Ричард Бейкер - Condemnation

“Make the duergar fight for every step they take toward Menzoberranzan,” Triel added. “Your survival depends on your success. If you abandon this tunnel before three days pass, I will have you crucified.”

Zal’therra bowed, and hurried off. Triel turned back to the weapons master.

“Understand that I do not hold you blameless, either,” she said in a low voice.

“You were the author of our grand strategy, and I committed the full weight of House Baenre’s power and prestige to your battle plan, which has led us to a disaster the likes of which we have not seen since Mithral Hall. In any other circumstances, I would have you dumped into a pit of hungry centipedes with your tendons slashed for your failure, but. . . these are unusual times, and there exists the small possibility that your skill and grasp of strategy may prove useful in the days to come. Do not fail me again.”

“Yes, Matron Mother,” Andzrel said, bowing low.

“So,” she continued, “where do we stop the duergar and their allies?”

Without hesitation, the weapons master replied, “We do not, Matron Mother. Given the losses we have already suffered, I advise withdrawing back to Menzoberranzan and preparing for a siege.”

“I do not like that option,” Triel snapped. “It reeks of defeat, and the longer an army sits on our doorstep, the more likely it is that they’ll be reinforced by the arrival of some other enemy, such as the beholders or the mind flayers.”

“That is possible, of course,” Andzrel said, his voice carefully neutral, “but the gray dwarves will not find it easy to maintain a siege around Menzoberranzan, a hundred miles from their own city. I don’t think the duergar can wait us out for more than a few months, and I doubt they have the numbers to take the city by storm. Our best course of action is to make the duergar set their siege, and see what kind of a threat we’re really facing. It would provide us the opportunity to crush House Agrach Dyrr in the meantime.”

“You’re afraid to face the duergar in battle again?” Triel rasped.

“No, Matron Mother, but I will not advise a course of action that hazards the city on a battle for which we are not prepared, not unless we have no other choice. We are not yet at that point.” He paused, then added, “We can always gather our strength within the city and sally in force in only a few days, if we see the need or the opportunity.”

Triel weighed the weapons master’s advice.

“I will return to Menzoberranzan and set the matter before the Council,” she said at last, “but, until you’re ordered otherwise, continue your withdrawal. I will have our captains in the city make ready to withstand a siege.”

Halisstra opened her eyes and found herself drifting in an endless silver sea. Soft gray clouds moved slowly in the distance, while strange dark streaks twisted violently through the sky, anchored in ends so distant she couldn’t perceive them, their middle parts revolving angrily like pieces of string rolled between a child’s fingertips. She glanced down, wondering what supported her, and saw nothing but more of the strange pearly sky beneath her feet and all around her.

She drew in a sudden breath, surprised by the sight, and felt her lungs fill with something sweeter and perhaps a little more solid than air, but instead of gagging or drowning on the stuff she seemed perfectly acclimated to it. An electric thrill raced through her limbs as she found herself mesmerized by the simple act of respiration.

Halisstra raised her hand to her face in an unconscious desire to shield her eyes, and she noticed that her eyesight was preternaturally keen. Each link of her mailed gauntlet leaped out in perfect symmetry, its edges boldly defined, the leather of her gloves gleaming with discrete layers of oils and stains. Words failed her.

“You have not ventured here before, Mistress Melarn?” said Tzirik from somewhere behind her.

Halisstra craned her neck back to look for him, but in response the entire vista seemed to revolve and spin in one quick, smooth motion, bringing into her view the floating forms of her companions. The Vhaeraunite priest stood—no, that was not right, floated was better—a dozen yards from her, his armor as sharp as the edge of a knife, his cloak rippling softly in a breeze Halisstra could not feel. He spoke softly, yet his voice carried with a marvelous clarity and precision that made it seem that he stood within arm’s reach.

“I would have expected a priestess of your stature to be familiar with the astral realm,” the priest added.

“I know something of what to expect, but I have never had the occasion to journey to other planes,” she replied. “My knowledge of this place is only . . . theoretical.”

She noted that each of her comrades seemed every bit as sharply defined, as tangible and real, as Tzirik himself. From some spot she could not easily perceive—somewhere in the middle of their backs, or perhaps the napes of their necks—sprang a slender, gleaming tendon of silver light.

Halisstra reached around behind her head and felt her own cord. The warm, pulsing artery vibrated with energy, and when her fingers brushed it, a powerful jolt quivered through her torso as if she’d just plucked the heartstring of her own soul. She jerked her hand back, and resolved not to try to touch her cord again.

“Your silver cord,” Tzirik explained. “A nigh indestructible bond that ties your soul to its rightful home: your body, back in Minauthkeep.” The priest offered a cruel smile. “You will want to be careful of it. There are few things that can part an astral traveler’s cord, but if something did, that traveler would be destroyed in an instant.”

Halisstra watched as Ryld felt for his own cord and touched it. His eyes widened and he snatched his hand back just as swiftly as she had withdrawn her own.

“How long do these things get?” the weapons master asked.

“They are infinite, Master Argith,” Tzirik said. “Don’t worry, they fade to intangibility within a foot or two of your skin, so you won’t be tripping over your own cord. In fact, it has the habit of keeping itself out of your way, quite without a thought on your part.”

Halisstra glanced around the company, watching as the Menzoberranyr struggled to adjust themselves to their new environment. Ryld and Valas flailed their limbs slowly as if trying to tread water. Quenthel held herself as stiff as a blade, her limbs locked tight to her sides, while Danifae drifted languidly, her long white hair streaming behind her. Pharaun merely waited, his eyes sparkling with dark amusement as he watched the efforts of his companions. Tzirik glanced around, studying their surroundings, and nodded.

“This is something of a timeless place,” he said, “but time does pass here, so I suppose we should begin our journey. Follow me, and stay close. You may think you can see forever from here, but things have a way of vanishing in the mists.”

He glided off without moving, arms folded, his cloak whipping silently behind him.

Follow him how? Halisstra wondered, watching the priest go, but somehow in conceiving the desire to keep the priest close by, she found herself leaping forward with such alacrity that her next impulse was to yelp out loud, if only to herself, “Stop!”

And she did, so quickly and with so perfect an end to motion that her mind told her she must lurch forward, as if she had tried to stop too suddenly from a run. She managed to throw herself into a violent circle before she stopped completely. Fortunately, she was not the only one having trouble.

Danifae scowled prettily as she tried to make herself go anywhere at all, and Ryld and Valas had somehow collided with each other and clung together, unwilling to trust themselves to the void again.