Resurrection (4 page)

He did not make eye contact. His four hands went slack to his sides, and his eyes dropped.

Pharaun cocked an eyebrow in appreciation. By referring to Quenthel by her familial instead of her formal title, Jeggred had avoided directly offending Quenthel further yet had not contradicted anything implied by Danifae. Perhaps the half-demon was but a half-oaf instead of a whole.

While her whip kept vigil over Danifae and Jeggred, Quenthel turned to Pharaun, insulting Danifae by showing her her back.

"And you, Master of Sorcere," she asked, "have you any thoughts on this matter?"

Pharaun knew she didn't really want his opinion; he was only a male, after all. She wanted him to make his loyalties clear. He considered evading the question but quickly decided against it. House Baenre was the First House of Menzoberranzan; Gromph Baenre was his superior; Quenthel Baenre was or soon would be Lolth's Chosen. The time had passed for vagaries. Perhaps as a reward for straightforwardness Quenthel would allow him to kill Jeggred.

"Mistress," he replied, and his use of the title gave his answer to Quenthel's question, "it appears that Master Hune has taken his leave."

Quenthel smiled and her gaze showed approval.

Behind the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, Danifae glared hate at him. Jeggred licked his lips and the promise of violence in the draegloth's eyes was clear.

"Hune served his purpose, Master Mizzrym," Quenthel replied, "and his absence now is of no moment." She turned back and looked at Jeggred and Danifae. "All will serve Lolth's purpose, before the end. All."

"The world is her prey," Danifae answered.

Quenthel smiled indulgently, turned on her heel, and walked away a few steps to survey the landscape. She touched her holy symbol and whispered a prayer. Four of the serpents glared over her shoulder at the former battle-captive and draegloth. One, K'Sothra, hovered near her ear.

Danifae stared impassively at Quenthel's back, then turned to sneer at Pharaun.

You are a fool, as ever,
she signed.

Pharaun made no reply except a smirk that he knew to be infuriating.

Jeggred too stared at Pharaun, his expression hungry. Pharaun met his gaze and smiled insincerely.

The mage looked around at the blasted realm and said to Quenthel, "Hardly hospitable, is it, Mistress? I think Master Hune may have shown unparalleled wisdom in avoiding this leg of our little journey."

Quenthel made no reply, but Jeggred uttered a growl and snarled, "I should have killed that mercenary and eaten his heart."

In Jeggred's words, Pharaun saw an opportunity to reinforce his loyalty to Quenthel. He took it, knowing the draegloth would be easy to
manipulate.

"Eat his heart?" he asked. "As you did Master Argith?"

The half-demon bared his fangs in a grin.

"Exactly like Argith," said the draegloth, smacking his lips. "His heart's blood was delectable."

A gob of yellow saliva dripped from the corner of Jeggred's mouth and splattered in the scree.

Ryld Argith's death bothered Pharaun not at all, but he could use it, and Jeggred, to make a point to Quenthel. Besides, he enjoyed jibing the half-demon.

"Surely you are not so intellectually infirm as to think that Master Argith's death excites my sentiments?" he asked.

Jeggred growled, flexed his claws, and advanced a step.

Pharaun continued, "I am, however, stunned that one of your obviously limited intellectual gifts even knows the meaning of 'delectable.' Well done, Jeggred. At least something you've said this night befits a Baenre."

Quenthel responded with a single laugh, and Pharaun knew he had made his point.

Jeggred lurched forward, his fighting arms outstretched. Danifae clutched his mane and restrained him, her eyes on Pharaun.

"Hold, Jeggred," Danifae said, her voice and manner both as calm as a windless sea. "Master Mizzrym's play is transparent to all but fools."

That last, Pharaun knew, was meant for Quenthel.

"I'll have another heart before this is done," Jeggred promised Pharaun, though he did not pull away from Danifae.

Pharaun put his hand to his chest and feigned a wound.

"You've scarred me, Jeggred," he said. "I offer a compliment to your intellect and what do I receive in return? The threat of violence." He looked past the draegloth to Quenthel as though for support. "I am pained beyond measure. Mistress, your nephew is an ungracious brute."

Quenthel turned and said, "Enough of this. Follow me. Lolth calls."

She started slowly down the rise. Danifae whispered something to Jeggred and released his mane.

To Pharaun, she said, "You should be cautious, Master Mizzrym. My hand grows tired on the leash, and things may not be as clear as you think."

Pharaun gave her his smirk. "I am always cautious, Mistress Danifae," he said, choosing the title with deliberateness. "And things are what they are. That too is plain to all but fools."

To that, Danifae said nothing, though her jaw tightened. She turned and followed Quenthel.

Pharaun and Jeggred were alone atop the rise.

The draegloth's eyes burned into Pharaun. His wide chest rose and fell like a bellows, and his bare teeth dripped saliva. Even from five paces, Pharaun caught a whiff of Jeggred's vile breath and winced.

"You are an effete fool," the draegloth said. "And our business is unfinished. I
will
feast on your heart before all is said and done."

Without fear, Pharaun stalked up to the hulking draegloth, the words to a spell that would strip all the skin from Jeggred's body ready in his mind.

"No doubt it will improve your breath," he said.

With that, he walked past the draegloth.

He could feel Jeggred's eyes burning holes in his back. He also could feel the baleful stare of the eight satellites in the sky above.

At a dignified hurry, he moved nearer to Quenthel and Danifae. Jeggred followed, his breath and heavy tread audible five paces behind Pharaun.

When he reached Quenthel's side, he asked, "Now that we are here, where exactly are we to go?"

Quenthel looked into the sky, to the glowing river of souls that shone like the gem-encrusted ceiling of Menzoberranzan's cavern.

"We follow the souls to Lolth," she answered.

"And?" he dared.

Quenthel stopped and faced him, anger in her face. The serpents of her whip flicked their tongues.

"And?" she asked.

Pharaun lowered his gaze but asked, "And what, Mistress? Lolth calls her
Yor'thae
but what is the
Yor'thae
to do?"

For a moment, Quenthel said nothing. Pharaun looked up and found that her gaze was no longer on him.

"Mistress?" he prompted.

She came back to herself. "That is not a matter for a mere male," she said.

Pharaun bowed, his mind racing. He wondered if even Quenthel knew what it was that the
Yor'thae
was to do, what it was that was happening to Lolth. The possibility that she did not troubled him.

Quenthel offered nothing further, and they began again to walk.

Pharaun looked behind him and met Danifae's gaze. She licked her lips, smiled, and pulled up the hood of her cloak.

Wide, deep scorings from the gigant's thrashings marred the otherwise smooth floor of the bazaar.

Still dazed from the destruction of the staff, Gromph sat in a heap on the cool stone floor with his legs stretched out before him. Smoke leaked from his clothes. His mind moved sluggishly; his senses felt dull.

But not so dull that he was not conscious of his pain. A lot of pain.

Much of his body was burned. He felt as though a million needles were stabbing his skin, as though he had bathed in acid. His once-severed leg still had not fully reattached and sent shooting pains up his thigh and hip. His non-magical clothes-thankfully, not much of his attire-had melted into his flesh, turning his skin into an amalgam of burned meat and cloth. He could imagine how the exposed flesh of his face must look. He was surprised he could still see. He must have closed his eyes-his captured Agrach Dyrr eyes-before the explosion.

He held two charred sticks in his hands. He stared at them, dumbfounded as to their purpose. In appearance, they reminded him of his forearms-thin and burned almost beyond recognition. It took a moment for him to realize what they were: the remnants of the Staff of Power.

With a wince, he uncurled his ruined fingers from the wood and let the pieces of the staff clatter to the ground.

Seeing no movement in the bazaar except Nauzhror, who squatted beside him and clucked nervously, Gromph thought for an absurd moment that the staff's destruction might have annihilated everyone else in Menzoberranzan.

The stupidity of the thought made him smile, and he instantly regretted even that small movement. The charred skin of his lips cracked, causing him an excruciating stab of pain. Warm fluid seeped from the wound and into his mouth. He gave expression to the pain only with a soft hiss.

Gromph was no stranger to pain. If he could endure his own rat familiar eating out his eyes and a giant centipede severing his leg, he could abide a few burns.

"Archmage?" Nauzhror asked. "Shall I assist you?"

The rotund Master of Sorcere put forth a hand as though to touch Gromph's arm.

"Don't touch me, fool!" Gromph hissed through the charred ruin of his face. More blood leaked into his mouth. Pus ran from burst blisters.

Nauzhror recoiled so fast he nearly toppled over. "I-I meant only to aid you, Archmage," he stammered.

Gromph sighed, regretting his harsh tone. It was unlike him to let his emotions rule his words. Besides, the beginning of a plan for dealing with what remained of the lichdrow was taking shape in his mind. And with Pharaun away on the mission to the Demonweb Pits, he would need Nauzhror.

"Of course, Nauzhror," Gromph said. "We must let the ring do its work for a moment more."

"Yes, Archmage," answered Nauzhror.

Gromph knew that the magical ring he wore would heal his flesh. The process was painful, itchy, and slow, but it was as inexorable as the rise of light up Narbondel's shaft. No doubt Gromph could have benefited from a healing spell-which his sisters could again cast, it seemed-but it galled him too much that Triel had already saved him once. The lichdrow had beaten Gromph, turned him to stone, and he would have died or remained a statue forever but for his sister's intervention.

No, he could not ask her or any of the Baenre priestesses for healing or any other aid. Lolth's grace once more abided in them. Things would soon return to normal, and Gromph wished to be no more beholden to the priestesses of the Spider Queen than was absolutely necessary. He knew too well the price. Instead, he would endure a few more moments of agony while the ring regenerated his flesh.

I
am pleased that you survived, Archmage,
said Prath in his head. The telepathy spell was still working, it appeared.

I share your pleasure, Prath,
Gromph answered.
Now be silent.

Gromph's head ached, and he no more wanted the apprentice's voice rattling around in his head than he did a dagger in his eye.

In only a few moments, his skin was itching all over. He resisted the urge to scratch only with difficulty. After a few more moments, dead flesh started to fall from his body and new, healthy skin grew in its place.

"Archmage?" asked Nauzhror.

"A few more moments," Gromph answered through clenched teeth.

He watched, wincing with pain, as clumps of blistered skin fell from his body and traced his silhouette on the ground. Gromph imagined himself as one of Lolth's spiders, molting its old form and pulling a larger, stronger body from the dead shell. The battle with the lichdrow had taxed him, but ultimately it had not beaten him.

Of course, he reminded himself, the battle was not quite over.

When he felt ready, when most of his dead skin had sloughed away into a grotesque pile on the bazaar's floor, he extended his still-tender hand to Nauzhror.

"Here, help me rise."

Nauzhror took Gromph's hand in his own and pulled him to his feet.

Gromph held still for a moment, gathering himself, testing his regenerated leg, controlling the last vestiges of the pain.

Nauzhror hovered near him, as attentive as a midwife but not touching him.

"I'm quite capable of remaining on my feet," Gromph said but was not sure that he was.

"Of course, Archmage," Nauzhror answered but stayed close.

Gromph took a deep breath and let his shaking legs grow steady. Through his stolen Dyrr eyes, he surveyed the wreckage around him, surveyed the whole of the city.

Except for the smoking ruin of the bazaar, the center of the city remained unaffected by the siege. The great spire of Narbondel still glowed, tolling another day in the life of Menzoberranzan the Mighty. Gromph could not remember if he had lit it or if another had.

He cocked his head and asked Nauzhror, "Did I light Narbondel this cycle?

"Archmage?" Nauzhror asked.

"Never mind," Gromph said.

Only the fact of Menzoberranzan's empty thoroughfares testified to the fact that the city was embattled. The ordinarily thronged streets were as still as a tomb. The Menzoberranyr had confined most of the fighting to the tunnels of the Dark Dominion, the Donigarten, and Tier Breche. The city's center remained untouched by any battle except that between Gromph and the lichdrow.

But that battle had nearly leveled the bazaar.

Gromph turned and looked across the cavern to the great stairway that led to Tier Breche. There on that high rise stood the spine of Menzoberranzan's power, the triad of institutions that had kept it strong and vital for millennia: Arach-Tinilith, Sorcere, and Melee-Magthere.

Flashes, explosions, and smoke illuminated the schools in silhouette. The siege of the duergar from the north continued unabated. Gromph knew that each of the schools was scarred and burned by stonefire bombs, but he knew too that each
stood.

And soon, the duergar would find the spells of Lolth's priestesses bolstering the defenses, strengthening the counterattacks, and rejuvenating the fallen.

"The duergar are stubborn," said Nauzhror, following his gaze.

"More likely, they are ignorant of Lolth's return," Gromph replied. "But ignorant or stubborn, they soon will be dead."

In Gromph's mind, the battle for the city was already won. The siege of Menzoberranzan soon would end. He allowed himself a moment's satisfaction. He had done the part allotted him, and his city would live.

"Agreed," Nauzhror said. "It is only a matter of time, now."

Gromph turned and looked to the other side of the cavern, where rose the high plateau of Qu'ellarz'orl. If Sorcere, Arach-Tinilith, and Melee-Magthere were Menzoberranzan's spine, the great Houses of Qu'ellarz'orl were the city's heart.

House after House lined the plateau, with House Baenre dominating by far in both size and power. Squatting in House Baenre's shadow along the rise, barely visible from such a distance, were the fortresses of the city's other great houses-Mizzrym, Xorlarrin, Faen Tlabbar, even Agrach Dyrr.

Gromph's eyes narrowed when they fell upon the stalactite wall of the traitor House. Occasional flashes of power and explosions of magical energy lit the Dyrr fortress. The siege by the Xorlarrin mages continued. Gromph imagined that it would for some time. With Yasraena and her underpriestesses once more wielding Lolth's power, the siege could take a long while.

"The Xorlarrin are also stubborn," Gromph observed.

"And greedy," Nauzhror said. "With House Agrach Dyrr defeated and removed from the Ruling Council…" He trailed off.

Gromph nodded. When Agrach Dyrr fell, no doubt House Xorlarrin hoped to take its place on the Council. Nauzhror observed, "The fall of House Dyrr too is only a matter of time."

Gromph nodded again and said, "But I cannot wait."

Within House Agrach Dyrr, he believed, was the lichdrow's phylactery, the receptacle of the lichdrow's immortal essence. Gromph had to find and destroy it if he was to fully and finally destroy the lichdrow. Otherwise, the surviving essence of the undead wizard, embodied in the phylactery and driven by Dyrr's undying will, would bring itself back together and reincorporate a body within a matter of threescore hours. Were that to occur, the battle between the lichdrow and Gromph would begin anew.

And Gromph no longer had a Staff of Power to sacrifice in order to win.

Another fireball exploded along the parapet of Agrach Dyrr's wall.

"What are you thinking now, Yasraena?" he asked softly.

Gromph knew that the Matron Mother of House Agrach Dyrr already would have learned of the lichdrow's fall; likely she was scrying Gromph even then.

Like Gromph, Yasraena would know that the lichdrow was not fully dead until and unless his phylactery was destroyed.

"Did he confide its location to you, Matron Mother?" he whispered.

"Archmage?" Nauzhror asked.

Gromph ignored Nauzhror. He thought it unlikely that the lichdrow would have shared the location of his phylactery with Yasraena. He imagined that the relationship between the lichdrow and the Matron Mother would have been a tense one, not unlike that between Gromph and his sister Triel. Likely, Yasraena no more knew the location of the lichdrow's phylactery than did Gromph. But like Gromph, Yasraena would look first to her own House, the most likely hiding place.

She already would be looking for it, Gromph knew. He had little time. He would have to find a way through the defensive wards of one of Menzoberranzan's great Houses while it was under siege and while its Matron Mother and her underpriestesses-all once more armed with spells from Lolth-would be awaiting him.

He almost laughed. Almost.

"Come, Nauzhror," Gromph said. "We return to my sanctum. The war for the city is won, but there is a battle or two yet to be fought."

Prath,
he sent to the young Baenre apprentice.
Meet us in my offices.

Yasraena stood over the marble scrying basin and watched the image of Gromph Baenre waver and fade as he and his fellow mage teleported away from the ruined bazaar. There was no sign of the lichdrow. The undead wizard's body had been utterly destroyed.

But not his soul, she reminded herself, not his essence, and that reminder gave her hope.

Though her heart pounded in her chest, Yasraena kept her expression outwardly calm. With the lichdrow… absent, she was the true and only head of House Agrach Dyrr. It would not do to show alarm.

Two of her four daughters, Larikal and Esvena, the Third and Fourth Daughters of the House and each a lesser priestess of Lolth, stood to either side of her. Her First and Second Daughters were occupied supervising the defenses of the House against the besieging Xorlarrin forces, so it fell to Larikal and Esvena to gather intelligence and spy on the House's enemies. Both were taller than Yasraena, and Larikal bordered on heavyset, though neither was as strongly built as their mother. But both had
inherited Yasraena's ambition. Both were as eager as any drow priestess to kill their way to the top of their House.

Three males too stood in the chamber, on the other side of the basin. All were graduates of Sorcere and apprentices of the lichdrow. They seemed stunned that their undead master had been defeated. Slack hands hung limply from the sleeves of their
piwafwis.
Yasraena saw fear in their stances, uncertainty in their hooded red eyes. It disgusted her but she expected little better from males.

"The Archmage has retreated to his sanctum," said Larikal. "He is beyond our ability to scry."

Yasraena vented her frustration on her daughter. "You state the obvious as though it were profound. Be silent unless you have something useful to say, fool."

Larikal's thin-lipped mouth hardened in anger but her crimson eyes found the floor. The male wizards shifted uneasily, shared surreptitious glances. Yasraena gripped her tentacle rod so tightly in her hand it made her fingers ache. She would have strangled the lichdrow herself, had he stood before her.