Resurrection

Chapter Ten

The night was hours old, and still Halisstra had not disturbed her sisters’ Reverie. She knew she should. They ought to have used the night to travel, in case the slaughter renewed with the dawn, but Halisstra knew her sisters needed rest. They would have little opportunity for it after they left their makeshift temple atop the tor. Besides, Halisstra wanted them to have a few more hours of peace, alone with her faith. They soon would have little opportunity for that too.

She sat near the edge of the tor praying to the Dark Maiden for the strength to face the challenges ahead.

Above her, swirling vortices of colored energy still dotted the sky. With each passing moment, one or another of the vortices ejected a glowing soul into the air. With each moment, a worshiper of the Spider Queen died somewhere in the multiverse and the soul found its way to the Demonweb Pits. The process was as regular as a clockwork. Halisstra watched it happen time and again, and each time the newly arrived soul fell into the never-ending line of spirits floating toward their dark goddess, their eternal fate.

It would go on that way until the multiverse ended.

Unless Lolth died.

She watched the souls moving methodically toward their doom and wondered if Danifae was among them. With the Binding between them severed, Halisstra would not have sensed Danifae’s death. She fervently hoped that her former battle-captive still lived.

Thinking of Danifae sent a surge of hope and fear through Halisstra. Danifae had told her once, as they stood together in some ruins in the World Above, that she had felt Eilistraee’s call.

The battle-captive had spoken those words when she had come to warn Halisstra that Quenthel had sent Jeggred to kill Ryld.

Danifae had warned her.

There was a kinship between them, Halisstra knew, something born in the Binding that once had joined them as master and slave. She knew that Danifae could be redeemed. And since Halisstra had given herself fully to the Lady of the Dance, she would be able to help Danifae along the path of redemption—as long as she wasn’t already dead.

An overwhelming sense of regret tightened Halisstra’s chest, regret for a life ill-spent inflicting pain and engaging in petty tyrannies. She had wasted centuries on hate. Tears threatened, but she fought them back with a stubborn shake of her head.

The wind gusted, sliced through her prayer, cut through the song-spider webs, and called out for the Yor’thae.

The word no longer held any magic for Halisstra. She felt no pull.

She looked up at the eight stars that seemed so much like the eyes of Lolth and vowed, “No one will answer your call.”

Halisstra didn’t know what Lolth intended for her Yor’thae, and she didn’t care. She guessed that killing the Yor’thae would hurt Lolth, possibly weaken her. And she knew that Lolth’s Chosen could be only one person: Quenthel Baenre.

“I’ll kill your Chosen, then I will kill you,” she whispered.

The wind died down again, as though quieted by her promise.

Halisstra looked out over the blasted landscape of Lolth’s realm, over the piles of torn spider parts and carcasses. She wondered where Quenthel was at that moment. She suspected that the Baenre priestess was already in the Demonweb Pits, making her way to Lolth, just another of the damned drawn to the Spider Queen.

“I’m right behind you, Baenre,” she whispered.

She sat for a time in silence, alone with her goddess, staring up at the infinite stream of spirits floating to Lolth. After a while, she took out Seyll’s songsword, put its flute-hilt to her lips, and played a soft dirge, an honorarium for the lost souls above her. The notes carried over the barren landscape, beautiful to her ears.

If the souls heard her, they made no sign.

The wind rose, as though to overwhelm her song, but Halisstra played on. Though she knew it was not possible, she hoped that somewhere, somehow, Seyll heard her song and understood.

When she finished, she sheathed Seyll’s blade and stood. Looking into the sky, she held forth her hand, palm up, and curled her fingers—making the symbol of a dead spider, blasphemous to Lolth.

She could not help but smile.

“This is for you too,” she said.

On impulse, she shed her armor and shield, drew the Crescent Blade, and danced. High atop a ruined tor on Lolth’s blasted plane, Halisstra Melarn whirled, spun, stabbed, and leaped. Except for the wail of the wind, there was no sound to which she could move, so she danced to a rhythm that pounded only in her head. Joy filled her, more and more with each step, with each turn. She became one with the weapon, one with Eilistraee. She was sweating Lolth from her skin, shedding her own past with each gasping, joyous breath.

Her hair whipped behind and around her. She could not stop grinning. The Crescent Blade felt no heavier in her grasp than a blade of grass, the tiny green plant that covered much of the World Above. The weapon whistled through the air, creating its own tune, playing its own song.

Halisstra danced until sweat soaked her and her breath came hard. When she finally finished, exhausted and elated, she collapsed, the ground on her back. Grace filled her. She felt she’d been purified, worthy at last to wield the Crescent Blade.

Thank you, Lady, she thought to Eilistraee and smiled when a cloud temporarily blotted out Lolth’s eight stars.

She lay there for a time, doing nothing more than reveling in her freedom.

Sometime later she rose, walked back near the edge of the tor, and re-donned her armor. As she was strapping Seyll’s blade to her back, a hand closed on her shoulder, momentarily giving her a start.

“Feliane,” she said, turning to face the kind, almond eyes of the surface elf.

Feliane smiled warmly. “You did not wake me for a watch. I slept through the day. How late into the night is it?”

“The night is several hours old,” Halisstra said, securing Seyll’s blade in its scabbard. “We should awaken Uluyara.”

Feliane nodded. She said, “It was your laughter that awakened me.”

“I’m sorry,” Halisstra replied. She was not aware that she had been laughing aloud.

“Don’t be,” Feliane replied. “It allowed me to watch you dance.”

To her surprise, Halisstra felt no embarrassment.

“It was beautiful,” Feliane said with a smile. “I saw the Lady in it, as clearly as I’ve ever seen her in anything.”

Halisstra didn’t know how to reply, so she dropped her eyes and said only, “Thank you.”

“You have come far in only a short while,” Feliane said, stepping past her to look down on the tor.

Halisstra nodded. She had indeed.

“May I ask you something?” Feliane asked.

“Of course,” Halisstra said, and something in Feliane’s tone caused Halisstra’s heart to race.

Feliane asked, “What drew you to the worship of Lolth in the first place? The faith is … hateful, ugly. But I can see that you are none of those things.”

Halisstra’s heart thumped in her chest. She wasn’t sure why the question affected her so. A tiny seed in the center of her being stirred, but no immediate answer came to her.

She thought for a moment and finally answered, “You give me too much credit, Feliane. I was hateful. And ugly. Nothing drew me to Lolth. Nothing had to. I was raised to worship her, and I enjoyed the benefits associated with my station. I was petty and small, so awash in spite that it never occurred to me that there might be another way. Until I met you and Uluyara and saw the sun. I owe you both much for that. I owe the Lady much for that.”

Feliane nodded, took her hand, and squeezed it. The elf said, “May I ask something else?”

Halisstra nodded. She would hold nothing back from her sister in faith.

Feliane took a breath before asking, “Did you ever think that what you did in her name was... evil?”

Halisstra consciously decided not to hear an accusation in the question. Feliane’s face held no judgment, merely curiosity. Halisstra struggled to articulate a response.

“No,” she answered at last. “I’m ashamed now to say it, but no. Faith in the Spider Queen brought power, Feliane. In Ched Nasad, power was the difference between those who ruled and those who served, those who lived and those who died. It’s not an excuse,” she said, seeing Feliane’s expression grow clouded, “just an explanation. What I did then, what I was, it shames me now.”

Staring thoughtfully into the darkness, Feliane nodded. The silence stretched.

Finally, the elf said, “Thank you for sharing yourself with me, Halisstra. And do not be ashamed of what you were. We are made anew each moment. It is never too late to change.”

Halisstra smiled. “I like that very much, Feliane. It gives me hope that someone else I know might be redeemed.”

Feliane smiled back.

They stood quietly for a moment, listening to the wind.

“We should awaken Uluyara and start moving,” Halisstra said.

Feliane nodded but did not turn to go. Instead, she said, “I’m afraid.”

The words surprised Halisstra. She had never before heard such an admission from another female.

After a moment, she put her arm around Feliane, drew her close, and said, “I am too. But we’ll find strength in our fear. All right?”

“All right,” Feliane replied.

Halisstra turned to her, held her at arms length, and said, “The Lady is with us. And I have a plan.”

Feliane raised her thin eyebrows. “A plan?”

“Let’s awaken Uluyara,” Halisstra said.

Feliane nodded, and they walked back toward the temple. Before they reached it, Uluyara emerged.

“There you are,” said the high priestess. “Is everything well?”

“It is,” Feliane said with a smile. “Halisstra has a plan.”

Uluyara frowned. “A plan?”

Halisstra wasted no words. “I believe I know why Eilistraee put the Crescent Blade into my hands.”

Uluyara’s brow furrowed, and she said, “We already know why, Halisstra. You are to use the blade to kill the Queen of the Demonweb Pits.”

Halisstra nodded. “Yes, but we’ve been thinking that I would use the blade only against Lolth herself. But I think Lolth would be weakened if her Chosen never answered her call. I need to deny her her Yor’thae. I need to kill Quenthel Baenre.”

Her sisters looked at her, confused.

Halisstra said, “Don’t you see? I was meant to meet Quenthel Baenre during the fall of Ched Nasad. I was meant to learn of her quest to awaken Lolth. Eilistraee’s hand is in all of this. I see it now. Quenthel Baenre is Lolth’s Yor’thae. If I kill her...”

Then maybe I can kill Lolth, she thought but did not say.

“Then Lolth will be vulnerable,” Uluyara said, nodding.

“Are we certain?” Feliane ventured. “The prophecy of the Crescent Blade did not speak of the Spider Queen’s Chosen.”

“I am as certain as I can be,” Halisstra replied, knowing that she was not certain at all.

Feliane did not hesitate. She said, “Then I am convinced.”

Uluyara looked from Feliane to Halisstra. After a moment she blew out a sigh, touched the holy symbol of Eilistraee she wore around her neck, and said, “Then I am also convinced. How will we find Quenthel Baenre?”

Halisstra wanted to hug the high priestess.

“She is here, somewhere in the Demonweb Pits,” Halisstra said, “trying to reach Lolth. I am certain of that too.”

“Then we must find her before she reaches the Spider Queen,” Feliane said. “But how? Follow the souls?” She indicated the damned souls streaming high above them.

“No,” Halisstra said. “We must locate her more precisely.”

Uluyara understood Halisstra’s meaning, and said, “The Baenre will be warded. A scrying spell will not work.”

“She will be warded,” Halisstra conceded, “but she bears an item that once was mine, a healing wand that she took from me after the fall of Ched Nasad. That will aid the spell.” She looked her sisters in the face. “It will work, and that it does will be a sign from the Maiden.”

“She may sense the scrying,” Uluyara said.

Halisstra nodded and replied, “She might. Let us trust in the Lady, High Priestess. Time is short.” Halisstra felt the moments slipping from her.

“I am with you, Halisstra Melarn,” Uluyara said with a smile. “But to scry, we must have a basin of holy water.”

Halisstra scanned the top of the tor, looking for any standing pool of water left over from the rain. Uluyara and Feliane spread out to help search.

“Here!” Feliane called after only a few moments.

Halisstra and Uluyara hurried over and found Feliane standing over a small puddle of foul water that had pooled in a declivity in the rock.

“That will do,” Halisstra said.

“I will hallow it,” Uluyara said, taking out her holy symbol.

She held the medallion over the water and offered a prayer of consecration to Eilistraee. As she chanted the imprecation, she took a small pearl from her cloak and dropped it into the water.

The pearl dissolved as if it was salt, the rime of filth vanished, and the water cleared. Uluyara ended the prayer and stepped back from the puddle.

“It is ready,” she said.

Halisstra could not help but smile. Between the raising of the temple and the consecration of a holy water font, the three priestesses had carved off a little piece of Lolth’s plane in Eilistraee’s name. It felt good; it felt defiant. She wondered how long the temple and font would last before the evil of the Pits reclaimed them.

It will stand forever once Lolth is dead, she thought.

With renewed determination, she knelt before the font and saw her dim reflection in its clear waters. Lolth’s eight stars, though they hung directly above her, did not show in the reflection.

Halisstra was pleased. Even on her own plane, the Spider Queen could not befoul Eilistraee’s font.

Touching her holy symbol, Halisstra sang the song of scrying.

As the magic took shape, she conjured an image of Quenthel Baenre in her mind—her tall stature, her angry eyes and harsh mouth, the long white hair, the whip of serpents, the wand she had stolen from Halisstra...

The clear water darkened. Halisstra felt her consciousness expand. She continued the musical prayer, her voice growing more confident. Though she was not an especially skilled diviner, the words of the scrying spell poured easily from her lips. She knew that Quenthel’s wards could protect the Baenre priestess, but she knew with a certainty born of her faith that they would not.

Eilistraee’s will would be done; Halisstra would be the Dark Maiden’s instrument.

An image formed in the font, wavering at first but clearer with each note that Halisstra sang.

There was no sound, but when the image came fully into view it was as clear as a portrait.

Uluyara and Feliane crowded close to see.

The image showed Quenthel Baenre in the air, clutched to the chest of an enormous creature covered in muscle and short, coarse fur. The rest of the monster’s body was not visible.

Halisstra’s spell conveyed an image of only Quenthel and her immediate surroundings. Anything beyond that appeared as an indistinguishable gray blur.

Quenthel looked forward, a tight smile on her face, her intense eyes burning. Her long hair streamed behind her in the wind. Her mouth moved as if she was shouting something to the creature that held her.

Uluyara said, “She rides in the grasp of a demon. Look at the size of it, the six fingered hands and claws … it is a nalfeshnee.”

Halisstra nodded. Quenthel must have summoned and bound the nalfeshnee to her will.

The demon suddenly wheeled higher—Halisstra caused the scrying sensor to follow—into the midst of a swarm of drow souls. The spirits wheeled all around the image, flitting in and out of the spell’s “eye.”

“The river of souls!” Feliane exclaimed and looked skyward to the shades flowing through the sky. “She is here in the Demonweb Pits, at least.”

Halisstra nodded but maintained her concentration, keeping the image focused on Quenthel.

The high priestess of Lolth barked something at the demon and freed a hand to brandish her serpent-headed whip. The demon decreased its altitude, and the souls disappeared from the image.

“Where are her companions?” Uluyara said.

Halisstra shook her head. “Possibly just out of view,” she said, though she felt a stab of fear for Danifae.

Halisstra had no doubt that Quenthel would kill anyone or anything if it served her purposes.

She bit her lip in frustration. Her spell was not revealing enough. They knew Quenthel was flying with a demon somewhere in the Demonweb Pits but nothing more.

“Uluyara,” she said through her concentration. “You must help me. We need more information.”

Uluyara nodded. “Now that I have seen Quenthel Baenre, there is a spell I can use to aid us. It will take some time to cast. Hold the image another moment. Let me fix the Baenre’s appearance in my mind.”

The high priestess studied the image for a time then rose.

“Enough,” she said. “Release it, Halisstra, before she senses the scrying. There is nothing more to see. Other divinations will serve us now.”

With a gasp, Halisstra let the spell dissipate. The image vanished, and the water once more grew clear. She stood, but her knees trembled.

Uluyara touched Halisstra’s shoulder with affection and said, “Well done, priestess. You have started us on the path. My own spell can learn how far the Baenre priestess is from here but little else. We will need that and more. While I discern her location, you two shall commune with the Lady and ask her for guidance.”

Words failed Halisstra. Her heart raced. Commune with the Lady! When she had been a priestess of Lolth, she sometimes had communed with the Spider Queen as part of her temple’s bloody rites, but the experience had never been pleasant. A mortal mind was easily overwhelmed by the divine. She found the thought of communing with Eilistraee both terrifying and exhilarating.

She shared a look with Feliane and saw acceptance in the elf’s fair-skinned face. Both nodded at Uluyara.

“Good,” said the high priestess. “Let us hurry. As you said, Halisstra, time is short.”

“Not here. In the temple,” Halisstra offered.

Uluyara nodded and smiled. “Yes. In the temple. Very good.”

Under Lolth’s sky, the three priestesses hurried back to the hallowed ground of their makeshift temple. There, they cast their spells.

Uluyara sat cross-legged on the floor, her holy symbol cradled in her lap. She closed her eyes, steadied herself, and slipped quickly into a meditative trance. Whispered prayers slipped from her lips, snippets of songs in a language both beautiful and alien to Halisstra.

Halisstra and Feliane sat away from Uluyara, facing each other and holding hands to form a circle. Halisstra’s larger hands engulfed those of the elf priestess. Both of their palms were clammy. Feliane placed her holy symbol medallion on the floor between them.

“Ready?” Feliane asked and retook Halisstra’s hands.

“Ready,” Halisstra acknowledged. She knew the spell they were to cast would create a short-lived connection to Eilistraee. The answers to the questions they would ask would be short and possibly cryptic. Such was the nature of direct communication between gods and mortals.

“I will offer the questions,” Halisstra said, and Feliane nodded without hesitation.

With that, they closed their eyes and began the spell. The spell required a prayer offered in song. Halisstra opened, Feliane joined, and soon they sang in time with one another, their voices as one. Power gathered, and windows opened between realities.

Propelled by the spell, their minds reached up and out, through the planes, to the otherworldly home of their goddess.

In the no-place created by the spell, Halisstra could not see, but she could feel—and feel with a vibrancy unlike anything she had previously experienced. Despite herself, she mentally cringed as she awaited contact with the mind of her goddess. She felt Feliane with her, also waiting.

A presence suffused the no-place, and Halisstra braced herself. When the contact came, when Halisstra’s mind met that of her goddess in a place-between-places, it was not at all what she had expected. Rather than the overwhelming spite and judgment she had felt when communing with Lolth, she instead felt a sense of overwhelming comfort, love, and acceptance. It was as if she was immersed in a warm, soothing bath.

Ask, daughters, said a voice in her mind.

The grace in the voice, the gentle love, brought tears to Halisstra’s eyes.

Lady, projected Halisstra. You know our purpose. Please tell us what Quenthel Baenre seeks and to where the nalfeshnee bears her.

Halisstra sensed approval of the question.

She seeks to become the vessel of my mother’s resurrection, replied the goddess. Without the Yor’thae, Lolth’s rebirth will be stillborn.

As the weight of that statement settled on Halisstra’s shoulders, Eilistraee continued, The demon carries Quenthel Baenre to the Pass of the Soulreaver beneath of the Mountains of Eyes.

My mother waits on the other side.

An image of high peaks formed in Halisstra’s mind, dark spires that rose until they reached the roof of the sky. She had seen the mountains in the distance when first she had materialized on the Demonweb Pits. At the mountains’ base stood a dark opening, the sole means of passing through the range—the Pass of the Soulreaver. The name of the pass triggered some old memory in her, as though she had once read of it during her studies in House Melarn, but the particulars escaped her.

How long before she reaches the pass, Lady? asked Halisstra.

A pause, then, She will reach them before the tired sun of my mother rises anew.

The connection grew tenuous. The spell was soon to expire. Halisstra felt her goddess moving away from her. She tried to grab on, but Eilistraee slipped through her fingers.

Before the spell dissipated entirely, she mentally blurted, Does Danifae Yauntyrr still accompany Quenthel Baenre?

She sensed a hesitation and instantly regretted asking such a selfish question. Still, Eilistraee offered an answer, as though from far away, and the words gave Halisstra hope.

Yes. A pause, then, Doubt is her weapon, daughter.

The connection went quiet. Halisstra opened her eyes, found herself again clad in her cumbersome flesh, sitting across from Feliane. The elf’s eyes too were rimed with tears.

“The Lady favored us,” Feliane whispered.

“She did,” Halisstra answered. “She did, indeed. If Lolth has no Chosen...”

“Then she will die,” Feliane finished.

Halisstra could only nod.

Spontaneously and at the same moment, the two sisters in faith stretched out their arms and embraced, lit with the afterglow of contact with the divine.

“We will succeed,” Feliane said, and to Halisstra it sounded more question than statement.

“We will,” Halisstra affirmed, though Eilistraee’s last words troubled her. For whom was doubt a weapon? Whose doubt? She had no answers.

In short order, Uluyara emerged from her trance, and Halisstra and Feliane related the substance of their communion.

Uluyara took it in with a nod, then said, “The Baenre is three leagues from here. Her route follows the souls. We’ll track her, find her, and kill her.”

“Her route leads to the mountains,” Feliane said. “To the Pass of the Soulreaver.”

“Then that is where we are going too,” said Halisstra. “We must reach it before the sun rises.”

They would once more ride the foul wind of the Demonweb Pits. Halisstra knew they would catch Quenthel and Danifae before they reached the Pass.

“We should assume that Baenre is accompanied by more than the nalfeshnee and Danifae,”

Uluyara said. “The wizard, the draegloth, and the mercenary you told us about may yet travel with her.”

“Agreed,” Halisstra said.

As they prepared to set off, Halisstra thought of Danifae, hesitated, then said to Uluyara, “Danifae Yauntyrr said to me once that she had been called by Eilistraee. I would...” She trailed off. “She saved me once, from the draegloth. I would like to give her another chance to answer the Lady.”

Uluyara’s face showed incredulity. “Is not accompanying Quenthel Baenre answer enough?” she asked. Her face softened at Halisstra’s frown, and she reached out a hand as though to touch Halisstra, though she did not. “Halisstra Melarn, your guilt over your life before Eilistraee is affecting your judgment. I know the feeling well. But no one called by the Lady would travel with a priestess of Lolth. If Danifae is with the Baenre, then she is with the Baenre.”

Halisstra heard sense in Uluyara’s words, but she did not want to throw Danifae away so quickly.

“You may be mistaken,” Halisstra said. “Let us see what events bring. If she is to be a servant of the Lady, she will show it when she sees me.”

Feliane’s gaze shifted anxiously between them.

Uluyara’s brow furrowed. She started to speak, stopped, and finally said, “Let us not argue about this, not now. As you say, we will see what we will see. I will be pleased to be wrong.”

Halisstra stared at the high priestess a moment longer and decided to let the matter rest.

“Gather near me,” Halisstra said.

She sang the prayer that would again change them all to mist and let them ride the wind.

When she finished the spell, their bodies metamorphosed into vapor. As it had before, Halisstra’s field of vision swelled and contracted in a way that made judging distances difficult. Still, she felt in control of her body. They rose from the spire, heading skyward toward the souls high above.

As they ascended into the cloud-roofed sky, Halisstra spared a glance back at the temple, on the tor they had claimed in Eilistraee’s name. She knew she would never see it again.

The three priestesses fell in amongst the souls, just three more insubstantial forms amidst the thousands. At Halisstra’s mental command, they increased their speed until they were streaking through the air faster than any of the shades, as fast as a bolt fired from a crossbow.

We have you, Quenthel Baenre, she thought. And we’re coming.

Deep in the bowels of Corpsehaven, Inthracis stood in an anteroom off to the side of his assembly hall, separated from the finest regiment of his army by ornate double doors. Like the rest of his keep, he had fashioned the doors from carved bone and sheets of flesh. Beyond them stood the five hundred mezzoloths and nycaloths of his elite Black Horn Regiment, all veterans of the Blood Wars. Nisviim had sounded the muster and the Regiment had answered. The nycaloth leaders had already briefed the troops on their assignment and worked them into a killing frenzy with promises of glory and payment of twenty soul-larvae each.

The troops beat the hafts of their glaives, tridents, and poleaxes against the floor, sending shivers through the walls and floors, giving Corpsehaven a pulse that temporarily overwhelmed the wind’s incessant howl. In time with the thumping, the troops shouted aloud for their general, turning his name into an incantation.

“Inthracis! Inthracis! Inthracis!”

Inthracis smiled and let the excitement build.

Even through the tumult Inthracis could hear the roars of the nycaloth sergeants. He pictured the assembly in his mind—row upon row of armed and armored yugoloths—and reveled in their adoration. Yugoloths were mercenaries to their core, and Inthracis had treated his army well over the millennia, rewarding them with glory, souls, treasure, and flesh. He had augmented their loyalty with subtle binding spells, quietly cast. He had built his army with care over the centuries, and its fearsome strength and unswerving loyalty had elevated him nearly to the top of the Blood Rift’s hierarchy. He had only to unseat Kexxon the Oinoloth and he would sit atop Calaas’s spire.

Vhaeraun had commanded Inthracis to bring an army to the Ereilir Vor, the Plains of Soulfire, in Lolth’s Demonweb Pits. Inthracis could not muster his entire army without leaving Corpsehaven unguarded, but he could do the next best thing—bring the Black Horn Regiment, and lead them himself. He would leave Nisviim, his arcanaloth lieutenant, in charge of the fortress until his return. Inthracis knew the bound arcanaloth would not betray him.

Besides, he was certain the Black Horn regiment would be enough—more than enough—to slaughter the three drow priestesses and whomever or whatever might accompany them. And when the three priestesses were dead, Vhaeraun might actually reward him.

“Inthracis! Inthracis!”

The rhythmic beat of weapon hafts on the floor grew louder, faster, building toward a crescendo. Beside Inthracis, snarling and drooling, stood Carnage and Slaughter, his canoloth pets. The rising volume of the chanting agitated the four-legged, houndlike yugoloths—both were dumb but quite powerful, quite loyal—and their long, barbed tongues lolled from the fanged sphincters of their mouths. Their claws dug into the floor, and both uttered low growls.

Inthracis reached up to pat them each on their huge, armored flanks.

“Be at ease,” he said and let arcane power creep into his voice.

The power of his magic eased their tension. The canoloths uttered satisfied murmurs and visibly relaxed.

For the sake of appearances, Inthracis had armored Carnage and Slaughter in their war gear-spiked plate barding covered the coarse, black fur of their wide backs and broad chests. He had even armored himself, though he would consider it a personal failing to be forced to engage in melee combat.

Still, the troops enjoyed seeing their general outfitted for war.

His light, magic-absorbing mail shirt and helm, both forged in one of Calaas’s furnaces from a magic-soaked ore unique to the Blood Rift, glimmered in the light of the anteroom’s yellow glowball. His spellblade, Arcane Razor, through which he could cast his spells and cut through the spells of others, hung at his belt from a scabbard made of barbed devil hide. An arsenal of metallic wands and three bone rods hung from a quiver at his thigh.

“Inthracis! Inthracis!”

As it had with the canoloths, the noise agitated the stacked corpses in the walls of Corpsehaven. Limbs squirmed, wide eyes stared, and flesh oozed. Hands reached from the walls as though to touch him, either out of excitement or perhaps out of a need for reassurance.

Carnage turned his huge head, casually ripped a grasping forearm from the wall, and devoured it, bone and all. Seeing his sibling feasting, Slaughter eyed the wall-corpses to see if another such tidbit might be forthcoming.

None were. Hands and arms retreated into the wall. Eyes stared out in semi-sentient fear.

Inthracis smiled at his pets, even as he ran his plan through his mind. He had been unable to scry any of the three priestesses—he did not know why—and Vhaeraun’s avatar had not shown himself again. Still, he dared not disobey the Masked Lord’s command.

Inthracis would use a simple spell to show the Black Horn Regiment where it was to go—the fiery, blasted heath of the Plains of Soulfire, in the shadow of Lolth’s city and the Infinite Web—and go they would. Inthracis knew the plains to be uninhabited but for the tortured souls that burned in the sky above them—and perhaps a few of Lolth’s eight-legged pets.

“Inthracis! Inthracis!”

The time had come.

Without another word, he threw open the doors and strode forward onto the high balcony that overlooked the assembly hall. The cheer that greeted him from below sent flakes of skin raining from the ceiling, shook the walls of Corpsehaven like one of the Blood Rift’s frequent earthquakes.

He looked down on the regiment. Rows of squat, beetle-like mezzoloths looked up at him with their red, compound eyes. They stood on two legs, using the other four to wield their polearms. Plates of armor draped their black carapaces. Their mandibles offered soft clicks. The larger nycaloths moved amongst them, calling for quiet.

Muscles rippled under the green scales of the gargoylish nycaloths as they moved. Huge axes hung from their backs. Four clawed hands erupted from their muscular chests, and their sleek heads sported two horns, limned black, of course.

Inthracis raised his hands, and the multitude fell silent. Only the howl of the wind outside disturbed the moment. In its shriek, Inthracis still heard the echo of Lolth’s call, but softer:

“Yor’thae.”

Inthracis ignored it, except to hope that the diminishment of the call indicated the diminishment of Lolth.

He willed a spell to amplify his voice. When he spoke, his softly uttered words sounded as loud and clear in the ears of his troops as if he had stood beside them.

“There are drow priestesses that we must kill,” he said. “And we must do it under the eyes of the Spider Queen herself.”

A ripple ran through the lines. All knew that something had been happening recently with Lolth.

Inthracis spoke the words to his spell and called up a towering image of the Ereilir Vor. A green mist hung over a pockmarked landscape. Pools of caustic fluid bubbled their stink into the air. Glowing souls burned in arcane fire in the sky.

Beyond the plains, Lolth’s city loomed, a great, crawling citadel of iron set among the Infinite Web. Millions of arachnids scurried along its strands.

Another ripple ran through the lines. No doubt some recognized the locale.

“That is where we will do battle,” he called. “And here is our prey.”

Drawing upon the mental image placed in his mind by Vhaeraun, he spoke aloud the words to another spell and caused an image of the three priestesses to take shape before the regiment.

“All three must die,” he said, “and an extra twenty-five souls from my cache to those who strike the killing blow.”

A roar answered him and he nodded.

The Black Horn Regiment was ready. If Vhaeraun was right, and one of the three drow priestesses was or was to be Lolth’s Yor’thae, then the Spider Queen’s Chosen would never reach her goddess’s side.