by Филип Этанс
Your fireball, the voice in his head warned.
"My fireball. ." the archmage whispered, as he instinctively tucked himself into a fetal position, wrapping his body around his staff and closing his eyes tightly.
Even with his eyes closed the flare of hot orange light burned his retinas. The fireball warmed his skin but didn't burn him. He and the other Masters of Sorcere had thought, of course, to protect him against fire.
"A little longer. ." the archmage murmured.
"Gromph," the lichdrow spat back. "You live!"
"For now," was the archmage's shaking, muttered reply.
Dyrr didn't wait for Gromph to elaborate. He began to work another spell.
The fireball had broken Gromph's concentration on the levitation effect, and once again his stomach lurched up as he began to fall. Gravity was still upside down, and his fall took him away from the gate and toward the ceiling.
While Dyrr finished his spell, Gromph began to list in his own mind the many reasons he should simply let himself fall into the ceiling and die.
Before the troubled archmage could reach a conclusion, shards of jagged, half-molten rock burst into existence, flying with extraordinary speed toward the falling archmage. There were too many of them to count, and Gromph, mumbling to himself of his lost position and the bleak fate of his House, didn't bother trying.
When the meteors entered the area in which Gromph had affected gravity, their courses radically changed. They went everywhere, scattering, dipping, curving, colliding with each other, some even curving back at Dyrr.
One of the burning projectiles struck Gromph a glancing blow, sending him spinning as he fell. Pain blazed in his side, and without thinking he cast a spell. With only a few words and a quick gesture, Gromph's skin tightened, stretched—painfully—and took on the gleam, and the hardness, of cold black iron.
Very good, Master, the voice … it was Nauzhror. . said.
Gromph watched one of the meteors come right at him. He might have twisted out of the way, but he didn't care. The rock hit him square in the chest, exploding in a shower of yellow-orange sparks and sending a deafening clang rippling away from him in the air. He started to spin in a different direction and began to wonder why he hadn't hit the ceiling. As he whirled around he saw Dyrr slip through a dark hole in the sky that was rimmed with purple light like faerie fire. The lichdrow was passing through a dimension door of his own to avoid the meteors that had come careening back at him.
Spinning, falling, Gromph saw the jagged, stalagmite-cluttered ceiling racing toward him, closer and closer—only inches from oblivion, from the sweet release of death—
— and the spell effect ended.
Gromph hadn't made it permanent after all. Gravity went back to its normal place, and once again Gromph hung in midair for a second—less than a second maybe—his stomach feeling as if it were rotating in his belly. He started to fall again but toward the floor—toward the Clawrift, toward the light, toward the gate, toward wherever it was that Dyrr was trying to send him.
Gromph didn't care. He'd go, then. He'd go anywhere as long as he could get out of Menzoberranzan, where every stone, every stalactite and stalagmite, every glow of faerie fire, reminded him of his failure and despair.
Archmage,Nauzhror said. Gromph. . no.
Closing his eyes against the blinding sunlight, Gromph fell through the gate. Squinting, able only to see a vague play of shadow and light, he watched the gate close behind him. He was enveloped, enclosed in blinding light.
He hit the ground hard enough to break a leg, more than a few ribs, his left arm, and very nearly his neck. Quivering from pain and shock, blinded by the relentless sunlight, Gromph lay in a heap on a bed of what felt like some kind of moss. Blood roared in his ears, which were still ringing from the whine of the meteors and the rush of wind. Something in his chest popped, and his leg twitched out from under him, rolling him over onto his back.
Gromph put a hand over his face and realized that his broken arm was obeying his commands with only a little pain. His leg was numb and tingling, and he could actually feel his ribs popping back into place.
The ring, he thought again.
He almost wanted to laugh. It was his own fault after all, for insisting on wearing that cursed ring. He'd wanted to save his own life when he'd put it on, and it hadn't occurred to him then that all it would end up doing was keeping him alive in whatever blazing hell Dyrr had banished him to.
Gromph blinked his eyes open and found that he could actually see. The light was still uncomfortably bright, but something had moved between the brightest part of it and himself. The archmage blinked again, rubbed his eyes, and struggled to sit up. His face was still wet with tears, and he was breathing hard—panting like a slave at hard labor.
"Are you keerjaan?" a voice asked.
Gromph held out a hand, fending off the voice, and blinked some more.
It was all at once that he realized the thing that had come between him and the source of the light was a creature of some kind, and it was speaking to him.
"Am I. .?" the archmage started to answer.
He paused, rubbed his eyes, and found himself concentrating on a spell he'd long ago made permanent. It was a spell that allowed him to understand and be understood by anyone.
"Are you all right?" the strange creature asked, and Gromph understood.
He looked up and saw that he was surrounded by tiny, drowlike creatures—drowlike in that they were roughly the same shape, with two arms, two legs, and a head. There the similarity ended. The creatures that surrounded him had pale skin that was almost pink. Their hair was curly and an unsightly shade of brown-orange. Their skin was spattered with tiny brown spots. Plastered on their faces were the most childlike expressions of delighted curiosity. They hovered around him in a circle, several feet off the plant-covered ground, each of them borne aloft on a set of short feathered wings of the most garish colors.
Most of them were naked, though some wore robes of flowing white silk, and a couple wore breeches and fine silk blouses. They were no more than three feet tall.
"By all the howling expanse of the Abyss, Dyrr," Gromph murmured, curling his legs under him and resting his face in his hands, "where have you dropped me?"
Words began to pop into his mind like soap bubbles bursting:
Halflings.
Spells.
Crushing …
Crushing despair.
"Damn you," Gromph breathed, his body relaxing, his eyes drying, his mood lifting as if by magic.
It wasn't magic that was lifting it, he realized. It was magic that sank it in the first pace.
"Well played, traitor," Gromph said, looking up into the bright blue sky of the. . where was he? The World Above?
"Who are you talking to?" one of the winged halflings asked, tipping its head to one side like a confused pack lizard.
"Where am I?" Gromph asked the strange creature.
The archmage, not waiting for an answer, stood, brushing soot, dust, and pieces of the odd, needle-like plant life from his piwafwi. He leaned on his staff, but thanks to the ring he was feeling stronger with each breath.
"You don't know where you are?" one of the winged halflings—a female—asked.
"Tell me where I am, or I'll kill you and ask someone else," Gromph growled.
The halflings reacted, maybe with fear—Gromph couldn't be sure. They bobbed up and down and quivered.
"Are you a cambion?" one of them asked.
"I am a drow," Gromph replied, "and I asked you a question."
The winged halflings all looked at each other. Some smiled, some nodded—some smiled andnodded.
"How did you get here?" the female asked.
"I asked you a question," Gromph repeated.
The female smiled at him, and Gromph had to squint from the brightness of her perfect white teeth.
"How could you come here from. . where did you come from?" one of the males said.
"I am
from Menzoberranzan," replied Gromph.
"Where's that?" asked another of the males.
"The Underdark," Gromph said, his crushing despair gone, being replaced by burning impatience. "Faerun. . Toril?"
"Faerun," one of the males gasped. The others looked at him and he said, "I was from there. From Luiren. Faerun is a continent, and Toril is a world. On the Prime."
The other winged halflings nodded and shrugged.
"So," the one who'd asked the question before repeated, "how could you come here from Menzoberranzan, the Underdark, Faerun, Toril, and not know where you are?"
"You're not even on the Prime anymore, drow," said the halfling who'd claimed to be from Faerun. Gromph could see contempt starting to manifest in that halfling's beady brown eyes. "You've come to the Green Fields, and you don't belong here."
"That's all right," Gromph said. "I'm not staying."
Looking over the vast landscape of gently rolling hills covered in a blanket of the tiny green, needle-like plants and punctuated with a scattering of rainbow-colored blossoms like delicate, paper-thin mushrooms, Gromph almost sank into despair again.
Dyrr had sent him far—sent him to another plane of existence altogether.
"The Green Fields," Gromph repeated. "Halfling Heaven. .»
Nauzhror,he thought, sending the name out into the Weave. Grendan? Can you hear me?
Nothing.
Gromph sighed. It was going to take him a while to get home.
Chapter Fifteen
"Oh, now, why the long face?" Aliisza purred.
Her hand slipped along Pharaun's waist, tickling him, but he didn't move. She smiled and wrapped her arm around him, sliding her hand onto his back and moving closer and closer until her body pressed against his. She was warm—almost hot, and she smelled good. She felt better.
"Your journey is barely beginning," the alu-fiend whispered into his ear. Her breath was so hot it nearly burned the side of his neck. "I almost envy you the sights you'll see, the things you'll experience. You will be in the presence of your goddess soon enough."
"Will I like what I see?" he asked. "Will the experience be a fulfilling one? Will my goddess speak to me?"
Aliisza stiffened, but just for a second, then she wrapped one leg around him and nestled in. The force of her embrace turned them slightly in the air. Pharaun glanced down at the ship of chaos and his companions, a hundred feet or more beneath them, oblivious to their presence there.
"Those are all things you'll have to discover on your own," she said.
"Then how can you be sure it'll be something to envy?" he asked, his voice playful but forced, his attention returning to her.
"I envy you the surprises," she replied with a wink.
"Have you been there?"
"To the Abyss?" she asked. "Not for a long time."
"The Demonweb Pits?"
The alu-fiend withdrew enough to look him in the eye, smiled, and said, "No, I've never been to the Demonweb Pits. Have you?"
Pharaun shook his head. He could answer her but not when she was looking at him. He leaned into her, and she squeezed him tighter.
"I was there twice, I think," he said into the soft warmth of her long neck.
"You think?"
"It was a long time ago," Pharaun replied, "and it might have been a dream. There was the last time, when we were all there in astral form, but I thought you might have been there once in the flesh. You're a demon. You can go there and. ."
Pharaun stopped talking. He wasn't sure what he was trying to say.
"Have you been to Menzoberranzan?" he asked instead.
Aliisza stiffened again and for a little bit longer, and he knew that she had.
"Will there be a city for us to return to?" he asked.
Aliisza shrugged. Pharaun could feel the gesture against his body.
"Answer me," he pressed.
"Yes," she said, "or no. It all depends on what you find in the Abyss and how soon Kaanyr and his new friends can break your matron mothers' backs."
Pharaun found himself laughing. He was exhausted again. The Lake of Shadows had a way of sapping his strength.
"Honestly, Pharaun," she said, "you ask me questions as if I'm some sort of fortune teller or oracle … or goddess. I don't know what'll happen to you and your friends. No one, not even your Spider Queen I think, can predict what will happen from minute to minute in the mad chaos of the Abyss."
Pharaun looked her in the eye and decided not to say the first few things that came into his mind.
"Have you thought about my coming with you?" Aliisza asked.
"Why would you help me pilot the ship?" he asked her, gently pushing her away. "We enjoy each other, but I can't imagine you're asking me to simply trust you. I'll need an answer."
Aliisza resisted playfully and flicked the tip of her tongue against his cheek.
"You're pretty," she teased.
"Not as pretty as you," said Pharaun. "Answer me. Why would you help me find Lolth and help Vhok and the duergar lay siege to Menzoberranzan at the same time? You're the enemy—the consort of the enemy, at least—of the city I call home. One might be tempted to choose sides."
"Whatever for?" she asked. "When I'm with you, I like you best. When I'm with Kaanyr, he is everything to me. Either way, I'm amused."
Pharaun found himself laughing again.
"I'll assume that's the best answer I'll ever get from you," he said, "or any other tanar'ri."
Aliisza winked at him again.
As Pharaun let his hands explore her exquisite body, he said, "We should begin our lessons. Quenthel and the others are anxious to get underway."
Aliisza responded to his touch with a sigh, then replied, "As soon as you wish, love. You know how to get there from here?"
"Through the Shadow Deep," he said.
The alu-fiend nodded and said, "From there to the Plain of Infinite Portals—the gateway to the Abyss. There you'll need to find precisely the right entrance. The place you seek—the Demonweb Pits—is the sixty-sixth layer. There are guardians there and lost souls and things maybe even you can't imagine. You might actually like the Abyss, and you might not. Either way, it will change you."
Pharaun sighed. She was probably right.
He really didn't want to go.
Who is responsible? Quenthel asked.
Oh, Mistress, Mistress, K'Sothra answered. Of the five vipers in her scourge, K'Sothra was the least intelligent, but Quenthel listened anyway. Mistress, it was you. You are responsible. It's all your fault.
Quenthel closed her eyes. The skin on her face felt tight, stretched too thin on her skull. Her head hurt. She touched the viper just below its head, and K'Sothra writhed playfully under her touch.
Was it really my fault? the high priestess asked. Could it be?
She drew her finger away from K'Sothra, found the next viper, and cupped her head in two fingers.
I came back when she sent me back and I served her as best I could, Quenthel sent to all five snakes. I became the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and the worship of Lolth was never stronger. Isn't that what she sent me back to do?
There was no answer.
What will become of us all? she asked Zinda.
The black-and-red-speckled snake twitched, flicked her tongue at Quenthel, and said, That is also your responsibility, Mistress. What happens as a result of your having driven Lolth away from us will be washed away if only you can bring her back. If you can attract her good graces again, she will save us all. If not, we will be destroyed.
Quenthel felt herself physically sag under the weight of that. Though she tried hard to muster all her training and natural fortitude, she wasn't able to sit up straight. What weighed most heavily on her was the feeling that the snakes were right. It was her fault, and she was the only one who could fix it.
When will Lolth answer? Quenthel asked, moving her fingers to Qorra.
The third viper had the most potent poison. Quenthel only let her strike whe
n she wanted to kill, when she wanted to show no mercy at all.
Never,Qorra hissed into the high priestess's mind. Lolth will never answer. Menzoberranzan, Arach-Tinilith, and your entire civilization are doomed without her, and she's never coming back.
Quenthel's head spun. She was sitting on the deck of the ship of chaos but still felt as if she were about to fall over.
That isn't necessarily true, said Yngoth.
Quenthel had grown more and more dependent on Yngoth's limitless wisdom. It was his voice that tended to reassure her, and to Quenthel he sounded most like a drow.
Why was I sent back? she asked Yngoth. Is this why? To find her?
When you were sent back, the viper replied, Lolth didn't need to be found. Haven't you thought all along that you were sent back to sit at the head of Arach-Tinilith? To hold that post for House Baenre and preserve Lolth's faith and Lolth's favorite in the power structure of Menzoberranzan?
I'm not sure now, the Mistress of the Academy admitted.
You were sent back for this, Yngoth said. Of course you were. You were sent back to become Mistress of Arach-Tinilith so that you would be the one they sent to find Lolth when the goddess chose to turn away. You were meant to be the savior of Menzoberranzan and perhaps even the savior of Lolth herself.
Quenthel sagged a little further at that.
How can you be sure? she asked.
I'm not sure, replied Yngoth, but it seems reasonable.
Quenthel sighed.
It was Lolth's plan all along that I go back there, Quenthel asked, to find her? How will I do that?
Get to the Abyss first, replied Hsiv. The last of her vipers was never shy when it came to offering his mistress advice. Go there first and you will be guided to Lolth by Lolth. You will know what to do.
How do you know? Quenthel asked.
I don't, Hsiv replied, but do you have any choice?
Quenthel shook her head. She hadn't had any choice in a very long time.
Valas looked around at the ragged drow who made up the expedition to the Abyss. They didn't look very good. Aside from Danifae, who had more energy than Valas had ever seen, who seemed transformed by their trip to Sschindylryn, they were tired, ragged, temperamental, and unfocused.