Лиза Смедман - Extinction

No, they ricocheted—straight back at the boy. Which was impossible.

Gromph tried to shout a warning, but all he managed was, “Ward yourselves! The spells—”

Then his own death spell came hurtling back at him. The bone-white ray, chill as the grave, struck him in the chest, the precise spot he’d aimed for on Nimor. His enchanted piwafwi soaked up the spell, its hood, cuffs, and hem instantly crumbling away like ancient, rotted cloth. Even so, the spell rocked him to the side as if he’d been kicked in the head by a rothe. He tumbled out of his chair, winding up in an undignified heap on the floor.

As he fell he heard Prath grunt as his three magic missiles struck, punching deep, bloody holes into the boy’s chest. In the same instant, twin lightning bolts struck Julani, passing through his body in less than a heartbeat to explode out of his hands, feet and the top of his head, killing him instantly. Grendan, meanwhile, went slack-jawed as the hypnotic pattern he’d conjured appeared in the air in front of his face. Beside him, Zoran flung up his hands as the stream of gems from his wand rushed back at him, thudding into his chest. One caught him in the head, knocking what little sense he had out of it, and he fell out of his chair, unconscious.

Lifting his head, Gromph was just in time to see the crystal ball turn a solid white. It felt with a crash to the floor, knocking the eagle’s cage over and cracking in two. Inside the cage, the eagle screeed in anguish as its missing eyeball—split in two and weeping blood—returned to its socket.

Gromph looked at the destruction his plan had wrought and was furious with himself. His experiment had turned out most disastrously for House Baenre. Julani was dead, and Prath—judging by the sound of his labored, gurgling breathing—would soon die without magical intervention. Grendan would be a drooling idiot for some time to come, and Zoran... well, being knocked unconscious was precisely what he deserved for using so whimsical a weapon in such dire circumstances. Noori was unscathed but had only divination magic at her disposal. Besides, she was too busy fussing over her lover to be of any use, even were her spells more powerful.

Gromph had half expected Nimor to have magic that would protect him from spells, but only a handful of the spells should have been turned—not all of them. And certainly not those spells, like the hypnotic pattern, which targeted the air next to Nimor, and not the drow himself. Whatever device or spell protected Nimor must have been the result of a unique enchantment—one beyond the capabilities of most mortal wizards.

Gromph knew of only one spellcaster capable of such powerful magic: the lichdrow Dyrr.

Easing himself off the floor, Gromph was relieved to see Kyorli, unhurt, scurry out of his sleeve. As Gromph rose to a sitting position, a sharp object dug into his hip. He assumed it was one of Zoran’s useless gems but then realized it was something in the hip pocket of his piwafwi. He reached into the pocket—and to his surprise found a prism of quartz. Tiny yellow sparks as bright as miniature suns danced inside it, evidence of the light-producing magic that was trapped in its depths.

How had it gotten into his pocket?

He stared at it absently, half-listening to the gurgling, bloody breathing of Prath. All the while, he was thinking furiously. He alone must deal with Nimor—but how? Any spell that targeted the strange drow would only bounce back at its caster—even a spell that affected an area, rather than Nimor himself, couldn’t take him down. Yet Nimor must have a weak spot. One that seemed, on the surface, to be his chief strength.

Shadow walking.

Glancing at the prism, Gromph began to smile. Carefully, he tucked it back in his pocket. The insignificant little magical device—a trivial construct of the Surface Realms that was designed to serve no more noble purpose than to illuminate darkened corridors—would rid them all of Nimor Imphraezl.

Without having to cast any spells on him.

A chorus of nearly fifty voices filled the air as Eilistraee’s priestesses, seated in a circle around a waist-high, rust-red boulder, gave worship to their goddess through evensong, Halisstra sat among them on one side of the crater that had been formed when a boulder fell from the heavens, centuries gone by. The crater was bowl-shaped and dozens of paces wide, its sides smoothed by a dusting of snow.

The evensong was one of thanksgiving for the forest that sustained them; for the sun that even then was setting behind the trees, filling the sky with rosy pink light; for the moon that would illuminate the darkness, reminding the drow that even at night the goddess still watched her children; and for the ground beneath their feet, which gave up its iron needed to forge the Dark Ladies’ swords.

“Up from the earth, and into the flame,” Halisstra sang, together with the other priestesses, “I temper my heart, in Eilistraee’s name.”

Though the evensong was a joyful one, it had an undercurrent of rage that night. Upon hearing of the death of a member of their faith at the hands of a yochlol, priestesses from all over the forest had gathered to pay tribute to the woman who had fallen. More priestesses were still emerging from the forest to join in the circle. Clad in chain mail and bearing shields they sank down beside the others, sat cross-legged with drawn swords placed across their knees, and joined in the song.

When it was done, Uluyara rose and walked down the slope to the boulder. Placing her left hand on it, she raised the sword she held in her right hand to the heavens, invoking the goddess.

“Eilistraee, hear me,” she cried. “Breena’s death shall be avenged. We shall hunt down the servants of the Spider Queen and put them to the sword! Dark Maiden, give us strength.”

As one, the seated priestesses raised their own swords and shouted, “By song and sword!”

Belatedly, Halisstra joined them, thrusting her own sword at the heavens. She glanced, nervously, at the priestesses on either side of her, worried that they might think her tardiness showed a lack of faith—or that they might cast a critical eye on the blade’s missing tip. But they were caught up in the moment, sighting along their own blades at the sky above.

“Whether they try to run on the surface or hide in Lolth’s dark depths, we shall hunt them down,” Uluyara continued, the fire in her red eyes matching that of the setting sun. “We will have our vengeance upon them and will dance in delight as they fall. Lady of the Dance, give us strength!”

Halisstra was ready.

“By song and sword!” she shouted, thrusting her songsword into the air at the same time the others did.

“We will tear through their web of lies and deceit and destroy all who prevent the dark children from claiming their rightful place in the light,” Uluyara continued. “Lady Silverhair, give us strength!”

“By song and sword!” the priestesses replied.

Then, all at once, they stood, and Halisstra scrambled to join them.

“Lolth will be defeated!” Uluyara cried. The blade of her sword was glowing with a cold, white light. “Eilistraee, give us strength!”

“By song and sword!” the priestesses shouted, raising their swords a fourth and final time. Then, reversing their weapons, they drove them point-first into the ground and shouted, “Lolth must die!”

Halisstra had shouted the first response together with the other priestesses but was taken by surprise when they thrust their swords down, instead of up. A heartbeat behind the others, she thrust Seyll’s songsword into the ground, forcing its blunted tip into the earth.

“Lolth must die!” she shouted—suddenly realizing that her voice was all alone in the abrupt silence.