Extinction

Chapter Twelve

Valas awoke to the feel of something soft and slimy stroking the left side of his face. Jerking his head back, he saw it was a tentacle—one of four that grew from the body of an enormous, fishlike creature with three slitted eyes.

Thrashing away from it through the water, Valas found his back up against the bars of a cage. He stared out through the front of the enclosure at the aboleth that was lazily withdrawing its tentacle. The creature had a body half a dozen paces long, with a wide fluked tail. Its rubbery looking skin was blue-green with gray splotches and covered in a thick coating of slime. Its belly was greenish-pink, with an enormous mouth that opened and closed like that of a fish. Three eyes—red and slitted—were lined up in a vertical row on its forehead. The tentacles, each half as long as the body, sprouted from a point just behind the head. They drifted lazily, leaving a smudge of slime in the water.

Valas could feel the slime on his face where the tentacle had touched him, and he could smell the clot of it that clogged his left nostril. He exhaled through his nose, blowing it violently away.

He checked his weapons and saw that his kukris were still in their sheaths. A quick glance told him his talismans were still pinned to his shirt. Reassured and ready, he looked around at his prison.

The cage was made from stout iron and had no door that he could see. Its floor rested on the bottom of the lake, on top of waist-high kelp that had been mashed flat by its weight. Beyond the cage, tiny glowing fish darted in and out of the gently waving strands. In the distance, stalagmites rose to meet the surface of the water, high overhead. The sides of those rock formations were punctuated by round openings through which aboleth swam. Valas realized the stalagmites must be the buildings of Zanhoriloch.

The aboleth was making no move to attack; it simply stared, like a visitor at a zoo. Valas spoke to it in sign, hoping it would understand.

Why am I a prisoner?

The answer came in a voice that sounded like bubbles erupting into water: “You trespass.”

The words were spoken in Undercommon, a language comprised of a blend of simple words and phrases from several different Underdark tongues.

For good reason, Valas signed back. With his lungs filled with water, the scout couldn’t speak. I am searching for something, A ship of bone and flesh, made by demons.

“You hunger for this knowledge.”

Yes. Have you seen such a ship?

“I have not consumed it.”

Valas frowned, puzzled. The slime the aboleth had smeared across his face was back in his left nostril again. He pinched the other one shut and blew.

You have seen this ship—but not eaten it? he signed again.

The aboleth fluttered its tentacles in what might have been a sign of irritation—or the equivalent of a drow shrug.

“I have not seen it. Nor have I consumed any knowledge of it.”

Consumed? Valas didn’t like the sound of that.

How do you consume knowledge? he asked.

“From our parents, after we hatch. From other creatures, such as yourself. We consume them.”

You... eat them? Valas asked. Are you going to eat me?

“That is not my privilege,” the aboleth said. Then, “Do you have knowledge of this ship?”

Valas quickly shook his head and backed it up with an emphatic sign.

No. I was told that the aboleth knew of such a ship, so I came here to learn if it was real or rumor.

“Where are you from?” the aboleth asked. “How did you come here?”

Valas considered how to answer that. Was the aboleth trying to find out whether he had come to Lake Thoroot alone—or was it weighing the potential information stored in Valas’s mind, prior to devouring him? He tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him sound like an appealing snack, at the same time sizing up his chances of escape. The fact that he was in a cage—that the aboleth hadn’t consumed him immediately—was promising. Valas thought that perhaps he was being saved for some other aboleth, one with more “privilege.”

At least, that’s what he hoped was true, if the aboleth left to report the results of its initial questioning to its superior, Valas could use the star-shaped amulet that was still pinned to his shirt to escape.

I am from Menzoberranzan, Valas signed. I am a soldier in service to one of the Houses of that city. The matron mother used her magic to send me here, to inquire about the demon ship. Shortly she will use that same magic to summon me home again.

Thus explaining my impending disappearance from the cage, Valas thought. And, hopefully, causing the aboleth to think that any search for me will be futile.

Once again, he noticed that his nostril had filled with mucus, and he blew it out. He scrubbed his face furiously with a sleeve, but it only served to spread the tentacle slime across his face. Growing worried, Valas stopped scrubbing. The image of the drow-thing that had been herding the jellyfish loomed large in his mind. Was his left ear tingling? He resisted the urge to reach up and touch it, fearful that it might already be melting away.

“You will not return to your city,” the aboleth said.

Valas shuddered, fighting down the sick feeling that filled his stomach.

Am I to be made a slave? Does your city have no matron mother? no ruler whom I can appeal to?

A ripple passed through the aboleth’s body. Valas wondered whether it was a sign of annoyance or pleasure.

“It has been many flows since Oothoon met with one of the dry folk. You are merely a servant among your people and do not warrant her attention. As for your question, you are a slave to Oothoon already. When your transformation is complete, you will begin to serve her.”

This time, Valas did touch his ear. Its tip was still pointed, but it was definitely tingling, as was the left side of his face, and his left hand and wrist. The fingers of that hand felt sticky. Trying to spread them, he found that his forefinger was starting to fuse with the one beside it, and the little finger with the finger beside it. A web of grayish skin was growing between the two malformed digits and was already up to the first knuckle.

How long will the transformation take? he asked, his left hand already clumsy.

“No longer than three boorms,” the aboleth said. “When it is finished, I will return to release you.”

With a powerful flick of its tail, it swam away.

Valas had no idea how long a “boorm” was. It might be as long as one cycle of Narbondel—in which case, he still might have time to make it back to the others if Pharaun’s spell didn’t run out first. Or, for all he knew, a boorm might be as short as a heartbeat. Glancing at his left hand, he shuddered. The sooner he started back, the better. The aboleth was swimming strongly back toward the city, no longer looking at him.

Valas touched the nine-pointed star on his chest and felt the familiar wrench of its magic. He found himself standing in the spot he’d chosen—a good hundred paces away—but the cage had been transported there with him. It landed on a fresh patch of kelp, raising a knee-high cloud of dirt and scattering a school of tiny, frightened fish.

Had part or his body touched the cage—was that why it had slid sideways between the dimensions with him? The cage was far too heavy to have been included in the talisman’s magic, but it was the only explanation Valas could think of.

Sculling, he positioned himself exactly at the center of the cage, and tried again—a shorter hop. Once again, the cage came with him.

Valas frowned. The cage was obviously somehow enchanted to contain him no matter where he went. If his brooch had been more powerful, he might have used its magic to transport himself across the lake in a series of short hops—following the predominant current of the lake back to the waterfall that must be its source. But the brooch’s magic was limited. After two more hops like the first one, it would fall dormant for a full cycle.

Meanwhile, the slime left by the tentacle was creeping across his face and up his left arm. He breathed in a deep lungful of water, then blew it out through his nose, clearing his nostrils. How much longer did he have? As least his mind was still his own, and he suspected that it was one thing he would probably retain. The drow-thing had exhibited free will. It had been able to warn Valas away from Zanhoriloch—for all the good that had done.

Time to try something else, the scout thought.

Valas plucked another of his magical-items from his shirt: a short mithral tube no longer than his finger. Sculling with his left hand—the webs had already grown up to the second knuckle—he tapped the tube against one of the bars of the cage. A bright, clear note carried through the water, but nothing happened. Whatever door there might be in the cage was not responding to the chime’s magic.

Slipping the chime back to a pocket, Valas reached for his last hope, a brooch set with a dull gray stone that was surrounded by a dozen tiny, uncut gems. Made by the deep gnomes, the brooch had the power to wrap its wearer in illusion, giving him whatever appearance he could imagine. It didn’t actually transform the wearer, nor did it have the power to manifest more complicated illusions—like making a drow appear to be an aboleth, for example—but it would allow Valas to create subtle changes in his appearance.

He twisted the gem in its facing, and felt a warm shiver run through his body. Looking down, he “saw” webbed hands and feet and a fluked tail. The brooch’s magic had worked, giving him the appearance of the drow-thing.

Everything depended on his guess: that the magic of the cage would be negated, once his transformation was complete. Kicking his legs, he propelled himself up toward the roof of the cage, praying that it would disappear.

His head struck bars with a crack that made sparks dance in front of his eyes. Grimacing, he drifted back toward the center of the cage.

That was it then. The brooch had been his final hope. Even the illusion magic of the deep gnomes was powerless against the cage that held him. He was trapped. All he could do was wait until his body caught up with the illusion he’d just created. Until he turned into a drow-thing himself.

I won’t let it happen, he thought. I deserve a good clean death. A soldier’s death. Not this.

He yanked out one of his kukris—the one that sent a jolt of magical energy through whatever it struck. The magic wouldn’t affect him if he was holding the dagger—a precaution against accidental wounds—but if he shoved the hilt into the ground, he would be able to impale himself on the upturned blade. Reaching down for one of the bars that made up the floor of the cage, he used the dagger to prod at the floor of the lake, but the ground was too hard. The cage had landed on a patch of stone. He’d have to move it somewhere else.

Sculling up to the top of the cage, he peered back toward the spot where the cage had rested a moment before, but saw only a gently waving expanse of kelp, not the flattened parch he’d expected. Had he somehow gotten turned around? No, he could see Zanhoriloch in the distance. His sense of direction hadn’t failed him. Yet he couldn’t see either the spot where the cage had just rested or the place where it had been when he first found himself inside it. That was strange; the weight of the cage should have crushed the kelp flat.

Ah... there.

He spotted a square patch of kelp about thirty paces away—which made no sense. He’d just been looking at that spot a moment ago. Had the slime spread over his eyes, blurring them?

No. He could still see as clearly as he ever could.

Suddenly, he realized the answer: the cage was an illusion. An incredibly powerful illusion—one that manifested in all of the senses. Not only were the bars of the cage visible, but they felt real. They’d even caused his chime to ring when he struck it against them—or so he’d thought. But by closing his eyes—by concentrating so hard it almost hurt—he could feel the rocky ground beneath his feet. Sculling to hold himself down against it, he slid a foot along the ground—and encountered no resistance. Instead of his foot striking a bar, it slid along rough, bare stone.

Still concentrating, he continued sliding his feet along the ground until they encountered resistance: a strand of kelp. Its touch nearly broke his focus, so close was the feel to that of the tentacle that had left the slime of its foul touch on his face. Shuddering, he pressed on until he could feel kelp all around him, then he opened his eyes.

He’d done it. The illusionary cage had disappeared. He was free.

But for how long? He could no longer move his left hand properly. It had only two fingers, with a thick web of skin growing between them. His left ear felt strange, as did his left eye. It was starting to squint shut and the colors he saw through it were somehow wrong. Further confirmation of his fate came when he saw a clump or something lacy and white drifting away from him. It was the hair from the left side of his scalp.

He glanced back at Zanhoriloch and saw that the creatures of that city were still going about their business, swimming back and forth between their stalagmite towers, oblivious to his escape. No alarm seemed to have been raised, and none of the aboleth came swimming out to intercept him. A surge of joy filled him, but it was short-lived. With a sinking heart, he realized that his escape was only temporary. Soon he would be a drow-thing, transformed forever into a water-breathing creature. The entire lake would be his prison.

Even though he knew it was hopeless, since none of his companions had healing magic, and since they’d probably mistake him for a monster and kill him on the spot. Valas tied his kukri back into its sheath and began swimming against the current, He’d completed the first part of his duty as a mercenary: he’d escaped. Next he would carry back to his companions his report, even though it contained woefully little, save for a warning to avoid Zanhoriloch at all cost.

That report delivered, he would get one of the others to kill him. If they refused, he’d do the job himself.