Dissolution

TWENTY-ONE

When the instructors founded the corner, Pharaun saw a rogue about five yards away. Well armed, the conspirator was striding purposefully along, perhaps to join one of the assassination squads that would descend on the city once the goblin rebellion plunged it into chaos. He had good reflexes. As soon as he spotted the fugitives, he reached for the wall, no doubt to conceal himself behind a curtain of darkness. Pharaun lifted his hands to cast darts of force—he had two such spells remaining, neither requiring a focal object—but Ryld was quicker. He shot his hand crossbow. The quarrel plunged into the renegade's eye, and he fell. The masters skulked up to the corpse and crouched down to examine it. Pharaun was hardly surprised yet disappointed to find that the dead warrior hadn't been carrying any spell ingredients. The Master of Sorcere hadn't lost faith in himself, but he realized that overconfidence coupled with ambition had lured him and Ryld into a desperate situation. They were stuck in the midst of their enemies. Without the proper triggers, most of the wizard's magic was unavailable to him, and the weapons master was feeling the effects of the blow on the head and Syrzan's psionic assault. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but Pharaun, who knew him well, could see subtle indications in the way he moved. Well, at least Ryld wasn't bored. Pharaun stole the dead male's hand crossbow, dirk, and piwafwi—including the insignia of a lesser House Pharaun assumed was enchanted in the same way as all the others. The mantle wasn't a bad fit but felt strange without the weight of the hidden pockets to which he was accustomed. At least, he hoped, he'd be able to levitate. Ryld exchanged the rapier he'd been wearing for the fallen drow's broadsword.

The Master of Melee-Magthere cocked his crossbow and loaded a fresh shaft in the channel. The fugitives stalked on down the hallway, and the walls screamed. Pharaun and Ryld screwed up their faces at the painful loudness. Blue sparks of discharged magic showered from the walls and ceiling, and a hot, raw stink of power fouled the air.

The screech stopped as suddenly as it had started, though it left echoes sobbing through the citadel. «Alarm spell?» said Ryld, trotting onward. «Yes,» Pharaun said, racing to catch up. His ears were ringing. «Had I seen it, I would have dispelled it, but—» «But as it stands, the rogues will be coming for us.» Pharaun frowned. «Unless they're too busy getting ready to murder priestesses.» «No, they'll realize they have to catch us at any cost. If a spy slipped away from here and reported their plans to the Council, it would ruin everything for them.» «You're right, curse it.»

The masters had been moving stealthily and therefore slowly ever since departing their cell, and they would have to sneak along even more warily, backtracking and detouring whenever they sensed their enemies were near. That would make it easier to get lost. The long-dead nobles had built their fortress according to a defensive strategy still occasionally employed in Menzoberranzan. The place was something of a maze. If a person had grown up there, that wouldn't pose a problem. He'd know every turn and dead end, but outsiders had a difficult time moving about. Outsiders like Pharaun and Ryld, who had yet to find an exit.

Perhaps, the wizard thought, the renegades will have trouble navigating as well.

Though they'd squatted in the castle, they might not know it as well as the original occupants had. It was possible they'd simply familiarized themselves with a few key areas and primary passageways and left the rest of the allegedly cursed and haunted keep pretty much alone.

Still, Pharaun knew it was only a matter of time until the hunters stumbled onto their prey, and he was correct. He and Ryld were traversing a gallery hung with musty phosphorescent tapestries when something rustled behind them. The masters pivoted. Silent in their drow boots, half a dozen warriors had appeared behind them and were leveling their crossbows. Ryld crouched and lifted a fold of his cloak in front of his face. Pharaun copied the move. Two arrowheads plunged through his makeshift shield, which apparently wasn't as powerfully enchanted as the piwafwi Houndaer had taken from him. One quarrel hung up in the weave. The other hurtled right through and grazed the mage's shoulder, stinging him and slicing a shallow cut. He prayed it wasn't poisoned. Hearing a ragged clatter, Pharaun uncovered his eyes. The rogues had dropped their crossbows and were charging. They'd already dashed too close for him to employ the incantation he would have preferred. Instead he cast darts of light and dropped two renegades. He discharged his crossbow and missed a third. Ryld bellowed a war cry and sprang forward to meet the foes remaining. The broadsword flashed back and forth, thrusting, cutting, and parrying with the small, precise movements that characterized true mastery. Pharaun edged forward with his dirk in hand but never got a chance to use it. The rogues all died before he could advance into range. Pharaun took stock of himself and decided he didn't have any venom in his system, but Ryld groaned, made a face, and clutched at his temple. «What is it?» the wizard asked. It seemed likely that one of the enemy had scored, but he didn't see any blood slipping between his friend's fingers, and head wounds bled copiously.

«A throbbing headache,» said the swordsman. «Left over from Houndaer and Syrzan, I suppose, made worse when my heart started beating harder. I'm all right now.» «I rejoice to hear it.» Pharaun turned, right into a second volley of quarrels. He had no time to raise his cloak, dodge, or do anything else but gawk at the second band of renegades who'd crept up from the other direction. Miraculously, every shaft missed. One of the newcomers shouted, «They're here!» The guards charged, and Pharaun brandished a bit of spiderweb, the one spell focus he'd had no difficulty replacing. A mesh of taut, luminous cables appeared around the onrushing renegades. Anchored to the wall, the cables were as strong as rope and as sticky as glue. They snared and held the rogues. All but the two in front. Either they'd been nimble enough to jump clear before the effect fully materialized, or their innate dark elf resistance to magic had protected them. Undeterred by the loss of their comrades, the warriors drove onward into sword range. The one who focused on Pharaun had a birthmark staining his left profile.

Pharaun shot. The shaft hit the male square in the chest but glanced off his mail. The ugly male swung his sword in a flank cut. Pharaun twisted aside and commenced an incantation.

He had to dodge two more attacks before he finished. Shafts of light sprang from his fingertips.

Only one such spell left, he thought, and only one more chance to conjure a trap of webbing, too. The missiles passed through the renegade's mail and sent him reeling backward.

Wounded but still alive, the rogue gave his head a shake. Pharaun yanked his new dirk out of his belt and flung himself at the guard. The wizard rammed his point up under the ugly male's chin before the latter had quite recovered his wits. Pharaun turned. Feinting low and striking high, Ryld whipped his broadsword through his opponent's neck. The renegade fell, his severed head tumbling away. For a moment, Pharaun felt a touch of relief, then he noticed his friend's grimace and the blood on his thigh, and heard the calls of other pursuers drawing near. «It sounds as if all the rogues are hunting us,» the wizard said. «What a gracious compliment.» «They heard the fight,» Ryld replied. «They have some idea where we are, and thanks to you, this passage has become a cul-de-sac. We have to move—now.» «Perhaps you would have preferred me to let the rest of our attackers swarm all over us.» «Just move.» They did, with the prisoners in the web shouting imprecations after them. Pharaun soon discerned that Ryld was making an effort not to limp nor show any sort of distress but couldn't mask his pain completely. The wizard considered leaving patches of darkness behind to hinder pursuit, but had he done so, he would have been marking his trail. He could only think of one trick he could use to evade the renegades, and hoped it wouldn't be necessary.

Twice, the masters sensed a band of rogues was near and hid in a room until they passed. Finally they found a staircase leading downward. Pharaun hoped their descent to the lower level would throw off the pursuit but soon realized it hadn't. Perhaps it was because the fugitives were leaving a trail of blood. Pharaun's little cut had stopped bleeding, but Ryld's gashed leg had not. Despite himself, the burly swordsman began taking uneven strides, one shorter than the other. Pharaun heard a murmur of voices coming from behind and out of a side passage as well. He said, «Stay where you are. I have an idea.» Ryld shrugged. The wizard advanced a few paces down the corridor. He lifted his wisp of cobweb and chanted. Power groaned through the air, and crisscrossing cables sealed the corridor. The rogues he'd heard were on the other side. So was Ryld. The swordsman looked at his friend through the interstices and said, «I don't understand.»

«And you a master tactician. Truly, I regret this, but I could either stick with you and let your injuries retard my progress or else leave you behind as a rear guard to slow my pursuers. Considering how vulnerable I currently am, the choice was reasonably obvious.» «Damn you! How many times have I saved your life?» «I've lost count. At any rate, this will make one more, in the course of which you'll finally be rid of your melancholy. Good-bye, old friend.» Pharaun turned and strode away. He heard a crossbow clack, and flung himself to the side. The quarrel flew past him. Ryld had needed commendable accuracy to avoid snagging the missile In the adhesive mesh. Pharaun glanced back and said, «Nice shot, but you might want to save your quarrels for the renegades.»

He skulked on, and quickened his pace when someone shouted behind him, and metal clashed on metal.

Ryld quickly learned that one of the rogues was a wizard, and a deft one at that. He had no difficulty lobbing spells through the line his comrades had formed across the hall, leaving them unscathed but battering the weapons master with one attack after another. So far the flares of power had seared and chilled the Master of Melee-Magthere but done no serious harm. He doubted that would last. He needed to put a stop to the magic before the mage slipped an attack through his natural resistance, and that meant breaking through the line. He faked a sidestep to the left, then dodged right. His wounded leg throbbed, and a soreness, the residue of Syrzan's attack, twisted through his mind. The pain slowed him just enough to render the deception ineffective. Urlryn, the long-armed, gap-toothed renegade on the right, another of Ryld's former students and a good one, met him with a wicked thrust to the belly. As every warrior knows, you can't retreat at the same instant you're advancing. Ryld had no choice but to defend with the blade. He swept his broadsword across his body in a lateral parry. Urlryn tried to dip his point beneath the block, but moved just a hair too slowly. Ryld smashed his adversary's blade aside, loosening his grip in the bargain. The weapons master started to riposte with a chest cut, then sensed movement on his flank. He pivoted. Hoping to take him unawares, the rogue next to Urlryn was swinging an axe at his knee. It was how warriors fought in a line. You killed the male who was focused on your neighbor. Ryld leaped over the attack. When he landed, his leg screamed with pain and threatened to buckle beneath him. Shouting, he made it hold and cut at the axeman's belly. The broadsword crunched through mail, and the rogue toppled. Ryld's blade was still buried in the axeman's guts when Urlryn and the other surviving warrior rushed him. The master floundered backward, dragging the broadsword free. Swords flashed at him, and somehow, even off-balance, he dodged them, but in so doing, fell on his rump.

The rogues scrambled forward to finish him. He surprised the other stranger with a bone-shattering kick to the ankle, knocking him reeling backward, then reared up on one knee, his sword raised in a high guard for what he knew was coming. Urlryn's blade crashed down on his own, and he felt the jolt all the way to his shoulder. With both feet planted beneath him, the renegade could bring all his strength to bear. Ryld couldn't.

But he was bigger and more powerful than his adversary and was nicely positioned to hamstring other drow. Teeth gritted, he maintained his defense until his enemy faltered, then whipped the broadsword behind the rogue's leg for a drawing cut. Urlryn let out a shrill cry and staggered sideways. Ryld heaved himself up and turned toward the wizard, only to discover he could no longer see him. Deprived of his wall of warriors, the spellcaster had conjured another defender, a vaguely bearish thing with folded bat wings and luminous crimson eyes, so huge it nearly filled the corridor. Ryld had watched Pharaun exercise the famous Mizzrym talent for illusion on numerous occasions, and his experiences stood him in good stead. He sensed, though he couldn't say how, that the demon bear was just a phantasm. He limped forward, flicked the broadsword at it, and it popped like a fungus discharging a cloud of spores. It was strange to think that, had he believed in it, it could have torn him to shreds. The rogue mage turned tail. Ryld didn't want the bastard to reappear and try to kill him again later, so he gave chase. His head and wounded leg seemed to scream in unison, and he had to stop. The sorcerer scuttled round a corner and disappeared. As Ryld waited for the pain to subside, he realized he couldn't survive many more fights in his present condition. He either had to escape his foes posthaste or shed his disabilities. Sadly, he had just about come to the conclusion that he was fated to wander through the castle, ducking his enemies the while, until pure luck led him to an exit. That could take hours.

He had reason to hope he wouldn't need nearly as long to revitalize himself, but he'd leave himself vulnerable during the process. He wouldn't be able to sneak in the opposite direction whenever he detected a party of hunters. He'd have to stay in one place. Still, it seemed the better option. He skulked along the corridor, peering into doorways. One led to a desolate training hall. The target mannequins looked like ghosts in their shrouds of spiderweb. Near the right-hand wall were tiers of seats, from which spectators could watch the warriors train. If Ryld crouched down behind the structure, no one would see him without making a careful search of the entire room. Besides, the master thought, going to ground in a salle might bring him luck. The dark powers knew, he needed it. He limped behind the sculpted seats and sat down on the floor with his legs crossed. He rested his hands on his thighs, closed his eyes, and commenced a breathing exercise. Spellcasters smugly imagined they were the only folk who truly knew how to meditate. They were mistaken. The brothers of Melee-Magthere had mastered the practice as well. It helped them reach the highest level of martial proficiency.

Spellcasters. The thought reminded him of Pharaun. It brought the shock and anger flooding back. But at the moment, those feelings were an impediment. He had to relax and empty his mind. He could heal the wound Syrzan had left inside his head. He could stop his leg bleeding. He could banish pain and fatigue and tap his body's deepest reservoirs of strength. If only the enemy gave him time.

Pharaun groped his way onward for just a few more minutes, then found another staircase, this one a narrow spiral leading downward. It was almost as if the mysteriously silent Lolth had returned long enough to reward him for his treachery. If so, he soon had cause to recall that she was a fickle and treacherous entity herself. He reached the bottom of the steps, headed down a hallway with a high, arched ceiling, and heard another band of hunters. It sounded as if they were just about to round the corner dead ahead. Pharaun looked around at the blank walls. The corridor lacked any doorways into which a fugitive might duck. The wizard could run, but he didn't want to retreat back the way he'd come. He could evoke a curtain of darkness, but that would alert the rogues that someone was hiding behind it. He could throw darts of force, bur it would exhaust his offensive magic. He decided to take a chance. Concentrating on the stolen House insignia, he shed his weight and floated upward to stretch out horizontally, his spine pressed against the crest of the rounded ceiling.

The hunters passed below him, oblivious to his presence. He stared down, looking for a fellow mage. If there was a chance he could obtain new spell foci, he might attack and the odds be damned, but the males were all warriors. Once they'd gone by, he drifted back down to the ground and skulked onward. He got turned around once more, then unexpectedly found himself before a small service entrance to a stable much like the one in his family's castle. Moldy stone troughs, casks, mounting blocks, and rusty iron-ring hitches defined regular patterns across the floor, while musty, rotting tack hung along the walls. The aerial steeds were long gone, stolen by the conquerors, evidently, as he didn't see any bones. Two rogues stood watch, guarding the huge sliding doors. Pharaun smiled, threw his last darts of light, and, without waiting to see how much damage they did, broke from cover and sprinted toward the sentries. One renegade coughed blood and fell. The other appeared unaffected. A nice-looking fellow with a single elegant tendril dangling beside each cheek, he turned, spotted Pharaun, and calmly lifted his crossbow. The wizard threw himself flat, and the bolt whizzed over his head. Still prone, he shot his own crossbow. The shaft plunged into the renegade's chest.

The rogue snarled, drew his scimitar, and advanced, but only for three steps. He stopped, and his arm fell, his sword clattering against the floor. An astonished look on his face, he dropped to his knees. Rising, Pharaun noticed that the dying male's garments were as tasteful as his coiffure. «Who's your tailor?» Pharaun asked, but the renegade merely fell facedown. «Ah, well.» The wizard strode on to one of the outside doors, unbolted it, and shoved it open. Perhaps the casters were magical, for they worked as well as ever. The panel rolled easily and quietly aside.

On the other side was a sheer drop to the glowing palaces a thousand feet below. Silently thanking the dead guard's House, he touched the stolen brooch and sprang over the edge.