Лиза Смедман - Extinction

Still other gray dwarves busied themselves just inside the mouth of the tunnel, hurriedly assembling siege engines and shelters. The duergar labored without ceasing, even though an occasional ball of fire or ice or crackling electricity arced over and smashed into the ground near the siege walls they had set up just inside Tier Breche. Glowing pits of molten rock or ice-shattered stone attested to the force of those blasts.

Gromph could see everything but could not hear the shouts of the duergar—who nodded to the newly arrived illithid—nor could he smell the sulfurous explosions. The sphere enclosed him in a world filled only with his own breathing—which became rapid as he realized that Gracklstugh’s army had not only reached Menzoberranzan but had established a foothold inside Tier Breche itself. The duergar were attacking the three buildings that were the most heavily fortified in the city, aside from the noble Houses themselves.

Hands pressed to the curved wall of his prison, Gromph strained his eyes, looking for the jade spiders that should have been guarding the tunnel. They were nowhere to be seen.

They serve a different master, now, the illithid said with a smirk. As will the drow, soon enough. The army is already inside Menzoberranzan.

Whose army? Gromph wondered. Not an army of illithids, surely, or the one who carried him would have said “our army.” Had the duergar of Gracklstugh reached Menzoberranzan on their own?

The answer came swiftly.

Yes. And tanarukks march with them. The drow cannot stand against their combined might.

Gromph had no way of knowing whether or not that was true. If only he could get free of the sphere he could use his magic to drive the enemy back. But in order to free himself he needed to find a wizard who knew the precise spell required, And he needed to get inside Sorcere—specifically, to his quarters, where the lichdrow had cast his imprisonment spell. Unfortunately, both those things were on the other side of the duergar siege wall.

Gromph glanced up at the illithid and thought, Or... are they?

Deliberately, Gromph let his mind dwell upon that thought.

The reply was tinged with arrogance.

Of course I know that spell, but why should I use it to set you free? All of your secrets will be mine, in time. I will flay your mind, layer by layer, like the skin of a—

The illithid broke off in mid-sentence, suddenly glancing at someone who was approaching. Long, purple fingers closed tightly around the sphere. The illithid held it in both hands, hiding what it contained. It rubbed its fingers deliberately against the glass, smearing its surface with the slime that coated its palms. Gromph tumbled to his hands and knees as the illithid dropped the hand holding the sphere to its side. He scrambled forward to look out through the only clear spot that remained on the surface of the glass.

One of the duergar stood in front of the illithid, his face level with the sphere. Like the others of his race, the dwarf had pale gray skin, a snub nose that looked as if it had been flattened by a mace, and a bald head. He was dressed in mottled gray-and-black clothing the color of stone but wore a bronze breastplate so untarnished and free of dents that Gromph was willing to bet it was magical. He carried a greataxe whose double-bladed head swirled with ghostly patterns—likely the trapped souls of those it had slain, or so Gromph guessed.

The gray dwarf didn’t have his head tilted up to speak to the illithid but kept his eyes level with the mind flayer’s waist. The gray dwarf’s gaze occasionally creeped down to the sphere, and he gestured repeatedly at Tier Breche.

Glancing up, Gromph could see the illithid’s tentacles ripple as it shook its head. The gray dwarf, who obviously thought he was addressing another duergar, pointed at the sphere.

With a suddenness that surprised Gromph, the illithid bent over the dwarf. Its four tentacles lashed out, wrapping themselves around the duergar’s face. The dwarf flailed with his axe, but the illithid had anticipated that move and countered it with magic. The dwarf’s body went suddenly rigid, the axe poised above his head. Tentacles flexed, and the duergar’s head split open like a ripe fungus ball. One of the tentacles relaxed, and, while the remaining three held the head in a vicelike grip, it began scooping pinkish gobs of brain into the illithid’s mouth. Gromph, sickened by the sight, turned his face away from the glass.

The other duergar turned, shocked looks on their faces. One or two reached for their weapons, took a look at the illithid’s blank white eyes, then all of them suddenly relaxed. Gromph could only imagine how easy it was for the illithid to cloud the simple minds of a gang of duergar soldiers. He wondered what the duergar saw when they looked at the illithid—one of their own, most likely—and they were compelled not to think about their dead officer, his broken skull, or his half-eaten brain. One by one, the magic-addled gray dwarves simply went back to what they had been doing.

Finished with its meal, the illithid plucked the axe from the dwarf’s hand, then let the body drop.

Now, it said, you will tell me how to enter Sorcere.

Gromph eyed the greataxe. It was obvious that the illithid cared less about the war than it did about personal gain.

You want magic, Gromph sent to the illithid.

Yes, the mind flayer replied.

You want to get inside Sorcere before the duergar do.

The illithid’s next thought was more tentative, as if it was admitting a guilty secret.

Yes, it said.

Gromph smiled and replied, You want to know if there’s a back door into Sorcere, but if you try to get that information from me by force, it will take too long. By the time you find it, the duergar will be inside. You’ll be left with whatever scraps they don’t destroy or loot for themselves. But I can offer another alternative. Help me to get free of this sphere, and I’ll reward you well. I’ll willingly give you the magic you crave.

What magic?

In my centuries of experimentation, I have developed powerful spells that other mages and wizards have yet to even imagine.

Gromph felt the tendrils of the illithid’s mind-probing magic root even deeper in his mind.

Those spells are no longer in my memory, he told it. They’re in my private quarters, in Sorcere. In these.

Gromph let his mind dwell on his office, on the enormous desk that dominated the windowless room. Made of polished bone, it had a number of drawers that opened onto extra-dimensional spaces. The front of each drawer was inlaid with a different skull. Gromph pictured himself sitting in his chair behind the desk and reaching down to a certain skull, then placing his fingers in its eye sockets. The drawer slid open, revealing a rack that held two bottles. Each was of cast gold, its sides set with a sigil-shaped “window” of moss-green glass, through which came a glow that originated from inside the bottle. Each of the sigils, in the drow script, represented the same word: “remember.”

What are they? the illithid asked.

I call them “thought bottles,” Gromph said. Each contains a powerful spell—and all of the thoughts that led to its creation. Spells so powerful even I dared not use them, but so unique that, once created, I could not risk losing them, either. In order to avoid temptation, I created these bottles to hold them. Anyone who consumes their contents will gain not only the spell itself but every stage of the process that led to its creation.

Once I am inside Sorcere, I will take them, the illithid said.

Not unless you free me, first, Gromph said. The drawer will only open to my touch.

The archmage let his mind dwell on an experiment he’d conducted back when he’d first constructed and ensorcelled the desk. He’d deliberately left the door to his office lightly warded, then observed with clairvoyant magic as an apprentice forced his way into the office and tried to open the desk. No sooner had the drow placed his fingers inside the eye sockets than he stiffened and tried to scream. No more than a hoarse croak came from his throat, however, before a horrible wilting began. White hair broke off in clumps from his head like dried straw, and his eyes shriveled in upon themselves like heat-cured fungus and fell from their sockets. His skin chafed, then erupted in a series of cracks, from which brown dust—dried blood—trickled. Slowly he crumpled, shrinking in upon himself until all that was left was a pile of dusty clothes where a drow had once stood.