Лиза Смедман - Extinction

Ryld cursed softly under his breath.

“Last night?” he asked. “So that was what all the singing was about. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

Halisstra shrugged and said, “What difference would it have made? You’re not thinking of reporting back to Quenthel, are you?”

Ryld gave her a sour smile.

“I couldn’t—even if I wanted to,” he said. “She’d brand me a deserter and have those vipers of hers sink their fangs into me. I’d be dead before I could get a single word out in my defense. I just wish you would keep me informed.” He paused, then frowned. “How did Uluyara know that Lolth’s temple was sealed?”

“I told her,” Halisstra said. “I told her everything. About our trip to the Abyss in astral form, about Lolth’s silence, and about the battle between Vhaeraun and Selvetarm—I even told her about the fall of Ched Nasad. Everything.”

Ryld nodded slowly and said, “I shouldn’t be surprised, given our conversion, but I am. Revealing so much to priestesses who, until a short time ago, you would have counted as your enemies, seems like...”

Perhaps realizing he was speaking to a priestess, he lowered his eyes. As he hesitated, either uncertain how to finish his sentence or else unwilling to continue it, Halisstra guessed the rest.

“Like a betrayal?” she asked. “A traitorous act? Well so be it. Lolth is dead—or will soon be.”

“And you’ve aligned yourself with what you think will be the winning side,” Ryld said. He nodded. “I suppose that’s a sensible move to make.”

Halisstra sighed, wondering why Ryld just couldn’t understand.

“It’s more than mere tactics,” she said, trying to explain. “Eilistraee is the only deity to offer the drow any hope. With Lolth missing and her priestesses unable to mount a defense, the cities of the Underdark are going to fall, one by one. Soon hundreds—if not thousands, or even tens of thousands—of drow will come streaming up out of the Underdark, looking for refuge. Eilistraee’s priestesses will offer it to them. They’ll help guide our people up into the light. They’ll teach the drow to take their rightful place in the world—to not just survive up here, but thrive. We’ll be able to reclaim our birthright. Just look how much the Dark Ladies of Eilistraee have done so far, in terms of clearing this forest of monsters and making it fit to live in again. We’re creating a new home on the World Above, one in which the drow can live in harmony with one another. A home we’ll defend with our magic—and our swords. What more noble cause can there possibly be than that?”

Ryld, staring at the trophy tree again, muttered something under his breath. Halisstra thought she heard the words “just like clearing the slums,” then decided she must have been wrong, since the phrase made no sense.

“Ryld,” she said slowly, “are you sure you—”

Quiet! Ryld warned, switching suddenly to silent speech. I hear voices in the woods. Human voices. They’re coming this way.

Halisstra, worried, reached for the horn on her belt. Should she sound it to warn the priestesses? That was what she’d been sent out to the perimeter of the temple grounds to do, after all: stand guard. Uluyara had warned her that human adventurers sometimes ventured deep into the Velarswood—adventurers who made no distinction between the worshipers of Eilistraee and the drow of the Underdark. Humans slew any ebony-skinned elf they met on sight.

But blowing the horn would also alert the humans to Halisstra’s presence—and they were close. Better to assess the situation from hiding and deal with the humans herself, if possible. Ryld would back her up—and provide an additional element of surprise.

Take cover, she signed to him. I’ll challenge them. You wait.

Nodding, Ryld slid his greatsword silently out of its sheath, at the same time flipping up the hood of his piwafwi. He stepped back into the branches and stood utterly still, becoming no more than another shadow. Halisstra, meanwhile, quickly sang under her breath, casting a spell that rendered her invisible. Then she waited, songsword in hand.

The humans were either bold—or stupid. They came through the woods with heavy, snow-crunching footsteps, not bothering to lower their voices, which, when Halisstra could finally hear them clearly, sounded strained. Occasionally they grunted, as if carrying a heavy load. As they passed by the base of the trophy tree and came into sight through the underbrush, Halisstra saw two of them, both human males with axes in sheaths on their backs, carrying a body on a cloak they held stretched between them.

The body of a female drow.

And not just any drow, but one who wore the moon-and-sword emblem of Eilistraee on a chain around her neck, and a cluster of miniature swords that hung from a ring on her belt like keys.

“Who are you?” Halisstra called out, dropping her invisibility spell. “What’s happened to this priestess?”

She held her songsword at the ready—not because the men looked threatening but because, if the priestess was still alive, healing magic might be needed, and quickly. Stepping closer, she touched the woman’s throat, but saw that it was too late for any spells she might have offered. The priestess’s skin was cold, and the rhythm of life had stilled. Her closed eyes would see no more.

Both of the humans were thin and muscular, with pale blond hair and darker skin than most humans, suggesting there had been a drow somewhere among their ancestors. The older of the two men inclined his head to Halisstra. It was as much of a bow as he could manage while still holding on to the cloak that sagged with the priestess’s weight. When Halisstra nodded back in acknowledgement, the two men gently eased their burden to the snowy ground.

“We two are from Velarsburg,” the older man said. “I am the lumberman Rollim, and this is my son Baeford. We were cutting timber near the Howling Hills when we heard a woman calling for help. We followed the voice—some ways through the woods, from which I figure it must have been a magical sending—and found this Dark Lady outside a cave. She looked near death—she was breathing shallow, and fast. She couldn’t speak, but she could still sign. She said she’d been attacked in the Realms Below and needed to get back to the temple.”

Halisstra contemplated the dead priestess. She was a stranger, but Halisstra could guess her mission by the tiny swords that hung from the ring on her belt. She was one of the priestesses who traveled as missionaries into the Underdark, carrying the faith of Eilistraee to the drow who dwelled below. The tiny swords would have been handed out to the faithful, to serve as “keys” that would ensure them safe passage to the temple.

“Did she tell you what attacked her?” Halisstra asked.

Rollim frowned and replied, “Not ‘what’, Lady, but who. When she was telling her story, she used the sign for ‘she’. The sign that means ‘drow female’.”

Halisstra winced.

“Did you see any sign of this other drow?” she asked.

“None,” Rollim said. “There was only the Dark Lady’s footprints—and we didn’t dare go into the cave. The other must still be below.”

“Stabbed in the back,” Halisstra muttered, staring down at the priestess. “How typical.”

Behind the two men—both had their backs to the spot where Ryld was hidden—she saw dark hands briefly flash: Or else abandoned to fight alone.

Even though Ryld’s face was no more than a shadow under the hood of his piwafwi, Halisstra could see he was scowling.

“Not stabbed,” Baeford interjected. “There wasn’t a mark on her.” He glanced apprehensively down at the body of the priestess. “It must have been magic that killed her.”