Extinction

Chapter Twenty-four

Gromph strode through one of the main corridors of Sorcere, followed closely by Kyorli, who scurried along behind him, and Prath, staggering under a load of spellbooks that Gromph had hastily assembled. Since the duergar had been driven back from Tier Breche, and the tunnel sealed, most of the students were heeding the call of their respective Houses. Apprentice mages ran this way and that down the corridor, arms laden with spellbooks and magical devices, bleating like a milling herd of rothe as walking chests scuttled along on spider legs behind them.

As he hurried along, Gromph held a circle of copper wire close to his lips.

“Wizards of House Baenre,” he called, speaking through the enchanted wire. “Attend me at once in the scrying chamber.”

The wire hummed, sending a tingle through Gromph’s fingertips. Then it glowed a dull red and crumbled. Flicking flakes of copper from his fingers, Gromph pushed open the heavy double doors of the scrying chamber and stepped inside.

Like the rest of Sorcere, the walls of the large, circular chamber were lined with lead sheeting and plastered with a stucco made from gorgon’s blood and spellstone dust. Runes had been embossed upon the surface and limned in gold to further prevent against unwanted intrusion or observation. No spellcaster, no matter how powerful, could teleport past them or probe the minds of the students and masters inside.

It was possible, however, to see out from there, thanks to an enormous crystal ball that floated at the center of the room. Into the sphere had been magically bound one eye of the eagle that resided in a gilded cage just below the crystal sphere. As Gromph and Prath entered the room, the eagle flapped its wings and gave a screee of excitement, blinking its one remaining eye. The sphere above it turned, rotating to face the two drow. The eagle’s second eye, which filled the crystal ball from side to side, fixed them with a hungry stare.

Or rather, it fixed upon Kyorli. Snapping its beak, the eagle screeed a second time and hurled itself against the bars of its cage. The rat, taunting it, sat back on her haunches no more than a pace from the cage and groomed her whiskers, ignoring the frenzied wing flapping of the eagle.

Kyorli, stop it, Gromph ordered. Come here.

Obeying the telepathic command, Kyorli dropped to all fours and scurried back to her master. Climbing swiftly up Gromph’s piwafwi, she settled herself on his shoulder, tickling his ear with her whiskers. Prath, meanwhile, stooped to place the spellbooks he’d been carrying on the floor.

“The eagle is hungry,” Gromph told Prath. “Find it some raw meat—but don’t go slicing off any more fingertips. You’re going to need them.”

Prath grinned.

“I thought you might need more, Archmage” he said, reaching into one of the bags that was slung over his shoulder. “So I stopped by the kitchen on the way back from the components storeroom. The cook gave me this.”

Pulling out a waxed rag, he unwrapped a fist-sized chunk of meat. At Gromph’s approving nod he held it up against the bars of the cage. The eagle tore into it greedily, ripping off bloody chunks with its hooked beak and eventually wrenching a large piece inside. It settled upon that portion, content, and soon reduced it to no more than a smear of blood on the bottom of the cage.

Gromph, meanwhile, greeted the House Baenre wizards who straggled into the room, directing them to the circle of chairs that surrounded the cage and the crystal ball. He was pleased to see Julani, a Master of Evocation. His fellow instructor bowed, touching long, supple fingers against his chest. The next two to arrive were a pair of tenth-year students. Grendan was a handsome male with a natural flair for illusion. Gromph wondered how much of his good looks were natural and how much had been augmented by magic—especially since the smell of singed hair still clung to him. Judging by the burns in the hood of his piwafwi, the student must have been splattered by one of the duergar’s incendiary missiles.

His companion, Noori, was equally beautiful—naturally so—with arched eyebrows and white hair that cascaded past her shoulders in soft waves. She was high-born, a cousin to Gromph and Triel, but she had eschewed the worship of Lolth to enter Sorcere and study divination magic instead. Remembering that, Gromph wondered whether or not Noori might have had a premonition, so many years before, of Lolth’s demise. She certainly seemed to have been able to keep out of the way of any harm during the recent fighting. There wasn’t a mark on her—not even a soot smudge.

The final mage to enter the room was Zoran, an irritating, second-year student who was continually making poor choices in class, using magic in frivolous, inappropriate ways. Gromph winced, seeing him—especially when he noted the wand of wonder in the boy’s belt. Zoran was tiny, even for a male, and had a receding chin, made more pronounced by the fact that his hair was pulled into a topknot at the crown of his head. He must have been injured in the recent battle. Gromph didn’t remember him walking with a limp before.

As the four mages settled themselves into chairs, waiting quietly for his instruction, Gromph opened one of the scrying chamber doors and peered each way down the corridor. Seeing no one else, he slowly closed them.

“Is this all?” he asked Julani. “Is there no one else from our House?”

The Master of Evocation shook his head.

“Only Nauzhror,” he said, “who sends his regrets. He was … too busy to attend. The rest are dead—or badly injured and removed to Arach-Tinilith for healing.”

A slight tightening of Julani’s eyes told Gromph that he too knew how little “healing” there was left to go around.

Gromph sighed. So few House Baenre mages left—and only one of them a master. Gromph cast a lock spell upon the doors, motioned Prath to also take a seat, then seated himself in the thronelike chair that controlled the crystal ball.

“I invite you to join me in looking upon the enemy,” he told the other wizards. “Observe.”

With a flick of his fingers, he nudged the crystal ball with an unseen hand, causing the eye to turn to face the south wall. The bird in the cage below fell silent and still, wings folded and talons gripping its perch. Concentrating, Gromph peered through the eagle’s eye.

The walls of Sorcere seemed to melt away, and in an instant he was looking at Arach-Tinilith. His penetrating gaze swept past its spider-shaped bulk and on through the walls of the cavern, through stone and tunnel and stone... until at last it came to rest in a cavern in which four individuals stood. One was a drow male, dressed in immaculate gray clothing. The fellow next to him was a cambion known, at least by reputation, to them all. The other two were both duergar, squat and gray—one with a scar that ran the length of his cheek, the other cradling a stone scepter.

Leaving the eye focused on that scene, Gromph pulled his awareness back into this own body. Inside the crystal ball, the figures gestured and talked—in angry tones, judging by the way the duergar tapped the scepter against one palm as the half-demon loomed over him, his pointed, sharklike teeth exposed in a snarl. The drow, meanwhile, kept turning back and forth between the half-demon and the two duergars, speaking rapidly and with placating gestures.

The other wizards stared into the scrying device, their expressions thoughtful.

“These are the leaders of the army that has besieged us?” Julani asked.

He had rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, and his steepled fingers were laced with angry sparks.

“I recognize Crown Prince Horgar of Gracklstugh and his bodyguard, and is that Kaanyr Vhok?” Grendan asked.

“The same,” Noori said. “The tanarukks that harry our southern approaches are his Scoured Legion.”

“That leaves but one,” Gromph said.

“The one in the middle—the drow,” Prath said, clenching his fists. “That’s Zhayemd—the bastard from House Agrach Dyrr who betrayed us at the Pillars of Woe.”

“His real name is Nimor,” Gromph said. “Nimor Imphraezl.”

“Is he a wizard?” Julani asked.

“I don’t think so,” Gromph answered. “Though there is a strong aura of magic about him; I think he’s more than he appears to be. And he certainly has enough magical devices. I can detect an aura of magic on his weapons, several items of his clothing, his rings...”

He paused for a moment, contemplating the two rings the man wore. One Gromph recognized as a protective device, but the other—the slim black ring that seemed no more substantial than a band of shadow—was quite unusual. Gromph had never seen anything quite like it.

Suddenly Gromph realized what it must be. Ever since Triel had told him that Nimor had somehow spirited an assassin into the inner most corridors of House Baenre’s great mound, Gromph had been puzzling over how that might have been accomplished.

That black ring on Nimor’s finger must be a magical device that conveyed the ability to shadow walk. That would make him a difficult character to corner, indeed. It was a good thing the wizards were striking from a distance, unseen—otherwise Nimor might have just shadow walked away.

Shaking his head, Gromph continued, “Our matron mother has learned that Nimor belongs to an organization known as the Jaezred Chaulssin. Unfortunately we know little about this group, save for its name.”

Zoran toyed idly with his wand of wonder, spinning it between his fingers.

“So we know his name. So what?” he asked insolently.

Gromph resisted the urge to fry the boy where he sat.

“A name is power,” he said, speaking to the others. “It helps us to define our target. A target that seems to be the lynchpin holding two otherwise unfriendly armies together.” He gestured at the figures in the crystal ball. They had not yet come to blows but were still arguing. “Remove the lynchpin—and the alliance will come apart. The duergar and tanarukk will fall upon one another, and victory for Menzoberranzan will be assured.”

Julani glanced at Gromph and asked, “What do you suggest?”

“A concerted attack,” the archmage answered. “All of us, casting our deadliest spells at once. Nimor will undoubtedly resist hem, but some, certainly, will get through.”

Prath rose from his chair, unlacing the lid of a wand case at his belt.

“Are we going to teleport to the cavern?” he asked.

Gromph patted the air, motioning the impetuous young mage back to his seat.

“We don’t need to teleport anywhere,” he said. “We can cast our spells from here.”

Grendan raised a perfect eyebrow and asked, “How?”

“Through this,” Gromph said, pointing at the crystal ball. “Since its creation, I’ve imbued it with a few... extras, the knowledge of which you must swear to keep secret.”

“Ah,” Julani said. “So that’s why you summoned only House Baenre mages.” He placed the tips of curled fingers to his chest, over his heart. “May Lolth’s poison consume me, should I divulge whatever I am about to hear.”

Gromph stared at each of the mages in turn, and one by one they nodded their agreement and spoke oaths of silence.

“This is not just a scrying device,” Gromph told the others. “Once primed, it can be used to cast spells at a particular target—in this case, at Nimor. It will work not only for spells that can carry as far as the eye can see but also for those that are limited by distance. Now then, which spells are your most potent?”

One by one, the other mages described which spells they would cast. Gromph rejected some suggestions and approved others. When it was Noori’s turn, she spread her hands.

“I don’t know if my spells will be any use,” she said humbly. “They tend to be divinations.”

Gromph smiled and said, “On the contrary, Noori, you will contribute the most useful spell of all. In order to use the crystal ball, we must first cast a spell that will pinpoint the individual we wish to attack. Which is where you come in. Please cast a location spell on the drow.”

With a slight bow that didn’t quite hide her smile, Noori rose to her feet. She pulled a scrap of fur from her pocket and used it to polish the crystal ball. As she did, Nimor loomed larger inside the crystal ball, his face and chest filling it.

At a nod from Gromph, Noori resumed her seat. As she did, Gromph thought he saw Nimor follow her with his eyes. Had the drow sensed that someone was scrying him and glanced around in an effort to locate the source? Little matter; soon enough he’d be ducking spells.

Gromph pulled a pinch of sand out of a pocket of his piwafwi and flicked it into the air in front of him, chanting the words of a minor creation spell. A tiny hourglass appeared on top of the eagle’s cage, and the sand inside its uppermost globe began trickling away.

“Cast your spells when the last grain of sand fells,” he told the others. “Make sure your conjurations all end at precisely the same instant.”

After taking care to make sure his protective devices were still on his person and tucking Kyorli safely into his sleeve, Gromph began his own spell.

He chose a necromantic spell, one of the most powerful in his arsenal. Slowly, one eye on the hourglass, he rasped out words whose raw power scratched the inside of his throat, making it bleed. Dimly, he was aware of the magical conjurations of the other wizards.

Julani held both hands in front of him, the first two fingers forked in the gesture that would summon a powerful lightning bolt, and Grendan was kneading the air with his fingers, creating a hypnotic weave of shifting color, Prath had chosen an evocation that would summon a magic missile—a feeble spell, but probably the best the first-year student could manage. Zoran, meanwhile, slumped lazily in his chair, a grin tweaking the corner of his lips. Gromph longed to give the insolent boy a magical thrashing—but dared not interrupt his own spell. The hourglass was nearly empty.

As the last of the sand trickled out, Gromph spoke the final word of his spell—and heard the others do the same. His pointing forefinger turned momentarily skeletal as a thin ray of bone-white erupted from its tip and lanced into the crystal ball, streaking toward Nimor’s chest. In that same moment, lightning erupted from Julani’s fingers, filling the air with the boom of thunder and the stench of ozone. Grendan’s hypnotic pattern rushed toward its target. Zoran had said he was going to cast a spell that would send Nimor into fits of laughter, incapacitating him, but instead he drew and fired his wand of wonder. A useless stream of gems erupted from its tip. Meanwhile the three magic missiles Prath had conjured up glanced harmlessly off some magical defense that surrounded Nimor, just as Gromph had expected.

No, they ricocheted—straight back at the boy. Which was impossible.

Gromph tried to shout a warning, but all he managed was, “Ward yourselves! The spells—”

Then his own death spell came hurtling back at him. The bone-white ray, chill as the grave, struck him in the chest, the precise spot he’d aimed for on Nimor. His enchanted piwafwi soaked up the spell, its hood, cuffs, and hem instantly crumbling away like ancient, rotted cloth. Even so, the spell rocked him to the side as if he’d been kicked in the head by a rothe. He tumbled out of his chair, winding up in an undignified heap on the floor.

As he fell he heard Prath grunt as his three magic missiles struck, punching deep, bloody holes into the boy’s chest. In the same instant, twin lightning bolts struck Julani, passing through his body in less than a heartbeat to explode out of his hands, feet and the top of his head, killing him instantly. Grendan, meanwhile, went slack-jawed as the hypnotic pattern he’d conjured appeared in the air in front of his face. Beside him, Zoran flung up his hands as the stream of gems from his wand rushed back at him, thudding into his chest. One caught him in the head, knocking what little sense he had out of it, and he fell out of his chair, unconscious.

Lifting his head, Gromph was just in time to see the crystal ball turn a solid white. It felt with a crash to the floor, knocking the eagle’s cage over and cracking in two. Inside the cage, the eagle screeed in anguish as its missing eyeball—split in two and weeping blood—returned to its socket.

Gromph looked at the destruction his plan had wrought and was furious with himself. His experiment had turned out most disastrously for House Baenre. Julani was dead, and Prath—judging by the sound of his labored, gurgling breathing—would soon die without magical intervention. Grendan would be a drooling idiot for some time to come, and Zoran... well, being knocked unconscious was precisely what he deserved for using so whimsical a weapon in such dire circumstances. Noori was unscathed but had only divination magic at her disposal. Besides, she was too busy fussing over her lover to be of any use, even were her spells more powerful.

Gromph had half expected Nimor to have magic that would protect him from spells, but only a handful of the spells should have been turned—not all of them. And certainly not those spells, like the hypnotic pattern, which targeted the air next to Nimor, and not the drow himself. Whatever device or spell protected Nimor must have been the result of a unique enchantment—one beyond the capabilities of most mortal wizards.

Gromph knew of only one spellcaster capable of such powerful magic: the lichdrow Dyrr.

Easing himself off the floor, Gromph was relieved to see Kyorli, unhurt, scurry out of his sleeve. As Gromph rose to a sitting position, a sharp object dug into his hip. He assumed it was one of Zoran’s useless gems but then realized it was something in the hip pocket of his piwafwi. He reached into the pocket—and to his surprise found a prism of quartz. Tiny yellow sparks as bright as miniature suns danced inside it, evidence of the light-producing magic that was trapped in its depths.

How had it gotten into his pocket?

He stared at it absently, half-listening to the gurgling, bloody breathing of Prath. All the while, he was thinking furiously. He alone must deal with Nimor—but how? Any spell that targeted the strange drow would only bounce back at its caster—even a spell that affected an area, rather than Nimor himself, couldn’t take him down. Yet Nimor must have a weak spot. One that seemed, on the surface, to be his chief strength.

Shadow walking.

Glancing at the prism, Gromph began to smile. Carefully, he tucked it back in his pocket. The insignificant little magical device—a trivial construct of the Surface Realms that was designed to serve no more noble purpose than to illuminate darkened corridors—would rid them all of Nimor Imphraezl.

Without having to cast any spells on him.