Lisa Smedman - Sacrifice of the Widow

He could sense his arms and hands, even though he couldn't see or feel them. He moved them against himself, trying to touch his body. They passed through where it should have been. It was like trying to grasp smoke, except that his hands, too, were made of smoke, gray smoke, without a ripple or an end point.

His body was gone. He was dead.

Panic nibbled at the corners of his mind like a ravenous mouse. If he allowed it to, it would consume his awareness, what little of him there was. He steeled himself, forcing himself to remain calm. He was dead, but he still was. His soul continued.

His mind, such as it was, held the logical facts that explained his situation. His soul, like those of all who died, had entered the Fugue Plain. He could see it starting to take shape around him. There: a distant horizon, a line of gray on gray. And there: the jagged spires of the City of Judgment. Restless forms-mere dots, from a vast distance-surrounded its soaring walls. Demons herded the shapeless gray forms before them, driving unclaimed souls into the city where they would be consumed.

Other presences hovered closer to Q'arlynd-the souls of others who, like him, had just died.

"Can you hear me?" he asked as one drifted by.

It made no reply, just sighed past him, leaving a sheen of tears in its wake.

Q'arlynd realized then that he was slowly drifting toward the city. The thought sent a chill through him, colder than any he had ever experienced. He looked wildly around for the moonbeam that Rowaan had described, listened intently for a scrap of song.

Nothing.

"Eilistraee!" he called. "Aren't you going to claim me? I took the sword oath. I'm one of yours, now. You're my patron deity!"

No reply.

Something prickled where Q'arlynd's forehead should have been. If he'd still had a body, he would have sworn it was nervous sweat. He drifted more rapidly toward the city, and already it was half again as close as it had been.

"Eilistraee!" he screamed.

Nothing.

The city walls drew nearer. He could make out individual demons, scourges in hand, arms raising and snapping forward as they drove the dead. Souls wailed as they streamed in through the gates of the City of Judgment.

Q'arlynd shuddered-a ripple that passed through him like an icy wind. Panic once again crowded in at his awareness. He looked wildly around for the servant of a deity-any deity-to claim him.

"Mystra?" he pleaded, desperately hoping that Qilue's other deity might have taken notice of him, even though he hadn't pledged himself to her.

Nothing.

The walls had drawn close enough that he could see the individual stones in them writhing against one another. Each stone a soul trapped for all eternity.

A demon turned to stare at him. It crooked a cracked red finger, beckoning him closer.

"Lolth?" Q'arlynd croaked, desperate. "Anyone?"

Come.

Q'arlynd whirled. He saw nothing, but the voice came again. A male voice.

Return. To the land of the living. Will you return?

He recognized the voice: Malvag's. Probably the last person he wanted to call him back from the dead, but anything was better than-

"Yes!" Q'arlynd screamed.

The Fugue Plain disappeared.

His body returned.

He lay on his back on a sharp, lumpy surface, his arms underneath him. His fingers were tightly pinched. It felt as though they'd been lashed together with wire. His throat ached and there was a faint taste of blood in his mouth. He spat.

Then he saw the two Nightshadows staring down at him, framed by the crystal-lined cavern, and realized where he was and what had just happened. He tried to hurl himself erect but only managed to flop over on his side.

His mouth froze. He was aware of a second presence inside his skull, the mind of the Nightshadow closest to him-Malvag, the cleric he had nearly killed with lightning bolts. Malvag's eyes gleamed as he stared mercilessly down at Q'arlynd. The Nightshadow shook his head slightly and raised a warning finger. Q'arlynd's master ring was on it. Malvag spoke directly to him, mind to mind.

No spells, slave.

Get out! Q'arlynd raged. The second ring must have been on one of his own fingers under the wire that bound them. Get out of my mind!

Malvag's eyes crinkled in a mirthless smile. Get up.

When Q'arlynd hesitated, Malvag's awareness shoved its rough way into his torso and legs. Q'arlynd found himself drawing his legs up against his body. He rolled onto his stomach, rose to his knees, and finally lurched to his feet. He swayed and nearly fell before Malvag found his balance. All the while, Q'arlynd raged. He was a Melarn, damn it. His House might be gone, but he was still of noble birth. Never-never-a slave.

He might as well have been shouting against a howling wind. Malvag's laughter reverberated through his mind, overpowering Q'arlynd's inner voice.

This, Q'arlynd realized suddenly, is what Flinderspeld must have felt like.

But Flinderspeld was a deep gnome, a race that was used to such indignities and bore them stoically. Q'arlynd was a drow. He was forced to suffer Malvag's torments for the time being, but dark anger smoldered in his heart. The Nightshadow was going to pay for every moment. Pay dearly.

I doubt it, Malvag said.

Q'arlynd fell silent, not wanting to give the other male any further satisfaction.

Malvag walked him over to the drift disc that held the prayer scroll, and made him stand there, rigid. The second Nightshadow-the slender one-cocked an eyebrow and watched Q'arlynd, his eyes bright with fascination.

"Welcome back," he said. "I guess, since you're here, Eilistraee had no use for you." He laughed. "But we do."

Malvag pointed at the body of the Nightshadow Q'arlynd had turned to stone and spoke to the other male. "Get his mask."

Q'arlynd tried to swallow but couldn't. They knew. Everything. That he was Eilistraee's-or would have been, if only the goddess had bothered to claim him, yet they'd brought him back from the dead. Something he'd agreed to. What had he been thinking?

Malvag must have been listening, but he made no comment.

Hands appeared from behind Q'arlynd, holding the dead man's mask. It was tied into place around Q'arlynd's face. Unlike the polymorphed gem, which had prickled Q'arlynd's skin with a heat like raw pepper, this mask felt smooth as silk, but it was restless, shivering, afraid.

Valdar moved back around where Q'arlynd could see it. A smirk was in his eye. He pointed at the mask. "One of your friends from the Misty Forest. Go on-kiss her good-bye."

Q'arlynd blinked-a concession Malvag allowed him. That was Rowaan's soul in there. Q'arlynd felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He pushed it aside. Rowaan had been pleasant to him, but she'd been soft, he told himself. Weak. Gullible. If she'd fought harder against the assassin…

It was her own fault-but even so, Q'arlynd felt terrible.

The mask grew even colder against his face. A shudder passed through it. Then it stilled. It felt… calm, somehow. Resigned.

That was odd.

As Valdar took his place beside Malvag, the higher-ranking cleric raised his right hand. Darkfire burst into flaming life across Malvag's skin. "We will begin."

Malvag and Valdar bowed their heads, eyes firmly fixed on the prayer scroll. Q'arlynd's head, too, was wrenched down. As Malvag's darkfire-limned finger descended toward the scroll, Q'arlynd could feel the cleric peering out through his eyes. His mouth opened. He drew breath and began to read.

Q'arlynd listened as his mouth, under Malvag's control, spoke the words of the prayer scroll in time with the other two males. As they read it aloud, each word on the silver sheet flared bright then faded, that portion of the scroll crumbling in its wake. Streaks of silver spiraled up and off the page to circle above their heads. Slowly, the circle grew. It widened, and wisps of something gray and flowing, like vapor, streamed out of their masks. The souls, Q'arlynd realized. They were fueling the magic the clerics were weaving. The crystals in the cavern hummed softly, throbbing in time with the words the three males spoke.