Resurrection (24 page)

The troops beat the hafts of their glaives, tridents, and poleaxes against the floor, sending shivers through the walls and floors, giving Corpsehaven a pulse that temporarily overwhelmed the wind's incessant howl. In time with the thumping, the troops shouted aloud for their general, turning his name into an incantation.

"Inthracis! Inthracis! Inthracis!"

Inthracis smiled and let the excitement build.

Even through the tumult Inthracis could hear the roars of the nycaloth sergeants. He pictured the assembly in his mind-row upon row of armed and armored yugoloths-and reveled in their adoration. Yugoloths were mercenaries to their core, and Inthracis had treated his army well over the millennia, rewarding them with glory, souls, treasure, and flesh. He had augmented their loyalty with subtle binding spells, quietly cast. He had built his army with care over the centuries, and its fearsome strength and unswerving loyalty had elevated him nearly to the top of the Blood Rift's hierarchy. He had only to unseat Kexxon the Oinoloth and he would sit atop Calaas's spire.

Vhaeraun had commanded Inthracis to bring an army to the
Ereilir Vor,
the Plains of Soulfire, in Lolth's Demonweb Pits. Inthracis could not muster his entire army without leaving Corpsehaven unguarded, but he could do the next best thing-bring the Black Horn Regiment, and lead them himself. He would leave Nisviim, his arcanaloth lieutenant, in charge of the fortress until his return. Inthracis knew the bound arcanaloth would not betray him.

Besides, he was certain the Black Horn regiment would be enough-more than enough-to slaughter the three drow priestesses and whomever or whatever might accompany them. And when the three priestesses were dead, Vhaeraun might actually reward him.

"Inthracis! Inthracis!"

The rhythmic beat of weapon hafts on the floor grew louder, faster, building toward a crescendo. Beside Inthracis, snarling and drooling, stood Carnage and Slaughter, his canoloth pets. The rising volume of the chanting agitated the four-legged, houndlike yugoloths-both were dumb but quite powerful, quite loyal-and their long, barbed tongues lolled from the fanged sphincters of their mouths. Their claws dug into the floor, and both uttered low growls.

Inthracis reached up to pat them each on their huge, armored flanks.

"Be at ease," he said and let arcane power creep into his voice.

The power of his magic eased their tension. The canoloths uttered satisfied murmurs and visibly relaxed.

For the sake of appearances, Inthracis had armored Carnage and Slaughter in their war gear-spiked plate barding covered the coarse, black fur of their wide backs and broad chests. He had even armored himself, though he would consider it a personal failing to be forced to engage in melee combat.

Still, the troops enjoyed seeing their general outfitted for war.

His light, magic-absorbing mail shirt and helm, both forged in one of Calaas's furnaces from a magic-soaked ore unique to the Blood Rift, glimmered in the light of the anteroom's yellow glowball. His spellblade, Arcane Razor, through which he could cast his spells and cut through the spells of others, hung at his belt from a scabbard made of barbed devil hide. An arsenal of metallic wands and three bone rods hung from a quiver at his thigh.

"Inthracis! Inthracis!"

As it had with the canoloths, the noise agitated the stacked corpses in the walls of Corpsehaven. Limbs squirmed, wide eyes stared, and flesh oozed. Hands reached from the walls as though to touch him, either out of excitement or perhaps out of a need for reassurance.

Carnage turned his huge head, casually ripped a grasping forearm from the wall, and devoured it, bone and all. Seeing his sibling feasting, Slaughter eyed the wall-corpses to see if another such tidbit might be forthcoming.

None were. Hands and arms retreated into the wall. Eyes stared out in semi-sentient fear.

Inthracis smiled at his pets, even as he ran his plan through his mind. He had been unable to scry any of the three priestesses-he did not know why-and Vhaeraun's avatar had not shown himself again. Still, he dared not disobey the Masked Lord's command.

Inthracis would use a simple spell to show the Black Horn Regiment where it was to go-the fiery, blasted heath of the Plains of Soulfire, in the shadow of Lolth's city and the Infinite Web-and go they would. Inthracis knew the plains to be uninhabited but for the tortured souls that burned in the sky above them-and perhaps a few of Lolth's eight-legged pets.

"Inthracis! Inthracis!"

The time had come.

Without another word, he threw open the doors and strode forward onto the high balcony that overlooked the assembly hall. The cheer that greeted him from below sent flakes of skin raining from the ceiling, shook the walls of Corpsehaven like one of the Blood Rift's frequent earthquakes.

He looked down on the regiment. Rows of squat, beetle-like mezzoloths looked up at him with their red, compound eyes. They stood on two legs, using the other four to wield their polearms. Plates of armor draped their black carapaces. Their mandibles offered soft clicks. The larger nycaloths moved amongst them, calling for quiet.

Muscles rippled under the green scales of the gargoylish nycaloths as they moved. Huge axes hung from their backs. Four clawed hands erupted from their muscular chests, and their sleek heads sported two horns, limned black, of course.

Inthracis raised his hands, and the multitude fell silent. Only the howl of the wind outside disturbed the moment. In its shriek, Inthracis still heard the echo of Lolth's call, but softer:
"Yor'thae."

Inthracis ignored it, except to hope that the diminishment of the call indicated the diminishment of Lolth.

He willed a spell to amplify his voice. When he spoke, his softly uttered words sounded as loud and clear in the ears of his troops as if he had stood beside them.

"There are drow priestesses that we must kill," he said. "And we must do it under the eyes of the Spider Queen herself."

A ripple ran through the lines. All knew that something had been happening recently with Lolth.

Inthracis spoke the words to his spell and called up a towering image of the
Ereilir Vor.
A green mist hung over a pockmarked landscape. Pools of caustic fluid bubbled their stink into the air. Glowing souls burned in arcane fire in the sky.

Beyond the plains, Lolth's city loomed, a great, crawling citadel of iron set among the Infinite Web. Millions of arachnids scurried along its strands.

Another ripple ran through the lines. No doubt some recognized the locale.

"That is where we will do battle," he called. "And here is our prey."

Drawing upon the mental image placed in his mind by Vhaeraun, he spoke aloud the words to another spell and caused an image of the three priestesses to take shape before the regiment.

"All three must die," he said, "and an extra twenty-five souls from my cache to those who strike the killing blow."

A roar answered him and he nodded.

The Black Horn Regiment was ready. If Vhaeraun was right, and one of the three drow priestesses was or was to be Lolth's
Yor'thae,
then the Spider Queen's Chosen would never reach her goddess's side.

Souls streamed overhead, angling downward and flowing toward the base of the mountains. The nalfeshnee eyed the glowing souls hungrily as they passed, but his fear of Quenthel kept him from doing anything other than looking. The chasme continued to whine at the heaviness of his load.

As the mountains loomed closer and closer, Pharaun caught Quenthel looking back, not at him but at the horizon line. Pharaun turned to watch it too, expecting to see the light of the rising sun once again summon forth Lolth's children for the Teeming.

The sun peeked over the edge of the world, casting its dim red light across the landscape. To Pharaun's surprise, nothing happened.

The light oozed over the rocks, holes, and pits, but no spiders came forth to greet it.

It appeared that the Teeming was over. Strange, that so great a degree of violence could erupt and end with such suddenness. Pharaun had a peculiar sense that the Demonweb Pits was holding its breath, waiting for something.

When he turned back around, he found Quenthel staring at him. With exaggerated gestures, she signed,
Be prepared when we land. But do nothing except at my command.

Pharaun nodded in understanding. The time for the confrontation had come at last.

He let himself lag a bit behind the chasme. There, he began surreptitiously to cast defensive spells that had no outward visible effect-he did not want some aura or emanation to alert Danifae and Jeggred to Quenthel's intent. He sprinkled diamond dust over his flesh and turned his skin as strong as stone. He whispered sequential incantations that made his body resistant to fire, lightning, and acid.

The Master of Sorcere could not contain a smile as they flew. When they reached the mountains, Quenthel would kill Danifae, and Pharaun would kill Jeggred.

It is about time, he thought.

Halisstra, Feliane, and Uluyara streaked through the air, riding the wind. They flew amidst the river of souls, though Halisstra did not look any of the glowing spirits in the face. She was afraid she might encounter someone else she had known.

The mountains were visible ahead, a titanic wall of sheer stone. They looked like the fangs of an unimaginably huge beast. The flow of souls angled downward, heading toward the bottom of one of the mountains.

Behind them, the sun rose over the horizon. Halisstra looked earthward, expecting to see another day of violence, but it appeared as if the only violence that would happen on the Demonweb Pits that day would happen between drow.

Far ahead, Halisstra caught sight of two large forms descending toward the base of the tallest of mountains-demons, she saw.

Quenthel Baenre was there, she knew. So was Danifae.

Her heart began to race.

The souls swirled around the demons as they descended toward a hole in the mountains that could only be the Pass of the Soulreaver.

Halisstra and her fellow priestesses sped onward, slowly gaining.

Flying in shadow form near Menzoberranzan's stalactite-dotted ceiling, Gromph reached House Agrach Dyrr. Looking down, he saw that little had changed from when he had scried the fortress an hour or so before.

Agrach Dyrr's defenders still paced the tall, stalagmite walls, peering down through their fortifications at the attackers. The violet-plumed helms of the officers and the blades of the soldiers' polearms and swords bobbed along behind the crenellations. Banners with House Agrach Dyrr's heraldry festooned the walls, charred but largely whole. Scores of orc and bugbear crossbowmen bolstered the drow forces.

Gromph could not smell the battlefield due to his incorporeality, but he could see the clouds of black smoke gathered near the cavern's roof and could imagine the stink.

On the plateau before the stalagmite castle gathered the massed forces of House Xorlarrin. The army numbered perhaps eight hundred all told and encircled the complex at a distance of a long crossbow shot from the moat-filled chasm. Gromph noted the makeup of the Xorlarrin soldiery: half a score drow wizards, a few hundred drow warriors, two score war-spiders, and numerous platoons of lesser creatures, all of whom stood assembled and ready. Several siege engines fashioned of magically hardened crystal and iron stood amidst the ranks.

All was quiet. The Xorlarrin appeared willing to wait for reinforcements before making another attempt on Agrach Dyrr. Gromph was mildly surprised. He knew Matron Mother Zeerith to be as ambitious for her House as any matron mother. He would have expected her to hoard the glory of Dyrr's capture all to herself. Yasraena must have been mounting an impressive defense to so temper Xorlarrin ambition.

Gromph floated down and saw scores of bodies and body parts floating in the water-filled chasm that surrounded the manse's walls. A few toothy reptiles-giant aquatic lizards, no doubt-swam in the moat and fed on the remains. Gromph saw that the dead ogres and their battering ram, which he had seen while scrying the House, no longer lay before the adamantine doors. No doubt some Agrach Dyrr necromancer had animated their corpses and turned them back against the Xorlarrin.

Until he had evaluated the fortress's network of wards up close, Gromph dared go no closer than the line delineated by the moat. With a minor effort of will, he activated the permanent dweomer on his eyes that allowed him to see magical emanations.

House Agrach Dyrr lit up like the sun of the Green Fields, the ridiculous "halfling heaven" to where the lichdrow had banished him during their spell duel. Gromph had expected as much, but seeing the wards of House Agrach Dyrr through the muted lens of his scrying glass had been something different than seeing the blazing spiderweb of defenses in person. Unlike the rest of the physical world, which appeared to his transformed eyes only in shades of gray, the wards blazed red and blue. Their power reached across the planes and would affect even incorporeal creatures.

More out of pride than necessity, Gromph decided that he would walk through the front doors, just to spite Yasraena. In truth, it did not matter where he made his assault. The wards and defenses were shaped as spheres, concentric circles of power, not walls. They covered every avenue of approach. He would face everything that protected the House whether he attempted the adamantine doors or the lizard stable wall.

He sat cross-legged on a large rock, near the far end of the adamantine bridge. He was perched almost exactly halfway between House Agrach Dyrr and the besieging Xorlarrin army. He was pleased to see that his presence went unnoted by both the Dyrr and Xorlarrin forces. He knew that the mages among them would have various divinations in effect, including some that would allow them to see invisible creatures. Gromph's nondetection ward must have thwarted them. The victory still brought him only small pleasure.

As a preliminary measure, he withdrew his ocular and held the milky gem to his eye. Though incorporeal, the magic of the ocular continued to work. Looking through the lens of the gem, Gromph saw things as they truly were-undisguised by illusion, disguise, or shapeshifting magic. The ocular's power could have been thwarted by spells like those which protected Gromph, but such protections were atypical.

He eyed the complex and saw nothing out of the ordinary except that two putative male drow officers were actually polymorphed demons. Gromph's magical lens showed their actual form, that of towering, muscular, bipedal, vulturelike creatures with hateful red eyes and large feathered wings.

Vrocks, Gromph knew. Yasraena must have bought the services of a pair of the fiends.

Gromph pocketed the ocular and softly spoke the words to a spell that modified his magic sensing vision so that it excluded from its effect the anti-scrying wards and the spells that offered House Dyrr structural reinforcement. For his purposes, those spells were irrelevant. He was interested only in those wards that would prevent his physical intrusion into the complex and those that would kill or capture him once he was within.

When the modification took effect, perhaps half of the lines of power vanished, though the fortress still glowed brightly, encased in a net of red lines. Spell traps lurked within the network, killing spells that would be triggered by the breach or inartful dispelling of a ward. For a time, Gromph used a series of divining spells to examine the intricate lattice of spells visible from where he sat. He wanted to understand the interconnections between the wards before he tried to penetrate them.

Gromph would have to peel the wards back, spherical layer by layer, as though flensing a slave to the bone.

He pulled out his eye-capped wands and with their more pointed divining spells deepened his analysis. Among the multitude of spell traps set within the network he discovered the tell-tale traces of magical symbols-one of pain, two of death. He confirmed the presence of glyphs that emitted fire and lightning, forcecages to trap him, contingency spells to bind his soul, barriers that forbade passage in any physical or incorporeal form.

And he saw something else. Knifing through the entire network was the thin, almost unnoticeable line of a ward that tied all of the other wards together and that augmented them all-a master ward.

Gromph had no doubt that the lichdrow had cast it.

Essentially, Dyrr had tied a knot around a knot, lacing his master ward through the interstices of the other wards until all of them were irretrievably intertwined. As a result, the ordinary protections put in place over the years by the various Agrach Dyrr matron mothers would, upon being triggered, become all the more deadly from an influx of power from the lichdrow's spell.

Gromph studied the line of the master ward more closely. He pulled out another wand and used it to carefully analyze the ward's dweomer. Its complexity suggested that it did more than simply augment the other wards, but Gromph's spells could not divine anything more, at least not from where he sat. He would have to get within the ward network itself before he could do a more detailed analysis from another angle.

He sheathed his wand and frowned. His ignorance of the master ward's full purpose gave him pause but he knew there was nothing for it. He could not turn back, and delay was his enemy.

He floated to his feet and faced his first challenge, a simple detection spell that would alert the caster if anyone, in any form, crossed the adamantine bridge. Gromph looked along the ward's bulky, glowing lines, saw no spell trap connected to it, and dispelled it with a whispered counterspell.

He flew across the adamantine bridge. Blood stained it in several places. From atop the walls, Dyrr soldiers and the two demons looked through and past him. To them, he did not exist. He was alone with the wards.

Hovering before the gate, he studied the lines of magic crisscrossing its surface. The lines not only prevented physical passage, their pattern formed two magical symbols that would kill anyone whose flesh touched the doors without first speaking the password, having the appropriate item on their person, or the right blood in their veins. A further analysis with one of his wands showed Gromph that the symbols were permanent. They did not vanish upon a single discharge. Instead, they would continue to reset and kill unless they were eliminated.

He spoke the words to a counterspell and focused the magic of the spell into his forefinger. Gently, he ran his shadowy fingertip over the lines of the first symbol. Though his finger was incorporeal, the magic reached into the physical world. Where his finger touched, his spell erased the symbol. Soon, it was effaced.

Gromph cast another counterspell and repeated the process with the second symbol. It proved more stubborn than the first. Gromph's magic met the magic of the symbol and did nothing. His counterspell had no effect. Biting back his frustration, he prepared another spell, a more powerful, focused version of the counter.

Sudden motion from above drew his eye. A swarm of crossbow bolts rained down at something behind him. Gromph turned to see a half-score of giant trolls charging across the bridge. They wore piecemeal armor strapped haphazardly to their gray-green, warty hides. The smallest stood three times as tall as Gromph, with over-long limbs, a mouthful of fangs, finger length claws, and rippling muscles. In their huge hands, the giant trolls held a mammoth stalagmite, shaped by magic into a fearsome battering ram. Gromph's magic-detecting vision told him that the ram had been powerfully enspelled.

Green disks of magical energy hovered over the huge creatures-cast by distant Xorlarrin wizards-protecting the trolls from the rain of bolts that poured from the walls. In ten strides, the giant trolls had crossed half the bridge.

From the Xorlarrin lines behind them, a platoon of orog crossbow-men and their shield bearers ran up to the edge of the moat-chasm and fired a volley of arrows at the defenders on the wall. An answering volley streaked down at them. Fire and lightning fired from Dyrr wands exploded in the midst of the orogs, and several of the bestial creatures burst into flames or exploded into pieces.

Drow soldiers stood lined and ready fifty paces behind the orogs, ready to charge forward should the giant trolls penetrate the doors.

The huge creatures lumbered forward, the bridge vibrating under their weight. Fire exploded in their midst but did not divert their charge.