Лиза Смедман - Extinction

Rollim ran a heavily callused hand through his hair, which was damp with sweat and dotted with sawdust. “A normal injury, we might have been able to do something about—we could have splinted a broken bone or stanched the bleeding of an axe cut. But this—” he shuddered—” She died as we were lifting her onto the cloak.”

Halisstra nodded. “You did well to bring her here,” she told them. “I’m sure the priestesses will reward—”

“They already have,” Rollim said. He raised his right hand, palm up, toward the sky in a reverential gesture, then let it drop to his side. “If it wasn’t for the Dark Ladies, Baeford wouldn’t be alive today. He had the pox soon after his birth and nearly died, but Eilistraee healed him.” He glanced at the dead priestess, and his expression grew grim. “I only wish we’d been able to repay that kindness.”

Baeford—whose face did have pock marks—shuffled his feet nervously.

“Lady,” Baeford asked, “shall we carry her to the sacred circle?”

He looked as though the last thing he wanted to do was pick up the body again.

“No,” she answered. “I’ll take her. You may go.”

“You’ll carry her alone?” Rollim asked, eyebrow raised.

He bowed hurriedly when he saw Halisstra’s frown. She still didn’t appreciate a male questioning her authority.

“As you wish,” Rollim quickly said. Then, to his son, “Come, Baeford. We’ve done all we can.”

As they left, Ryld slid silently out of the branches.

Should I follow them? he signed.

Halisstra shook her head.

“No. There’s something amiss here, but though the younger one could sense it, he doesn’t know what it is. Whatever it is, they weren’t the cause of it.”

She knelt beside the body and studied it, shifting it slightly to observe the woman’s back. As Baeford had said, there were no obvious signs of injury. The priestess’s skin was unbroken, and her tunic and boots showed only normal travel wear. Just as all of Eilistraee’s priestesses did—especially when venturing into the Underdark—she wore a chain mail shirt. Its links were undamaged, and her sword was still in its scabbard.

On an impulse, Halisstra grasped the hilt and tugged. The sword slid out of its scabbard easily, its blade keen and bright—had it been used, it might have been sticky with blood. As Halisstra reached once again over the dead woman to resheath the weapon, her face came close to that of the priestess. Detecting a faint but acrid odor, she bent closer and sniffed. The smell was a distinctive blend of the sulfuric fires of the Abyss combined with rotten spiderweb.

Halisstra swore softly, “Eilistraee protect us.”

“What is it?” Ryld asked, tense.

“She was killed by a yochlol,” Halisstra said. “I can smell its stink on her skin and hair.”

Silver flashed as Ryld drew his greatsword. He assumed a ready position, eyes darting around the forest.

“Do you think it followed her?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I doubt it.”

As she spoke, Halisstra pried open the dead woman’s mouth. The priestess’s jaw opened easily. She had not been dead long. As Halisstra had suspected, the smell was stronger when the woman’s mouth was open. The yochlol must have assumed gaseous form and flowed into the priestess’s lungs, choking her and rendering her unable to retaliate with either sword or spell. Which meant that the yochlol had gotten close to her—close enough to take her completely by surprise. It had done so either by using a spell to dominate her, or by the simple subterfuge of assuming one of its most innocent-looking forms, that of a female drow.

A “drow” who had, Halisstra guessed, pretended to be a petitioner seeking to join in Eilistraee’s worship. The yochlol must have toyed with the priestess, secretly gloating at what was to come while accompanying her to the cavern that led out onto the World Above. Then it struck.

“This was no random attack,” Halisstra concluded. “The yochlol chose its victim deliberately.”

“Do you think the demon was summoned?” Ryld asked, his brow creased in a worried frown. “If it was...”

The warrior didn’t finish his question, but he didn’t have to. Halisstra knew full well what was on his mind. The yochlol were demonic creatures that served the Queen of the Demonweb Pits. The handmaidens of Lolth could only appear on the prime material plane if summoned by her priestesses. It was possible, however, that one had already been on the prime when Lolth fell silent and had subsequently broken free of its mistresses.

It was also possible that Lolth had returned from wherever she’d gone to, and that her priestesses were once again able to use their spells.

“Uluyara will want to know about this,” Halisstra said. She moved to one end of the cloak on which the priestess lay, and grasped its two corners. “Let’s get the body to the temple—at once.”

Sculling to keep herself just beneath the surface of the lake, Quenthel waited until the spell that allowed her to breathe water ended. When her lungs began to feel tight and hot, she exhaled the last of the lake water from them and let her head break the surface. Then, treading water and coughing slightly, she touched the brooch on her chest. She rose smoothly into the spray-filled air beside the waterfall, at last drawing level with the tunnel.

Jeggred was sitting just inside it brooding, staring out across the lake. When he saw her his eyes widened. Letting out a howl of delight, he leaped to his feet, cracking his head against the low ceiling and splitting his scalp. Oblivious to the blood that flowed freely through his thick white hair, he broke into gulping laughter.

“Mistress!” he barked.

Quenthel landed lightly on the ledge beside him. Crouching low, she scrambled into the tunnel. Jeggred leaped forward, his massive fighting arms wide as if he were actually about to embrace her, of all things. Quenthel’s stern look—and the twitching of her vipers—warned him off, and instead he groveled at her feet. Not daring to couch her, he kissed the cold stone in front of her feet, whimpering softly.

Quenthel half-hoped Jeggred would ask how she’d managed to escape the aboleth. She would have relished relating how clever she’d been. But, being a draegloth, he was far too literal-minded for that. His mistress had been eaten, but now she was alive again. That much was enough. That—and the comfort of having someone to give him commands again.

Curling her fingers like a spider’s legs, she touched them momentarily to his shoulder and watched his mane ripple as he writhed with pleasure. Then she turned to more pressing matters.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

Jeggred pointed behind him, back down the tunnel, and said, “In another cavern. That way.”

Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, Quenthel set off in the direction indicated. Jeggred trailed behind her, ducking his head subserviently and silently pointing each time she glanced at him for directions. After a while, the ceiling became higher, and they were able to walk upright. They were going back the way they had come, still following the river. Up ahead Quenthel could hear voices, one male, the other recognizable as Danifae’s by the audible pout of the words. Quenthel remembered a larger cavern, just ahead. By the echo of their voices she guessed they were probably standing inside it, talking.

“Why were you alone?” Quenthel asked Jeggred. “Did the others leave you behind after Pharaun failed to return?”

When Jeggred didn’t answer immediately, she glanced back at him. The draegloth had a confused frown on his face.

“The wizard did return,” he answered.