Resurrection

Chapter Seven

Amidst the smoking ruins of Ched Nasad, Nimor stood on the cracked balcony of a once luxurious noble manse. The house’s structural wards had saved much of it from destruction when it had fallen to the bottom of the chasm, but it still lay broken and askew on the rocky floor.

Most of Ched Nasad rested in ruins around him. Heaps of rubble and chunks of stone lay scattered and broken about the chasm’s bottom like the grave markers for a race of titans. Once, the city had hung over the chasm on thick calcified webs. Then the duergar had come, the webs had burned under the gray dwarves’ stonefire bombs, and the city had fallen.

Nimor smiled at the destruction. He had returned from Chaulssin to look once more upon what his people had wrought.

High above him hung those few of the city’s webs that had survived the duergars’ attacks bombs. A number of intact buildings dangled in the broken, calcified strands like trapped caveflies, twisting helplessly over the abyss. A handful of minor noble houses, built into the chasm’s walls rather than on the webs that once had spanned the abyss, remained largely intact.

Nimor knew that the Jaezred Chaulssin had begun to rebuild the city in their image. Drow in service to the Jaezred Chaulssin worked at the bottom of the chasm, along its walls, and in the surviving webs near the top. The beat of shadow dragon wings whispered in the cavern’s depths, and many of the ruined buildings that lay at the bottom of the chasm had already been melded into the Shadow Fringe. Oily, impenetrable clouds of darkness shrouded the areas that existed simultaneously in both planes.

The transformation would go on for decades, Nimor knew, centuries perhaps. But when it was complete, Ched Nasad would be another Chaulssin. The resurrected Ched Nasad would be one drow city that contained nothing of the Spider Queen or her servants.

Nimor smiled, but softly. The sting of his failure lingered still, overwhelming whatever satisfaction he otherwise would have felt. He had hoped to see not only Ched Nasad transformed but also Menzoberranzan.

He eyed the magical ring of shadow on his fingers, a band of liquid black that wrapped his digit like a tiny asp. Of his many magic items, only his ring and his House brooch had retained their enchantments after Gromph Baenre had cast his spell of disjoining during their combat over Menzoberranzan’s bazaar. Nimor had not yet replaced any of his lost items. He regarded his penury as penance for his failure.

Menzoberranzan. He saw the city in his mind’s eye, imagined it lying in ruin about him like Ched Nasad...

He shook the image from his head. Menzoberranzan stood, and Lolth had returned. Nimor had failed, and he was no longer the Anointed Blade.

He sighed, fingering his ring.

Patron Grandfather Tomphael had ordered Nimor to return to Ched Nasad and Menzoberranzan one final time, to look alternatively upon the scene of the Jaezred Chaulssin’s success and the scene of their failure. Nimor, of course, would obey the patron grandfather.

Besides, certain matters in Menzoberranzan—a certain bald matter and a certain half-devil matter—required his attention.

“Here is success,” Nimor said to himself, taking one final look around. “Now, on to failure.”

Without further ado, Nimor called upon the power of his shadow ring to remove him to the Fringe. When the magic took effect, ruined Ched Nasad vanished, replaced by a shadowy ghost of itself. Only those portions of the city that had been removed to the Plane of Shadow appeared substantive.

Nimor willed open a path along the Fringe to Menzoberranzan, and it opened before him. He stepped onto it, beat his wings, and took to the air. Unbound by the physical rules of the Prime Material Plane, the Shadow Fringe allowed rapid travel. Swirling ribbons of shadow surged past and through Nimor. The power of the ring and the nature of the Fringe turned a journey of days into a journey of less than an hour.

Presently, he found himself within the shadow correspondent of Menzoberranzan, a ghostly, dead image of spires, towers, and stalagmite structures. With an effort of will, he pierced the veil between the Fringe and the Prime and found himself hovering in darkness near the top of Menzoberranzan’s cavern. Darkness enshrouded him, rendering him invisible even to the otherwise discerning eyes of any drow who might look up. He gazed down on his failure.

The Jaezred Chaulssin had scried the city, to keep tabs on events even after Nimor had fled.

He knew what those scryings had shown: The forces that he had so meticulously marshaled to conquer Menzoberranzan were falling into disarray.

Vhok and his Scourged Legion were beginning to withdraw, fighting retreating actions through the caverns east of the fungus gardens. No doubt the tanarukks would flee back to their warrens under Hellgate Keep with their hides, if not their dignity, intact. Horgar and his ridiculous duergar forces would not be so fortunate. The duergar had left the rock of Tier Breche a pockmarked, melted, blackened waste, but they had failed to break through—Melee-Magthere, Arach-Tinilith, and Sorcere all remained in the hands in the Menzoberranyr. The battle there continued still. Explosions and blasts of magical energy denoted the ferocity of the ongoing fight.

Nimor knew it to be futile. Lolth had reawakened; the opportunity to conquer the city had passed.

The Spider Queen once again answered the prayers of her priestesses, and when Arach-Tinilith spat out her daughters and they bolstered the Menzoberranyr forces with their newly regained spells, the duergar would be routed. Few of them would ever leave Menzoberranzan. Unlike Vhok, Horgar was too blind or too stupid to see it.

Nimor let his eyes linger long on the high plateau of Tier Breche, in particular on the soaring spires of Sorcere. Somewhere within, he knew, was Gromph Baenre. Thinking of the Archmage caused Nimor’s blood to seethe. Gromph had destroyed the lichdrow Dyrr— the bazaar was still a smoking ruin from their spell battle—and had been instrumental in thwarting the entire invasion.

Nimor both hated and respected him.

Nimor beat his wings and looked to his right, to the great spire of Narbondel. Its base glowed red in the darkness, a defiant beacon proclaiming to the whole of the Underdark that Menzoberranzan remained standing. Nimor wondered if Gromph Baenre himself had lit the beacon’s fires.

With startling suddenness, Nimor’s emotional control slipped. An unbearable wave of frustration washed over him. He clenched his fists and swallowed down the roar that threatened to escape his throat.

He had fought well, schemed his best, and nearly—within a rothe’s hair—conquered the most powerful drow city in the Underdark. The trophy of Ched Nasad would have paled in comparison to the jewel of a conquered Menzoberranzan.

Of course, he knew that nearly was insufficient, almost a paltry substitute for success, both for him and for the Jaezred Chaulssin. Nearly won him nothing. Nearly had lost him his place of honor as the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin.

That was the lesson the patron grandfather had wanted him to learn in returning—Nimor was to taste of failure, to gag on its flavor so much that he would never allow it to happen again. A tiny amount of humility took root in him and tempered his habitual arrogance.

You promised to cleanse Menzoberranzan of the stench of Lolth, Patron Grandfather Mauzzkyl had said to him. Have you done that?

Nimor had answered truthfully—he had not done it. He had only nearly done it, and the bitter taste of nearly had all but choked him.

There will be other opportunities, Patron Father Tomphael had promised. If you learn wisdom.

Lesson learned, Tomphael, Nimor thought.

He fixed his gaze on Tier Breche, where the battle still raged, on the quiet Donigarten, where drow soldiers prowled amongst the giant mushrooms. He thought of Horgar, of the little princeling’s failings...

Nimor had a lesson of his own to teach. Horgar would be his student.

With his mind made up, he looked down upon Menzoberranzan a final time. He stared at the soaring, elegant spires, the tall towers, the twisting architecture of the great manor houses—all of it a silent testimony to the unbearable arrogance of the Menzoberranyr. Perhaps they too had learned to temper their arrogance with humility.

Or perhaps not.

Nimor looked down on the city and offered it a grudging nod of respect.

It had beaten him.

This time.

With a minor exercise of will, he moved into the bleakness of the Shadow Fringe.

The chwidencha shaft dropped down a spearcast before ending in a round chamber from which a wide horizontal tunnel extended. Old webs covered the walls, and the dried husks of dismembered spiders lay cast about here and there, no doubt the remains of the chwidenchas’ meals. Jeggred kicked at them absently. The dry air stank of must and decay.

Pharaun lowered himself to the ground beside Quenthel. Her whip flicked its tongues at him.

Danifae and Jeggred stood apart, eyeing them. Danifae ran her fingers over her holy symbol.

Pharaun could not help but think that not all of them would be returning to the surface. As a precaution, he still held the piece of flakefungus hidden in his palm.

To Quenthel, he said, “The tunnel is sealed above us, Mistress.”

She nodded, looked down the horizontal tunnel, and said, “We will continue on for a bit longer. Find a more suitable spot to rest.”

No one protested, and Quenthel started down the tunnel. The rest of them fell in beside her.

The cavern was wide enough to accommodate the four of them walking abreast, and they did exactly that. None wanted to show their backs to the others.

Here and there, smaller tunnels branched off of the main corridor and extended away into the darkness. Pharaun wondered if all of Lolth’s plane was hollowed out with tunnels, possessed of an Underdark of its own. He thought they might have escaped the chwidencha and the Teeming only to find themselves facing something worse in the depths.

Nothing for it now, he thought, but he kept his hearing attuned for sound from ahead.

He heard nothing other than Jeggred’s respiration and the scrape of their boots over the rock.

The draegloth shouldered aside any carcasses in their way, but they encountered nothing alive.

With the chwidencha pack on the surface, it appeared that at least the main horizontal tunnel was empty.

After a short time, they came to another roughly round chamber, one littered with more desiccated spider husks and the hollowed out molt shells of the chwidencha. The shells, each as thin as fine parchment, looked like dozens of chwidencha ghosts. Jeggred clutched one of them by its leg, and the entire shell crumbled away in his grasp.

A few small pools of green acid dotted the chamber and bubbled smoke and stink into the air.

It vented through cracks in the low ceiling. A natural archway in the far side of the chamber opened onto another large tunnel.

“Perhaps here, Mistress?” Pharaun ventured. “We are not vulnerable to attack from behind”—at least not from the chwidencha, he thought—“and can set a watch in the tunnel ahead. A rest would allow me time to study my spellbooks and replace those spells I’ve cast.”

He knew that it would also allow the priestesses, after a brief Reverie, to refresh their own spells from Lolth. He could use the benefit of one or two of Quenthel’s healing spells.

Quenthel eyed him with cool disdain, obviously displeased that he had offered yet another “suggestion.” Still, she said, “Here is as good a place as any. We will eat, rest, and pray to Lolth.”

Hearing no protests, Pharaun found a choice rock and collapsed atop it.

“Jeggred will take the first watch,” Quenthel said.

The draegloth, crumbling yet another chwidencha molt, looked to Danifae, who nodded.

“Very well,” Jeggred said to Quenthel and stalked across the chamber to take a position at the mouth of the tunnel before them.

Quenthel watched him go with anger in her eyes. When he seemed situated, she said, “Not there, nephew. Up the tunnel a ways. It does me no good to learn of danger after it is already upon us.”

Jeggred offered her an irritated growl and looked again to Danifae. The former battle-captive hesitated.

“Are you concerned to be alone with me?” Quenthel asked Danifae, letting contempt drip from her tone.

Danifae looked at Quenthel with a challenge in her startling gray eyes. “I have yet to see a reason why I should be,” she replied.

Quenthel smiled. Still holding Danifae’s attention, she waved dismissively at Jeggred and said, “Be off, nephew.”

Jeggred held his ground until Danifae gestured him up the tunnel with a flick of her fingers.

“I will not be far,” Jeggred warned, for the benefit of everyone.

Even after the draegloth had prowled up the tunnel, Quenthel continued to stare at Danifae.

The former battle-captive studiously ignored Quenthel, examined her wounds, shook out her gear, and stripped down to a tight-fitting tunic and breeches. Scratches, cuts, and bruises from the battle marred her skin but did nothing to diminish her attractiveness.

Pharaun again was struck by the sheer physicality of the woman. Men had fought and died for things much less beautiful than Danifae’s form.

It was unfortunate she would have to die. Hopefully, soon.

After a time, Quenthel too began to tend to her gear while her serpents eyed Danifae. Pharaun took that as a truce and settled in himself.

Each of the three rested as far from the others as the chamber allowed, their backs pressed against the web-covered tunnel wall. They ate in silence from the stores Valas Hune had procured for them long ago and brooded in silence amongst the chwidencha molts.

To occupy himself, Pharaun inventoried and organized his spell components in the many pockets of his piwafwi. Afterward he took one of his traveling spellbooks from the extradimensional space contained in his pack and replaced the spells he had cast by committing to memory the arcane words to new spells. Thinking that he might have to use his magic against Jeggred and Danifae, he chose his spells with care.

By the time he had finished, both priestesses had closed their eyes and entered Reverie.

Pharaun assumed that both had surreptitiously cast alarm spells around them to warn of anyone approaching too near. He activated the power of his Sorcere ring and saw the soft red glow of a ward spell in the area around both priestesses. He smiled.

For creatures of chaos, he thought, drow certainly were predictable.

Unlike their mistress, Quenthel’s whip serpents remained awake and alert. Two of them—K’Sothra and Yngoth, Pharaun believed—extended outward and kept their eyes on the tunnel in which Jeggred hulked. Two others kept their eyes on Danifae, while one of them, the female Qorra, kept her eyes on Pharaun.

Vaguely offended that he warranted only one watch-serpent, Pharaun stuck his tongue out at Qorra. She flicked her own in answer.

Pharaun ignored it, stretched out his legs, and settled more comfortably on his rock. He was tired but not yet ready to enter Reverie. For a while, he watched the rise and fall of Danifae’s breasts. He did not allow himself to fantasize about her overmuch—he knew how well she played male lust to her advantage. Besides, it was only a matter of time before Quenthel disposed of her.

Pharaun finally decided that he too should spend an hour or two in Reverie. But first, he would cast a ward on his person similar to that which the priestesses had cast. It would alert him should any creature get closer than five paces.

Just as he began to whisper the arcane words to the spell, Pharaun felt a familiar tingle in his mind. He recognized it immediately, and a more pronounced tingle coursed through his flesh. He aborted the casting, delighted that the alu-fiend had tracked them down again.

Well met, Master Mizzrym, Aliisza purred, her mental voice like velvet in his brain.

Despite himself, Pharaun grinned like a first-year apprentice at the gentle touch of her mind on his. While he knew she had her own reasons for tracking him and his companions, he could not deny that he enjoyed her attentions.

Aliisza, my dear, he projected back. We do meet in the strangest locales.

The times are strange, dearest, Aliisza replied. And strange times make for strange bedfellows.

One can only hope, he answered, and grinned still more widely.

Quenthel’s watch serpent hissed at his smile. Pharaun let it fade from his face, turned, and looked past the serpent.

Up the forward tunnel a stone’s throw, he saw the outline of Jeggred’s muscular form. The draegloth sat in a crouch, watching up the tunnel, his broad back to Pharaun and rising and falling with each stinking breath. Pharaun could not tell whether the draegloth was awake or asleep. Unlike the drow, Jeggred required actual sleep.

Quenthel and Danifae both were in Reverie, though both wore scowls. Pharaun was pleased.

He would have only to deal with Quenthel’s whip serpents.

The priestesses you accompany rest ill at ease, Aliisza said.

It is a racial trait, he answered, sarcastic as always.

They simply need a little something to tire them out first, she said.

A little something? Pharaun answered, playing at being offended.

Aliisza laughed.

What is the Yor’thae? she asked.

The question gave Pharaun a start, but long practice kept it from his face and his surface thoughts. How did Aliisza know anything of the Yor’thae?

Apparently sensing his agitation, the serpent watching Pharaun uttered a soft hiss. Pharaun pretended not to have heard it and settled more comfortably onto his rock.

How do you know that word? he asked.

She let her mental fingers caress his brain playfully. The Lower Planes resound with it. It’s in the wind, the screams of tortured souls, the rush of boiling water. What is it, dear heart?

Pharaun heard none but the usual guile in her tone so he answered her truthfully: The Yor’thae is Lolth’s Chosen.

Oooh, Aliisza said. Which is it, the pretty one or the big one with the whip?

Pharaun could only shake his head.

Maybe it’s neither, Aliisza said.

To that Pharaun made no comment, though her statement disquieted him. Her words too closely echoed his own recent thoughts. He decided to change the subject.

Where are you? he asked.

I am invisible. Look around and find me, she answered with a mental smile. If you do, you’ll win a prize.

With a simple exercise of his will, Pharaun attuned his vision to see invisible objects and creatures—an effect that he had made permanent to his person. Casually, so as not to alarm the whip serpent whose eyes still glared at him, he looked down the tunnel opposite the one in which Jeggred sat, back the way they had come. There, he saw her.

You win, she said.

Aliisza leaned suggestively against the tunnel wall, back arched, arms back, batlike wings furled so as to reveal her lean body—the sensuous curve of her small breasts, the length of her legs, the turn of her sleek hips. Her long ebony tresses flowed down her back. She was looking at him and smiling. Pharaun found her small fangs more alluring than he cared to admit.

Greetings, lady, he said. I’ll just be a moment.

It is ungentlemanly to make a lady wait, she said, a smile in her voice. You will have to make it up to me.

Again, Aliisza, he answered, one can only hope.

Her giggle managed to sound both girlish and sexually provocative all at once. He found it thrilling. He looked at the serpent that was eyeing him. It flicked its tongue again.

He leaned back on his rock and closed his eyes as though preparing for Reverie. Fortunately, he knew an illusion that required no material component.

Moving only his fingers and whispering under his breath, he cast a sophisticated glamour. The spell affected the entire area in which he reclined. To the serpent, it would appear that Pharaun remained on his rock deep in Reverie, while the real Pharaun could do whatever he wished in the affected area under cover of the illusion.

After completing the spell, he looked at the serpent—Qorra showed no sign of noticing anything amiss—and climbed silently to his feet. The serpent’s gaze remained fixed on the illusion, on the false Pharaun.

Smiling, Pharaun pulled from his pocket a strip of fleece and whispered the words to a spell that rendered him invisible—a necessary precaution, because when he left the affected area of his spell, the illusionary image would no longer screen him. He knew that Aliisza’s demon blood allowed her to see invisible creatures so she would have no problem seeing him.

In his mind, Aliisza giggled again, and the sound sent a charge through him. Strange that the presence of a demon, albeit a beautiful one, brought him such pleasure.

Clever, dearest, she said.

He started quietly down the tunnel toward her, leaving behind him an image of himself reclined on a rock, lost in Reverie.

My, but you look horrid! she said as he drew near.

He knew. He had been through the Shadow Deep, the Abyss, and the Demonweb Pits, all without bathing. He had used cantrips to mitigate his stink and keep his clothes mended, but the minor spells could do only so much.

The journey has been a hard one, he replied. Perhaps you would enjoy an illusory Pharaun more? He jerked his thumb back up the corridor.

No, dearest, she said and stretched languidly, to show her body to best effect. Her green eyes danced over him suggestively. She held out her arms. I’ll take the real thing.

The moment he got within arm’s reach, he took her in his arms. Her wings unfurled and enfolded them, her perfume intoxicated him, and her skin and curves stirred him. He allowed himself a moment of pleasure, greedily ran his hands over the smooth skin of her body, then—with great effort—pushed her to arm’s length.

How did you find us? he asked. Why are you back?

She pouted and her wings fluttered. Such questions, Master Mizzrym! I found you by looking.

You are not hard to locate. As for why I’m back... Her face grew serious and she looked directly into his eyes. I wanted to say good-bye.

To Pharaun’s surprise, a pit opened in his stomach. Good-bye? He let his fingertip trace a line along her hip.

She looked away for a moment. I fear we will not see each other again, dear heart, and I needed to look on you one last time.

He did not believe a word of that last, though he very much wanted to.

You’ve finished your charge and now return to Vhok’s embrace? Is that it? He was surprised by the bitterness that leaked into his tone. His hands on her body grew less gentle.

She smiled, reached up, and ran a long-nailed finger down his jaw-line. You are so jealous, my mage. No, I will not return to Kaanyr. I have told him all that I was charged to tell, and now I am done with him. At least for now. I have grown interested in a different kind of man.

Pharaun ignored the implicit compliment. What did you tell him of us? he asked.

Everything, she replied. That was my charge.

Pharaun had expected nothing different, but the answer still pained him distantly.

If you will not return to him and your charge is complete, why would we not see each other again? he asked her. The question betrayed a certain weakness, and he hated himself for asking it, but he could not help himself.

She smiled, and her eyes grew as sad as her demonic blood allowed. Because I do not think you will survive what is coming, she answered.

For a moment, he could think of nothing to say. Her candor surprised him. Finally he managed a smile.

What is coming?

She shook her head and said, I don’t know. But this plane is dangerous and stinks of... something.

He dropped his hands from her. You are mistaken, he said.

She looked at him in a way she had not done before. Perhaps I am. I can always hope. But if I am not, may I have something to remember you by? A token of my gallant drow mage?

Pharaun wondered if a token freely given was what Aliisza really was after. He knew what a skilled spellcaster could do with such a prize. A part of him wished it were otherwise, but he had seen through her.

Before that, tell me what is happening in Menzoberranzan, he demanded.

Aliisza frowned, as though the fate of Pharaun’s city was an afterthought. It stands, she replied. Lolth’s power has returned to the priestesses. Kaanyr is in retreat, and the duergar soon will be.

Pharaun felt a surge of relief at the news. Menzoberranzan still stood.

Odd, he thought, that he felt such attachment to a place when he felt no such attachment to any of the persons in it.

Distantly, he wondered if Gromph had survived the siege. If not, “Archmage Pharaun Mizzrym” sounded pleasing. And since House Baenre would be selecting Gromph’s replacement, he had all the more reason to ally himself closely with Quenthel.

A memento? Aliisza prodded. Something small. A lock of your hair?

Pharaun smiled at her, a hard smile. No, Aliisza. No token. I think I’ll keep all of me to me.

She took his meaning; her brow furrowed in genuine anger.

You misunderstand, she protested. I— She looked over his shoulder and behind him. It seems your absence has been noted. Farewell, beloved.

With that, Aliisza kissed him as though she never would again and vanished, teleporting away without a sound and leaving him staring at the wall. The smell of her perfume and the remembrance of her last word lingered in the air.

Before Pharaun could do anything further, his invisible flesh erupted in purple flames. Faerie fire. A flutter went through his gut.

The stench of rotting meat overwhelmed the last lingering aroma of Aliisza—Jeggred’s breath.

Pharaun quickly rehearsed an excuse in his mind, even while he thought through the incantation that would trigger one of his more powerful spells, a spell that required the utterance of only a single word.

Grabbing two fingers’ full of web from the wall, he dispelled his invisibility spell, turned, and found that his nose nearly touched Jeggred’s heaving chest. The draegloth had moved behind him with the silence of an assassin.

“Jegg—”

With breathtaking speed, Jeggred grabbed him by the throat with one of his fighting claws and lifted him from the ground until they were face to face. Pharaun gagged—partially from his proximity to the draegloth’s breath, partially from the clawed hand squeezing his windpipe.

“A spell to cover your absence?” the draegloth asked, nodding back at the chamber where the illusory Pharaun still reclined. Jeggred sniffed the air thoughtfully. “What is it you’re doing down here, mage?” His red eyes narrowed. He extended his arm and slammed Pharaun against the cave wall.

Pharaun’s magical piwafwi and rings prevented the impact from cracking his ribs, prevented even Jeggred’s incredible strength from closing his throat, but only just.

“Release... me,” Pharaun demanded.

His anger was rising, partially at Jeggred, partially at the fact that he feared he might have mistaken Aliisza’s motives. Still, he considered it beneath his dignity to flail about, so he remained still.

Jeggred squeezed Pharaun’s throat harder and held his other fighting claw before Pharaun’s face. With his inner, human hands, the draegloth took hold of Pharaun’s arms by the wrists, presumably to prevent him from casting any spell that might require gestures to complete.

Pharaun tested their strength for a moment and found them more than a match for his own.

Scraps of old meat hung between Jeggred’s yellow fangs.

“She is manipulating you,” Pharaun croaked, and both of them knew he meant Danifae.

“No,” Jeggred said and sneered. “She’s manipulating you. And my aunt.” He spat the last word as though it tasted foul.

“You’re a fool, Jeggred,” Pharaun managed. “And time will show it.”

The draegloth exhaled a cloud of vileness into his face and said, “If so, you will not be alive to see it, because you, wizard, are out of time. This has been long in coming.”

Jeggred looked back up the cavern to see if either Danifae or Quenthel had stirred. Neither had. Pharaun’s illusionary image sat on its rock in blissful Reverie.

To Pharaun’s surprise, the serpents of Quenthel’s whip—all of them—stared silently down the tunnel, watching the confrontation.

Pharaun understood it then. If the serpents were watching the confrontation, then Quenthel was watching it too, at least indirectly. She wanted to see what Pharaun would do when confronted with her nephew. Another test. He was growing tired of tests.

Jeggred, of course, saw nothing other than the opportunity to kill an irritating rival. With an unexplainable illusion of Pharaun sitting in the campsite, the draegloth probably believed that he could concoct any story he wanted about Pharaun’s treachery.

Jeggred leaned in close and his rancid breath made Pharaun wince.

“You see it now, don’t you?” the draegloth asked. “Go ahead and scream. You’ll be dead before they awaken. I’ll explain it as the execution of a traitor and feed on your heart. My aunt will shout, but she’ll dare nothing more.”

Pharaun could not help but smirk. Jeggred truly was a dolt. He had all the subtlety of a warhammer. It surprised Pharaun that the draegloth possessed any drow blood at all, so inept was he at scheming. Of course, having met and killed Belshazu, Pharaun knew that Jeggred’s demon bloodline was something less than spectacular.

“Your death amuses you?” Jeggred whispered, leaning in close.

Pharaun twisted his head to the side so he could more easily speak.

“No, you do.”

With that, he whispered a single word of power, one of the most powerful he knew.

The arcane force in the word hit Jeggred like a titan’s maul. Foul breath blew from the draegloth’s lungs, and he released Pharaun—who managed to keep his feet when he hit the ground—staggered, uttered a spit-fouled stutter, and sank to his knees.

Pharaun knew the word of stunning would leave the draegloth incapacitated for only a short time. He knew too that the spell likely would not ordinarily affect Jeggred at all, but the draegloth’s battle with the chwidencha had left him weakened and vulnerable.

Of course, Jeggred knew no more of that than he did of Quenthel’s tacit permission to Pharaun to teach the oaf a lesson.

With exaggerated dignity, Pharaun smoothed his piwafwi and straightened the stiff collar of his shirt. When he noticed that Jeggred’s claw had torn a slash into the chest of his shirt, his anger burned hotter still.

“Oaf,” he said and cuffed Jeggred in the head. It felt good. He cuffed him twice more.

The draegloth sat on his knees before him, drooling, moaning softly.

Pharaun looked up the tunnel to see ten slitted eyes still watching in silence. He knelt down to look into Jeggred’s slack face.

Pharaun thought of offering the draegloth the excuse he had prepared—I was gathering material components. The illusion was to avoid alarming anyone who might stir in their sleep and find me gone. The invisibility is one of my ordinary precautions when acting alone—but decided against it.

Quenthel wanted to test Pharaun and at the same time teach a lesson to Jeggred. Pharaun would push it as far as the high priestess wanted it to go.

He took Jeggred’s slack face in his hand and said, “Remember this moment, demonspawn. This is me doing better than fire, not so? If I desired it, I could drag you to one of these acid pools and dip your head in. Imagine that, dolt. The spell I used to incapacitate you was of middling power. If I wished you dead, I could strip the flesh from your bones in an instant, or stop your heart with a word.” He punched the draegloth in the face again, more angry at himself over Aliisza than at Jeggred. He decided that he would burn out Jeggred’s eyes before killing him. He started to cast—

But the crack of a whip froze him.

“Master Mizzrym!” Quenthel called, her voice sharp.

With effort, Pharaun controlled his anger. He leaned in close to Jeggred’s vile face and said, “Serve your mistress and I’ll serve mine. We’ll see who has the right of it at the end of this. Meanwhile, I’ll place a contingency spell on my person. Perhaps you do not know what ‘contingency’ means? It means that if you put one of your stinking hands on me again—”

“Mage!” Quenthel called again. Pharaun licked his lips, looked back up the tunnel, and slowly stood. Lesson learned, apparently. He wondered if he had passed her test.

Quenthel stood over the illusionary Pharaun, looking down the tunnel at the confrontation between the real mage and Jeggred. Danifae stood behind and beside her.

“Explain yourself,” Quenthel ordered.

Pharaun held up the webs and recited the lie without hesitation: “I was gathering material components, Mistress. I used an illusion of myself to avoid alarming your serpents, lest they disturb your sleep.”

At that, the serpents hissed, and Qorra drifted up near Quenthel’s ear and hissed something.

The high priestess cocked her head and nodded.

Danifae’s hooded gaze went from Quenthel, to the stunned and drooling Jeggred, to Pharaun.

Despite her obvious vulnerability at that moment, she showed no fear. The Master of Sorcere wondered if Quenthel would take the opportunity to kill the former battle-captive.

“Not this,” the Baenre priestess said. She passed her hand through the illusion, which vanished, then she pointed the haft of her whip at Jeggred. “Explain that.”

Pharaun looked down on the draegloth, who seemed at last to be recovering from the effects of the word of power. All four of his hands reflexively clenched and unclenched. His moans grew louder, and his drool pooled on the tunnel floor.

“Ah, that,” Pharaun said, and aimed a smile at Danifae. “Without the two of you available to mediate, your nephew and I found ourselves engaged in a … doctrinal dispute. I’m afraid the force of my arguments has left him stunned.” He patted the draegloth’s head the way he might a pet lizard. “My apologies, Jeggred. All is forgiven now though, not so? We’ll simply agree to disagree.”

Jeggred managed a growl, and his fighting hands pawed at the hem Pharaun’s piwafwi.

“Yes, well... ahem,” Pharaun said, and backed up a step. “There we have it. Friends again.”

He walked back up the tunnel and bowed before Quenthel.

“Forgive me for disturbing your Reverie, Mistress,” he said.

Quenthel stood silent for a moment before saying, “You did not disturb me, Master Mizzrym.”

Hearing those words, Pharaun understood that he had passed her test. He smirked at Danifae and called to mind another spell as he watched Jeggred come back to himself. Just in case.

The effect of the word of power vanished quickly. Jeggred’s breath came hard, and his hands dug furrows into the stone. He climbed to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and fixed his baleful stare on Pharaun.

“I will tear your head from your shoulders!” he roared as he stalked up the tunnel.

“Stop,” Quenthel commanded but to no effect.

It was Danifae’s raised hand and soft word that halted Jeggred’s charge. He stood in the tunnel, staring hate and rage into Pharaun.

“All things in due time,” Danifae said and offered the mage a smirk of her own.

“Indeed,” Quenthel answered, eyeing her nephew coldly.

Pharaun forced a smile, just to irk the draegloth, though when he looked at Quenthel and Danifae, he heard Aliisza’s troubling words in his mind. Maybe neither of them was the Yor’thae.

Nimor found Crown Prince Horgar at his field headquarters—a large, rough-walled, stalagmite-dotted cavern in the Dark Dominion not far from the battle lines at Tier Breche. The chamber stank of sweat, blood and the thick smoke from stonefire bombs. Nimor hung near the ceiling of the cavern in his half-dragon form, invisible by virtue of one of his spells.

Squads of duergar streamed in and out of the cavern, coming and going from the battle, their blocky armor ringing, their dusky skin smoke-blackened and bloody. Some were still enlarged—duergar possessed an innate magical ability to double their size—so Nimor presumed they had just come from the battle.

They spoke to each other in their inelegant language, their voices deep and gravelly. In the conversations, Nimor caught the ripple of a faint undercurrent of fear. Perhaps the duergar forces at last had encountered the spells of a priestess of Lolth. If so, even the tiny intellects encased in their small bald heads must have understood the implications.

Two elderly clerics, each as bent and twisted as a demon’s heart, tended the wounded. Nimor didn’t know the name of the deity they served and did not care. Occasional explosions in the distance—stonefire bombs and spells, no doubt—occasionally shook the cavern and rained rock dust on the inhabitants.

Prince Horgar stood to one side of the table, bent over a low stone table, looking at a makeshift map of the approaches to Tier Breche and issuing orders to two of his commanders who stood to either side of him. After a few moments of exchanged words, nods, and gestures at the map, the two bald commanders offered agreement with whatever Horgar said, gave him a salute—by thumping their pick hafts against the cavern floor—and stalked off.

Horgar stood alone over the table. He stroked his chin, staring at the map, lost in thought.

Horgar’s scarred bodyguard stood near the Prince. He held a bare warhammer, but his slack stance indicated that he expected no threat to his lord. Nimor smiled without mirth and flexed his claws. With the keen senses gifted him through his dragon heritage, Nimor studied the chamber.

Duergar also possessed an innate ability to turn invisible. Nimor wanted no surprises.

As he had expected, he sensed no one in the cavern other than those duergar he could already see.

Horgar stood upright and stared at the cavern wall, no doubt still wrestling with some problem or strategy that plagued his pathetic little mind. He put a hand to his axe haft and rubbed the back of his bald head.

Calling upon the power of his brooch, Nimor levitated down until he stood directly behind the unsuspecting Horgar. The little dwarf was muttering in his awkward tongue.

Lesser races, Nimor thought with contempt.

Nimor might have said something to Horgar before killing him, might have shown himself, might have evoked fear, but he did none of those things. He was the former Anointed Blade, an assassin without peer. When he killed, he did so without fanfare.

Moving with a rapidity and ease born of long practice, he reached around Horgar and tore open the dwarf’s throat. He turned visible the moment he struck.

The hole in the prince’s throat sprayed blood across the map, across the cavern wall. Horgar gagged and fell across the table, his muttering becoming a fading, wet gurgle. The prince tried to turn to see his attacker, but Nimor had split his throat so thoroughly that the muscles of the gray dwarf’s neck would not function.

Nimor grabbed Horgar by the top of his head and jerked his face around, partially to let Horgar see who had killed him and partially to ensure that the crown prince was beyond the ability of the duergar clerics to help. Horgar’s eyes went wide, and Nimor satisfied himself that the gaze had flashed recognition even as the duergar’s life blood pumped from the gash in his throat. The prince’s gnarled body began to spasm in its death throes. The clerics would be unable to save him.

Shouts of surprise and rage erupted around Nimor—the stomping of boots, the clank of armor, the ring of weapons. He looked up to see duergar charging him from all sides, rushing to their fallen prince. Some were enlarging as they charged, growing taller and broader with each step.

Others called upon their innate ability to turn invisible and vanished from his sight.

No matter, Nimor smiled, swallowed, triggered a reaction in his lungs, and exhaled a cloud of billowing, viscous shadows that nearly filled the whole of the cavern. He poured all of his pent up frustration, anger, and shame into the exhalation. The cloud of darkness engulfed the onrushing duergar and siphoned energy from their souls. Nimor heard them shouting in pain, cursing, shrieking. He stood unharmed in the midst of the cloud, grinning at the death around him.

The shadows dissipated quickly. Duergar lay scattered around the cavern, some of them dead, some of them dying, some of them weakened so much that they could no longer stand. A few, perhaps, would live.

Unless a drow patrol happened upon them.

Nimor located Horgar’s scarred bodyguard. The duergar lay to Nimor’s right, still holding his warhammer. The gray dwarf’s eyes were unfocused, and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. Nimor stepped to him, knelt, and looked him in the face.

“You should have chosen your master with more care,” he said and slit the guard’s throat.

He found the death pleasingly cathartic. It always did him good to kill.

Without another word, Nimor rose, shifted back into the Shadow Fringe, and left the cavern of dead and dying duergar behind him. He wanted to see Kaanyr Vhok before he returned to Chaulssin.

Inthracis walked the flesh-lined lower halls of Corpsehaven. The walls squirmed in his wake.

Nisviim, his jackal-headed arcanaloth lieutenant, walked beside him.

The screams of mortal souls sounded in the distance, audible through the walls. No doubt some of his mezzoloths were feeding soul larvae to his canoloth pets.

“Shall I sound the muster for the Regiment, Lord?” Nisviim asked.

Despite the arcanaloth’s muzzle and overlarge canines, his voice and diction were impeccable.

His heavy robes swooshed with each step. He toyed with one of the two magical rings on his hairy fingers as he spoke.

“Soon, Nisviim,” Inthracis answered, “but first we must attend to a small matter in my laboratory.”

The arcanaloth cocked his head with curiosity but kept his questions to himself.

“Very well, Lord,” he said.

Nisviim was as skilled an enchanter as Inthracis was a necromancer. Ordinarily, an arcanaloth of Nisviim’s power would not have been content to serve as a second to Inthracis, but Inthracis had long ago learned Nisviim’s true name. With it, he kept Nisviim obedient and subservient. The only alternative to service for Nisviim was pain.

They approached the flesh-and-bone door that led to one of Inthracis’s alchemical laboratories. Two hulking, round-bodied, four-armed dergholoths stood silent guard outside the door, both of them dead, both of them animated by Inthracis’s spells. Recognizing their master, the guardian dergholoths made no move to stop Inthracis’s advance.

Inthracis telepathically projected the password to suspend the wards on his door. The doors flared green as the wards dispelled. Decaying hands reached from the jambs to swing the portal open. The stink of rot, pleasant to Inthracis, wafted into the hallway.

Inthracis and Nisviim walked through the dergholoths and entered. Corpsehaven’s dead pulled the door closed behind them.

Animated hands, arms, and claws crawled the floor of the laboratory—the aftereffects of some of Inthracis’s experiments. All of them scrabbled out of the ultroloth’s path. Several immobilized and magically silenced barbed devils lay on tables, all of them partially dissected. Beakers and braziers covered the multitude of bone workbenches. The handkerchief with which Inthracis had daubed Vhaeraun’s blood soaked in an enchanted beaker filled with shadow essence. A bound fire mephit chained to the beaker held his tiny, flaming hand under the glass. Inthracis hoped to turn the blood into a distillate strongly resistant to Shadow Magic.

“Follow, Nisviim,” he said.

They crossed the laboratory to the opposite wall, where Inthracis spoke a word of power. The corpses in the wall rearranged themselves at its utterance, squirmed wetly aside, and formed an archway. A small, secret, heavily warded chamber lay beyond. With a mentally projected series of words, Inthracis temporarily deactivated the wards.

The ultroloth walked through, as did his lieutenant.

The arcanaloth believed that he had never before seen the chamber, but Inthracis knew better.

Nisviim had been in the chamber many times, but he remembered none of them.

Within the room, reclined in a clear case of glassteel, was Inthracis’s body. Or at least one of them. As a matter of prudence, he kept at all times at least one clone of himself in temporal stasis. Were his current body to die, his soul, and his memories and knowledge, would immediately inhabit the clone. Upon being released from stasis, the clone would live; Inthracis would live.

He had been through three cloned bodies already, and the process had served him well. He’d died under devil claws before Dis’s gates in battle with the forces of Dispater, and he’d been consumed by a caustic ooze on the fungus-filled thirty-fourth layer of the Abyss.

“A clone, Lord,” Nisviim observed.

Inthracis pushed aside the memories of his earlier deaths and nodded. The time had come.

Without preamble, he spoke aloud Nisviim’s true name: “Heed me, Gorgalisin.”

Instantly, Nisviim’s body went slack, his eyes vacant. The arcanaloth stood perfectly still, as much an animated corpse as the dergholoths outside the laboratory. At that moment, Inthracis could have commanded Nisviim to do anything and the arcanaloth would have done it without question. Indeed, had he desired it, Inthracis could have used the invocation of Nisviim’s true name to wrack the arcanaloth’s soul or stop his heart.

He did not desire it, of course. A bound, named arcanaloth was too valuable an asset to waste with an amusing death.

Instead, Inthracis said, “In the event that you gain knowledge of my death or if I do not return to Corpsehaven within a fortnight of this day, you will enter this chamber—” and Inthracis telepathically projected into Nisviim’s mind the words to bypass the wards of his laboratory and the secret clone chamber—“and dispel the stasis on this body. Thereafter, you will return to your quarters and forget that any of this ever occurred. Nod if you understand.”

Nisviim nodded.

“Return now to your quarters,” Inthracis said, “and let slip from your consciousness all that has transpired during the last hour. Thereafter, sound the muster and summon the regiment to the Assembly Hall.”

Nisviim nodded, turned, and walked slowly from the chamber.

Inthracis watched him go, content that even if he died in combat with the drow priestesses, or if Vhaeraun betrayed and murdered him, he would live again.

In a thoughtful mood, he studied his hand, compared it to that of the clone in stasis. He wondered for a few heartbeats as to the nature of identity. Was the vivified clone still him? Was Nisviim still Nisviim when commanded by his truename?

For a moment, Inthracis felt as much a construct as Corpsehaven, no more truly alive than the dead who prowled its halls.