Лиза Смедман - Extinction

Leaving the eye focused on that scene, Gromph pulled his awareness back into this own body. Inside the crystal ball, the figures gestured and talked—in angry tones, judging by the way the duergar tapped the scepter against one palm as the half-demon loomed over him, his pointed, sharklike teeth exposed in a snarl. The drow, meanwhile, kept turning back and forth between the half-demon and the two duergars, speaking rapidly and with placating gestures.

The other wizards stared into the scrying device, their expressions thoughtful.

“These are the leaders of the army that has besieged us?” Julani asked.

He had rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, and his steepled fingers were laced with angry sparks.

“I recognize Crown Prince Horgar of Gracklstugh and his bodyguard, and is that Kaanyr Vhok?” Grendan asked.

“The same,” Noori said. “The tanarukks that harry our southern approaches are his Scoured Legion.”

“That leaves but one,” Gromph said.

“The one in the middle—the drow,” Prath said, clenching his fists. “That’s Zhayemd—the bastard from House Agrach Dyrr who betrayed us at the Pillars of Woe.”

“His real name is Nimor,” Gromph said. “Nimor Imphraezl.”

“Is he a wizard?” Julani asked.

“I don’t think so,” Gromph answered. “Though there is a strong aura of magic about him; I think he’s more than he appears to be. And he certainly has enough magical devices. I can detect an aura of magic on his weapons, several items of his clothing, his rings...”

He paused for a moment, contemplating the two rings the man wore. One Gromph recognized as a protective device, but the other—the slim black ring that seemed no more substantial than a band of shadow—was quite unusual. Gromph had never seen anything quite like it.

Suddenly Gromph realized what it must be. Ever since Triel had told him that Nimor had somehow spirited an assassin into the inner most corridors of House Baenre’s great mound, Gromph had been puzzling over how that might have been accomplished.

That black ring on Nimor’s finger must be a magical device that conveyed the ability to shadow walk. That would make him a difficult character to corner, indeed. It was a good thing the wizards were striking from a distance, unseen—otherwise Nimor might have just shadow walked away.

Shaking his head, Gromph continued, “Our matron mother has learned that Nimor belongs to an organization known as the Jaezred Chaulssin. Unfortunately we know little about this group, save for its name.”

Zoran toyed idly with his wand of wonder, spinning it between his fingers.

“So we know his name. So what?” he asked insolently.

Gromph resisted the urge to fry the boy where he sat.

“A name is power,” he said, speaking to the others. “It helps us to define our target. A target that seems to be the lynchpin holding two otherwise unfriendly armies together.” He gestured at the figures in the crystal ball. They had not yet come to blows but were still arguing. “Remove the lynchpin—and the alliance will come apart. The duergar and tanarukk will fall upon one another, and victory for Menzoberranzan will be assured.”

Julani glanced at Gromph and asked, “What do you suggest?”

“A concerted attack,” the archmage answered. “All of us, casting our deadliest spells at once. Nimor will undoubtedly resist hem, but some, certainly, will get through.”

Prath rose from his chair, unlacing the lid of a wand case at his belt.

“Are we going to teleport to the cavern?” he asked.

Gromph patted the air, motioning the impetuous young mage back to his seat.

“We don’t need to teleport anywhere,” he said. “We can cast our spells from here.”

Grendan raised a perfect eyebrow and asked, “How?”

“Through this,” Gromph said, pointing at the crystal ball. “Since its creation, I’ve imbued it with a few... extras, the knowledge of which you must swear to keep secret.”

“Ah,” Julani said. “So that’s why you summoned only House Baenre mages.” He placed the tips of curled fingers to his chest, over his heart. “May Lolth’s poison consume me, should I divulge whatever I am about to hear.”

Gromph stared at each of the mages in turn, and one by one they nodded their agreement and spoke oaths of silence.

“This is not just a scrying device,” Gromph told the others. “Once primed, it can be used to cast spells at a particular target—in this case, at Nimor. It will work not only for spells that can carry as far as the eye can see but also for those that are limited by distance. Now then, which spells are your most potent?”

One by one, the other mages described which spells they would cast. Gromph rejected some suggestions and approved others. When it was Noori’s turn, she spread her hands.

“I don’t know if my spells will be any use,” she said humbly. “They tend to be divinations.”

Gromph smiled and said, “On the contrary, Noori, you will contribute the most useful spell of all. In order to use the crystal ball, we must first cast a spell that will pinpoint the individual we wish to attack. Which is where you come in. Please cast a location spell on the drow.”

With a slight bow that didn’t quite hide her smile, Noori rose to her feet. She pulled a scrap of fur from her pocket and used it to polish the crystal ball. As she did, Nimor loomed larger inside the crystal ball, his face and chest filling it.

At a nod from Gromph, Noori resumed her seat. As she did, Gromph thought he saw Nimor follow her with his eyes. Had the drow sensed that someone was scrying him and glanced around in an effort to locate the source? Little matter; soon enough he’d be ducking spells.

Gromph pulled a pinch of sand out of a pocket of his piwafwi and flicked it into the air in front of him, chanting the words of a minor creation spell. A tiny hourglass appeared on top of the eagle’s cage, and the sand inside its uppermost globe began trickling away.

“Cast your spells when the last grain of sand fells,” he told the others. “Make sure your conjurations all end at precisely the same instant.”

After taking care to make sure his protective devices were still on his person and tucking Kyorli safely into his sleeve, Gromph began his own spell.

He chose a necromantic spell, one of the most powerful in his arsenal. Slowly, one eye on the hourglass, he rasped out words whose raw power scratched the inside of his throat, making it bleed. Dimly, he was aware of the magical conjurations of the other wizards.

Julani held both hands in front of him, the first two fingers forked in the gesture that would summon a powerful lightning bolt, and Grendan was kneading the air with his fingers, creating a hypnotic weave of shifting color, Prath had chosen an evocation that would summon a magic missile—a feeble spell, but probably the best the first-year student could manage. Zoran, meanwhile, slumped lazily in his chair, a grin tweaking the corner of his lips. Gromph longed to give the insolent boy a magical thrashing—but dared not interrupt his own spell. The hourglass was nearly empty.

As the last of the sand trickled out, Gromph spoke the final word of his spell—and heard the others do the same. His pointing forefinger turned momentarily skeletal as a thin ray of bone-white erupted from its tip and lanced into the crystal ball, streaking toward Nimor’s chest. In that same moment, lightning erupted from Julani’s fingers, filling the air with the boom of thunder and the stench of ozone. Grendan’s hypnotic pattern rushed toward its target. Zoran had said he was going to cast a spell that would send Nimor into fits of laughter, incapacitating him, but instead he drew and fired his wand of wonder. A useless stream of gems erupted from its tip. Meanwhile the three magic missiles Prath had conjured up glanced harmlessly off some magical defense that surrounded Nimor, just as Gromph had expected.