revived rushed out again to rejoin the fight. At the far end of the room stood a golden statue of a pair of scales, balanced on a warhammer: a reminder of life’s delicate balance, and the forces that could tip a soul toward death. Leliana looked for Rylla but didn’t see her.

  She questioned the head healer, who assured her the battle-mistress had not been among those they’d treated.

  “Is she among the dead?”

  “No time to check,” the healer curtly replied. She bent over a burned male, a holy symbol in her hand. “Too busy.” She touched his injuries, and prayed.

  “Leliana!”

  She whirled. Naxil! His face was a mottled gray—his flesh healed, but still discolored. His eyes were bright above his makeshift mask. He clasped her arms, and she returned his light squeeze.

  “Have you seen the battle-mistress?” she asked him. “Or the high priestess?”

  “Aren’t they in the Stronghall directing the battle? That’s where the oozes and slimes are coming from: out of the river. There’s a lot of them, but by the Masked Lady’s grace, we’ll push them back again.”

  “Oozes and slimes?” she gasped. “But I thought it was supposed to be fanatics who came through the …”

  She caught sight of a lay worshiper who had just entered the Hall of Healing. He peered about as if looking for someone. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood, yet he waved away the healers’ offers of assistance. He was strikingly handsome. But that wasn’t what had drawn Leliana’s attention—it was the extremely rare color of his eyes: leaf green.

  He had to be the male Cavatina had described—the one who’d sacrificed himself. The fanatics must have raised him from the dead. But how, if his body had been consumed? And what was he doing here, in the Hall of Healing?

  She spotted a ring on his finger. A gold ring. That told her how he’d gotten into this part of the temple. He’d used the ring to pass through the magical barrier in the level she and Naxil had discovered below, then come through the portal to the Hall of Empty Arches. Leliana wondered if the priestess she’d seen there, just a moment ago, was still alive.

  The fanatic completed his circuit of the hall and turned, heading back for the door.

  Leliana jabbed Naxil’s stomach with a finger. Green eyes, she signed between them. Enemy in disguise. You stall; I’ll sing a truth song and question. Go.

  Naxil bowed, hiding the drawing of a dagger. He moved away, concealing the weapon under his piwafwi.

  As Naxil made his way to the disguised fanatic, Leliana flicked her sword in a circle—a small circle, near her boot; she didn’t want to draw attention to her prayer. Naxil greeted the fanatic, but instead of engaging him in conversation as planned, Naxil turned and walked to the exit. Did he mean to draw the fanatic into the corridor, where it would be more difficult for him to escape?

  Leliana strode to the side of the fanatic and matched his pace. As she walked, she shifted her sword so it was pointing at his feet, and loosed the magic she’d just sung into being. “I need help carrying the wounded,” she told him. “Where are you headed?”

  Leaf-green eyes met hers. A puddle of warmth filled her. The urge to smile at him overwhelmed her.

  “To the Pit. I’m needed there.” His eyes glistened. “Won’t you show me the way?”

  Anxious to please him, Leliana nodded. As she did, her sword sang a warning. It sliced through his enchantment, dousing the warmth inside her like a slap of ice water.

  Powerful magic. If it hadn’t been for her singing sword….

  The fanatic tensed. He’d realized she knew what he was. Leliana leaped back and swung. Steel flashed toward his neck.

  The fanatic jumped aside—but not quickly enough. Her sword took off an outflung hand. She expected a spray of blood. Green slime oozed out instead. Before he could rally, she thrust at his vitals. Her blade plunged into soft, quivering flesh that offered no resistance. She reversed direction and yanked the sword back, but the fanatic’s body—now a bright green and only vaguely drow-shaped—bulged outward, engulfing her weapon. The bulge solidified, and the mass twisted, tearing the weapon from her hands.

  “A ghaunadan!” she shouted as she danced back from him. She’d heard of these creatures, but never seen one. Most oozes were mindless things, but ghaunadans were intelligent beings—budded fragments of the Ancient One itself. Fragments that could temporarily assume drow form.

  Shouts of alarm filled the Hall of Healing. Priestesses leaped to their feet, singing. The ghaunadan slapped one of them; she toppled, body rigid. Then a barrage of spells struck it at once. The ghaunadan reeled as moonblades sliced it, holy words slammed into it, and magical wounds sprang open in its quivering flesh. Within moments it had been reduced to a smoking pile of green-smeared clothing and a pair of boots that lay on the floor, suppurating ooze.

  Leliana stared down at them, glad the ghaunadan was dead. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any corpse left to question.

  “He came through the portal in the Hall of Empty Arches,” she warned the others. “We need to seal it, before more ghaunadans come through!”

  Someone handed her singing sword back to her. Leliana took it and ran for the room’s only door. She glanced up and down the corridor, looking for Naxil. The
battle with the ghaunadan had taken only a moment, yet Naxil was nowhere in sight. Where had the ghaunadan’s magical compulsion sent him? North, to the Hall of Empty Arches, or south, toward safety?

  “Naxil!” she shouted. Her voice was lost amid the hubbub as half a dozen priestesses crowded through the door. Leliana ordered one of them to hang back and chant a magical songwall to prevent enemies from reaching the Hall of Healing. She told the rest to follow her.

  As they ran to the Hall of Empty Arches, Erelda’s voice sang into Leliana’s mind. Protectors! Fall back on the Cavern of Song. The oozes are converging upon it!

  Converging? Leliana swore. Did that mean that oozes were headed to the Cavern of Song from the south, and from the north—from the Hall of Empty Arches?

  The answer came as she rounded a bend in the corridor. The way ahead was blocked by a horrific creature: a waist-high, gray-brown lump covered in eyes and mouths that bulged from its body and were subsumed again. From these emanated a ghastly chorus of nonsensical words that tumbled over one another like pebbles in a gurgling brook.

  Leliana shouted at the priestesses to halt, but the two up ahead didn’t heed her. They walked on toward the monster, shouting nonsense. Leliana heard an overlapping babble of female voices behind her, and flung out her arms to hold back the other priestesses. As she did so, the creature attacked the two priestesses up ahead. It spat a stream of acid at one and bulged forward to wrap a limb around the other. The first priestess’s gibbering turned to screams as her skin burned away; the second grew grayish-pale as the ooze’s mouths bit hard and began to suck blood.

  “Eilistraee!” Leliana cried, “Shield me!”

  Her singing sword pealed out a steadying note that blocked the worst of the creature’s magical effect. Even so, Leliana teetered at the edge of madness. Screaming her fury at the monster, she dodged around the priestess who had been felled by acid and hacked at the limb coiled around the other priestess. As the blade sliced through it, another limb bulged out to grab her; she sliced that one off too.