Extinction

Chapter Twenty-two

Halisstra stood near one of the trophy trees, the hilt of the songsword raised to her lips. After she’d killed the phase spider two nights before, the priestesses had let her keep the broken sword, as well as Seyll’s shield and chain mail. They’d also given her back her House insignia—which Halisstra had tucked into a pocket, instead of pinning to her piwafwi—and her other enchanted rings and devices. She also still had her magical lyre, though she felt as disinclined to use it as the other things from the Underdark she had set aside. Instead she practiced on the songsword, fingers dancing as she tried to create a tune to suit the mood of the snow-dappled woods and the clouds drifting lazily overhead, as white and fine-spun as hair.

Ryld sat cross-legged on a log a short distance away, sharpening his shortsword. His eyes were squinted against the morning sunlight even though he’d chosen a spot in deep shade. He sat with his back against a large boulder, under a canopy of tree branches that hung no more than a handspan above him. He was obviously still struggling with his unease of open spaces, of having nothing but the sky over his head.

After a while, the arrhythmic rasp... rasp rasp... rasp of Ryld’s sharpening stone grated on Halisstra’s nerves, forcing her to lower the songsword.

“Ryld,” she said in exasperation. “If you have to do that here, could you at least work in time with my music?”

Startled, Ryld looked up.

“Fine,” he said. He crawled out from under the overhanging branches, stood, and shoved the shortsword back into its sheath. Scowling at the forest, he asked, “How long do you intend for us to stay here?”

“A tenday, a month … a year, if need be,” Halisstra answered. “Until I learn everything I can about Eilistraee’s worship.”

“A lifetime, you mean,” Ryld said sourly.

“Perhaps,” Halisstra said with a shrug, then added, “There’s no one forcing you to stay, you know. You could go back to Menzoberranzan or try to find Quenthel and the others—or go to the Abyss itself, if you like.”

Ryld gave her a stubborn look and said, “I want to stay with you.”

Seeing the look in his eye—a human might have called it “love”? Halisstra’s temper cooled.

“I’m glad,” she said. “And not just for my own sake but for yours, as well. The Dark Maiden will embrace you, if you only let her. Eilistraee can show you a joy you’ve never known. We drow have been confined to the Underdark for too long, and it’s time we took our rightful place in the sunlight—and held it, by the strength of our swords if need be.”

Ryld didn’t answer but instead stared up at the trophy tree. Following his gaze, Halisstra saw that he was looking at a deep, sword-shaped niche in the trunk in which two heads rested, one on top of the other. They were skeletal, with only a few clumps of black hair clinging to them, and the jawbone of the top skull had fallen away. They were human, by the shape of them, though the mouth and jaw of the bottom skull protruded slightly, and the canine teeth were overly large. The sight of them seemed to be making the hardened warrior uneasy, which was strange, since Ryld had undoubtedly seen far more gruesome sights in his career as a weapons master of Melee-Magthere.

Ryld wrenched his gaze away.

“Why Eilistraee?” he asked. “Why not worship... Kiaransalee, or Selvetarm? His faith, at least, I could have had some part in. Or do you think Lolth’s champion has suffered the same fate as his mistress?”

“Selvetarm guards Lolth still,” Halisstra answered. “Vhaeraun did not defeat him.”

Ryld’s eyebrows raised and he asked, “How do you know?”

“Last night, Uluyara led the priestesses in a spell-song. The scrying they performed penetrated deep into the Abyss, and Uluyara was able to look briefly upon the stone that sealed Lolth’s temple. Selvetarm was squatting in front of it in his spider form, wounded, but with sword and mace still in hand. He may have defeated Vhaeraun—or perhaps just temporarily driven the other god off. Uluyara was only able to get the briefest of glimpses before the water in her font boiled away.”

Ryld cursed softly under his breath.

“Last night?” he asked. “So that was what all the singing was about. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

Halisstra shrugged and said, “What difference would it have made? You’re not thinking of reporting back to Quenthel, are you?”

Ryld gave her a sour smile.

“I couldn’t—even if I wanted to,” he said. “She’d brand me a deserter and have those vipers of hers sink their fangs into me. I’d be dead before I could get a single word out in my defense. I just wish you would keep me informed.” He paused, then frowned. “How did Uluyara know that Lolth’s temple was sealed?”

“I told her,” Halisstra said. “I told her everything. About our trip to the Abyss in astral form, about Lolth’s silence, and about the battle between Vhaeraun and Selvetarm—I even told her about the fall of Ched Nasad. Everything.”

Ryld nodded slowly and said, “I shouldn’t be surprised, given our conversion, but I am. Revealing so much to priestesses who, until a short time ago, you would have counted as your enemies, seems like...”

Perhaps realizing he was speaking to a priestess, he lowered his eyes. As he hesitated, either uncertain how to finish his sentence or else unwilling to continue it, Halisstra guessed the rest.

“Like a betrayal?” she asked. “A traitorous act? Well so be it. Lolth is dead—or will soon be.”

“And you’ve aligned yourself with what you think will be the winning side,” Ryld said. He nodded. “I suppose that’s a sensible move to make.”

Halisstra sighed, wondering why Ryld just couldn’t understand.

“It’s more than mere tactics,” she said, trying to explain. “Eilistraee is the only deity to offer the drow any hope. With Lolth missing and her priestesses unable to mount a defense, the cities of the Underdark are going to fall, one by one. Soon hundreds—if not thousands, or even tens of thousands—of drow will come streaming up out of the Underdark, looking for refuge. Eilistraee’s priestesses will offer it to them. They’ll help guide our people up into the light. They’ll teach the drow to take their rightful place in the world—to not just survive up here, but thrive. We’ll be able to reclaim our birthright. Just look how much the Dark Ladies of Eilistraee have done so far, in terms of clearing this forest of monsters and making it fit to live in again. We’re creating a new home on the World Above, one in which the drow can live in harmony with one another. A home we’ll defend with our magic—and our swords. What more noble cause can there possibly be than that?”

Ryld, staring at the trophy tree again, muttered something under his breath. Halisstra thought she heard the words “just like clearing the slums,” then decided she must have been wrong, since the phrase made no sense.

“Ryld,” she said slowly, “are you sure you—”

Quiet! Ryld warned, switching suddenly to silent speech. I hear voices in the woods. Human voices. They’re coming this way.

Halisstra, worried, reached for the horn on her belt. Should she sound it to warn the priestesses? That was what she’d been sent out to the perimeter of the temple grounds to do, after all: stand guard. Uluyara had warned her that human adventurers sometimes ventured deep into the Velarswood—adventurers who made no distinction between the worshipers of Eilistraee and the drow of the Underdark. Humans slew any ebony-skinned elf they met on sight.

But blowing the horn would also alert the humans to Halisstra’s presence—and they were close. Better to assess the situation from hiding and deal with the humans herself, if possible. Ryld would back her up—and provide an additional element of surprise.

Take cover, she signed to him. I’ll challenge them. You wait.

Nodding, Ryld slid his greatsword silently out of its sheath, at the same time flipping up the hood of his piwafwi. He stepped back into the branches and stood utterly still, becoming no more than another shadow. Halisstra, meanwhile, quickly sang under her breath, casting a spell that rendered her invisible. Then she waited, songsword in hand.

The humans were either bold—or stupid. They came through the woods with heavy, snow-crunching footsteps, not bothering to lower their voices, which, when Halisstra could finally hear them clearly, sounded strained. Occasionally they grunted, as if carrying a heavy load. As they passed by the base of the trophy tree and came into sight through the underbrush, Halisstra saw two of them, both human males with axes in sheaths on their backs, carrying a body on a cloak they held stretched between them.

The body of a female drow.

And not just any drow, but one who wore the moon-and-sword emblem of Eilistraee on a chain around her neck, and a cluster of miniature swords that hung from a ring on her belt like keys.

“Who are you?” Halisstra called out, dropping her invisibility spell. “What’s happened to this priestess?”

She held her songsword at the ready—not because the men looked threatening but because, if the priestess was still alive, healing magic might be needed, and quickly. Stepping closer, she touched the woman’s throat, but saw that it was too late for any spells she might have offered. The priestess’s skin was cold, and the rhythm of life had stilled. Her closed eyes would see no more.

Both of the humans were thin and muscular, with pale blond hair and darker skin than most humans, suggesting there had been a drow somewhere among their ancestors. The older of the two men inclined his head to Halisstra. It was as much of a bow as he could manage while still holding on to the cloak that sagged with the priestess’s weight. When Halisstra nodded back in acknowledgement, the two men gently eased their burden to the snowy ground.

“We two are from Velarsburg,” the older man said. “I am the lumberman Rollim, and this is my son Baeford. We were cutting timber near the Howling Hills when we heard a woman calling for help. We followed the voice—some ways through the woods, from which I figure it must have been a magical sending—and found this Dark Lady outside a cave. She looked near death—she was breathing shallow, and fast. She couldn’t speak, but she could still sign. She said she’d been attacked in the Realms Below and needed to get back to the temple.”

Halisstra contemplated the dead priestess. She was a stranger, but Halisstra could guess her mission by the tiny swords that hung from the ring on her belt. She was one of the priestesses who traveled as missionaries into the Underdark, carrying the faith of Eilistraee to the drow who dwelled below. The tiny swords would have been handed out to the faithful, to serve as “keys” that would ensure them safe passage to the temple.

“Did she tell you what attacked her?” Halisstra asked.

Rollim frowned and replied, “Not ‘what’, Lady, but who. When she was telling her story, she used the sign for ‘she’. The sign that means ‘drow female’.”

Halisstra winced.

“Did you see any sign of this other drow?” she asked.

“None,” Rollim said. “There was only the Dark Lady’s footprints—and we didn’t dare go into the cave. The other must still be below.”

“Stabbed in the back,” Halisstra muttered, staring down at the priestess. “How typical.”

Behind the two men—both had their backs to the spot where Ryld was hidden—she saw dark hands briefly flash: Or else abandoned to fight alone.

Even though Ryld’s face was no more than a shadow under the hood of his piwafwi, Halisstra could see he was scowling.

“Not stabbed,” Baeford interjected. “There wasn’t a mark on her.” He glanced apprehensively down at the body of the priestess. “It must have been magic that killed her.”

Rollim ran a heavily callused hand through his hair, which was damp with sweat and dotted with sawdust. “A normal injury, we might have been able to do something about—we could have splinted a broken bone or stanched the bleeding of an axe cut. But this—” he shuddered—” She died as we were lifting her onto the cloak.”

Halisstra nodded. “You did well to bring her here,” she told them. “I’m sure the priestesses will reward—”

“They already have,” Rollim said. He raised his right hand, palm up, toward the sky in a reverential gesture, then let it drop to his side. “If it wasn’t for the Dark Ladies, Baeford wouldn’t be alive today. He had the pox soon after his birth and nearly died, but Eilistraee healed him.” He glanced at the dead priestess, and his expression grew grim. “I only wish we’d been able to repay that kindness.”

Baeford—whose face did have pock marks—shuffled his feet nervously.

“Lady,” Baeford asked, “shall we carry her to the sacred circle?”

He looked as though the last thing he wanted to do was pick up the body again.

“No,” she answered. “I’ll take her. You may go.”

“You’ll carry her alone?” Rollim asked, eyebrow raised.

He bowed hurriedly when he saw Halisstra’s frown. She still didn’t appreciate a male questioning her authority.

“As you wish,” Rollim quickly said. Then, to his son, “Come, Baeford. We’ve done all we can.”

As they left, Ryld slid silently out of the branches.

Should I follow them? he signed.

Halisstra shook her head.

“No. There’s something amiss here, but though the younger one could sense it, he doesn’t know what it is. Whatever it is, they weren’t the cause of it.”

She knelt beside the body and studied it, shifting it slightly to observe the woman’s back. As Baeford had said, there were no obvious signs of injury. The priestess’s skin was unbroken, and her tunic and boots showed only normal travel wear. Just as all of Eilistraee’s priestesses did—especially when venturing into the Underdark—she wore a chain mail shirt. Its links were undamaged, and her sword was still in its scabbard.

On an impulse, Halisstra grasped the hilt and tugged. The sword slid out of its scabbard easily, its blade keen and bright—had it been used, it might have been sticky with blood. As Halisstra reached once again over the dead woman to resheath the weapon, her face came close to that of the priestess. Detecting a faint but acrid odor, she bent closer and sniffed. The smell was a distinctive blend of the sulfuric fires of the Abyss combined with rotten spiderweb.

Halisstra swore softly, “Eilistraee protect us.”

“What is it?” Ryld asked, tense.

“She was killed by a yochlol,” Halisstra said. “I can smell its stink on her skin and hair.”

Silver flashed as Ryld drew his greatsword. He assumed a ready position, eyes darting around the forest.

“Do you think it followed her?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I doubt it.”

As she spoke, Halisstra pried open the dead woman’s mouth. The priestess’s jaw opened easily. She had not been dead long. As Halisstra had suspected, the smell was stronger when the woman’s mouth was open. The yochlol must have assumed gaseous form and flowed into the priestess’s lungs, choking her and rendering her unable to retaliate with either sword or spell. Which meant that the yochlol had gotten close to her—close enough to take her completely by surprise. It had done so either by using a spell to dominate her, or by the simple subterfuge of assuming one of its most innocent-looking forms, that of a female drow.

A “drow” who had, Halisstra guessed, pretended to be a petitioner seeking to join in Eilistraee’s worship. The yochlol must have toyed with the priestess, secretly gloating at what was to come while accompanying her to the cavern that led out onto the World Above. Then it struck.

“This was no random attack,” Halisstra concluded. “The yochlol chose its victim deliberately.”

“Do you think the demon was summoned?” Ryld asked, his brow creased in a worried frown. “If it was...”

The warrior didn’t finish his question, but he didn’t have to. Halisstra knew full well what was on his mind. The yochlol were demonic creatures that served the Queen of the Demonweb Pits. The handmaidens of Lolth could only appear on the prime material plane if summoned by her priestesses. It was possible, however, that one had already been on the prime when Lolth fell silent and had subsequently broken free of its mistresses.

It was also possible that Lolth had returned from wherever she’d gone to, and that her priestesses were once again able to use their spells.

“Uluyara will want to know about this,” Halisstra said. She moved to one end of the cloak on which the priestess lay, and grasped its two corners. “Let’s get the body to the temple—at once.”