Лиза Смедман: Extinction

Belshazu grunted, then dropped to its knees and sniffed at the symbol that bound it. When the demon looked up, its eyes fastened on Jeggred.

“Draegloth blood,” it growled. “So that was why the drow bitch mated with me. What was her name? Tral? Tull? No... Triel.” The demon spat a gob of foul-smelling phlegm onto the ice, then added, in a disdainful rumble, “That whore.”

It stared past Pharaun at the group of drow above, its violet eyes burning with a terrible challenge that caused Valas to draw his kukris in readiness.

Jeggred returned the demon’s growl. Tensing, he hunched into a crouch. Quenthel’s hand darted to his back and clenched the draegloth’s tangled mane. She jerked Jeggred back just as he was about to spring.

“Stay beside me,” she commanded.

Jeggred complied.

Valas heaved a sigh of relief, glad the draegloth hadn’t sprung forward to attack his father. Had Jeggred taken a single step across the symbol that had been wrought with his blood, the lines of magical force that bound the demon would have stretched—and snapped. Which was what the demon had obviously intended, all along.

Pharaun cleared his throat, and the demon returned its attention to him.

“Now then,” the mage said. “We need to get to the Demonweb Pits. Where’s the nearest gate to the Abyss?”

Belshazu bared yellowed fangs in a smile and stared down at Pharaun as if contemplating which of the wizard’s limbs to tear from his body first.

“Right here, in this cavern,” it rumbled. “Just beneath my feet. Let me show you.”

Summoning its magical fire again, the demon directed the flame from its hands downward, onto the ice at its feet. Because the magic was not trying to cross the hexagram itself, the flame took effect. Enormous clouds of steam rose from the melting ice, obscuring the spot where the demon stood. A crater appeared beneath the demon’s feet, and as melt water rushed to fill it, Belshazu plunged flaming hands into the water and set it aboil.

Pharaun was leaning forward, intensely curious to see the gate the demon had promised. He reached into a pocket of his piwafwi at the same time. Jeggred was still flexing his claws in barely suppressed anger at the insult to his mother. Danifae and Ryld stood closer to the tunnel entrance, and were talking in rapid sign. Their backs were turned to Valas, making it impossible for him to see what they were saying.

Beside him, Quenthel suddenly tensed.

“Pharaun, stop Belshazu!” she shouted. “He’s trying to—”

Her order was lost in a furious hiss of steam and the loud bubbling of boiling water. Valas himself could only hear Quenthel because she stood right beside him. Then he saw what Quenthel was pointing to: the edge of the crater of knee-deep water Belshazu was standing in was crumbling back toward the line of the hexagram. At last awakening to the danger, Pharaun saw it too—but too late.

With a hissing roar, the line of flowing blood tumbled into the boiling water and was gone.

The hexagram was broken.

“Wizard—you are mine!”

Roaring his triumph, Belshazu waded through the boiling water toward Pharaun, eyes blazing violet fury at the mage who had so foolishly dared to attempt to bind him.

Ryld pulled the bag of sand out of the pocket of his piwafwi and placed it on a ridge in the rock wall at the point where the tunnel forked, then carefully balanced a large stone on top of it. He pulled from his quiver one of the crossbow bolts Halisstra had taken from the surface elves and checked its barbed head for traces of poison. Seeing none, he used it to cut his palm. He smeared blood on the tunnel wall, then snapped the point off the bolt. As he placed the broken bolt on the tunnel floor, he glanced nervously back down the fork that led to the cavern, worried that someone might have heard the sound.

Silence. The noise had been slight, and no one was coming to investigate.

He balled his hand around a rag to staunch the flow of blood, then dropped it to the floor beside the broken crossbow bolt. Then he pulled his portable hole out of a pocket and flipped the folded piece of phase-spider silk open, laying it on the ground just below the sand-filled bag. Carefully, he loosened the bag’s drawstrings until just a trickle of sand began to fall from it into the portable hole. Then he hurried back down the steeply sloping corridor to the cavern where the others were.

He’d been worried that Jeggred would smell the fresh blood on his palm, but the draegloth seemed to have been doing a little bloodletting of his own. It was Danifae who stared at him as he returned.

Ryld paid little attention as Pharaun summoned the demon, his mind instead focused on the silent count he’d begun after leaving the bag. He did glance down in alarm, however, when the demon told Pharaun there was a gate to the Abyss directly under the frozen pond. It was obviously a ploy of some kind, but Pharaun didn’t question it. Instead, when the demon’s hands flared with fire for the second time, Pharaun merely stood and watched, as if curious to see what the demon would do.

Ryld concentrated on his count: fifteen, fourteen, thirteen... almost time.

“Listen,” he said, touching Danifae’s arm. “Do you hear that?”

Danifae gave him a suspicious look. Then, from farther up the tunnel, came the sound or a dislodged stone hitting the tunnel floor and rolling toward them. Danifae’s eyes widened slightly.

“Someone is—”

Her words were cut off by a violent hiss of steam from the cavern below. Glancing down, Ryld saw that the demon was melting the ice. He opened his mouth to shout a warning—

—then he pursed his lips shut. The demon was Pharaun’s problem.

Ryld shifted to sign language, in order to speak over the hissing roar of boiling water.

Whoever it is, I’m going to make them sorry they followed us. Tell Quenthel where I’ve gone.

You’re running off after Halisstra, Danifae accused.

Ryld, startled, was surprised by her bluntness—and by the approval he saw in her eyes. Was she glad that her mistress would have someone to protect her, after all?

No, he told her, determined to keep up his bluff. I’ll be back. As proof you can keep this.

He pulled the lesser of his two magical rings from his finger and passed it to Danifae, intentionally dropping it. The ring bounced off a rock and began to roll down the slope toward where the others stood. Danifae scrambled after it, trying to grab the ring before Quenthel or one of the others claimed it.

Ryld turned to hurry back the way they had come. He saw Valas shoot him a quick, questioning glance. Then Quenthel shouted a warning to Pharaun. An instant later a roar of triumph filled the cavern. The demon was free.

Ryld was already several paces away, climbing swiftly up the narrow tunnel that had led them to the cavern. Behind him he could hear more roaring, violent splashing, and terrified shouts. An explosive rush of cold air whooshed past him—the blast of a spell. There was no way to tell whether it was one of Pharaun’s—or one cast by the demon. Then a male voice screamed in mortal agony. Pharaun’s?

For a heartbeat or two, he actually considered turning around. Then he decided against it. Pharaun deserved to know what it felt like not to be able to count on a friend.

He climbed upward, ignoring the sounds of battle behind him until he reached the flattened bag, which he plucked from its ledge. He dropped it into the portable hole, then folded the hole shut. He’d shake it out later when he reached the surface. If the others survived the demon attack and came looking for him, there would be no clues to alert them to the trick he’d played.

Ryld pressed on, retracing the route they’d taken from the surface. He’d taken careful mental notes as they descended, pausing several times to turn around to view landmarks from the opposite direction.