Storm of the Dead

CHAPTER 2

Halisstra cringed on the floor, watching Lolth. The goddess was in her spider form, her body a glossy black, her eyes a burning crimson. She dangled upside down from the ceiling of the web-choked room, slowly spinning in place.

Halisstra kept her head bowed-she didn't dare look fully upon the goddess. As she watched, the hourglass-shaped pattern on the underside of Lolth's abdomen shrank as her body contracted. A crack appeared beside each of Lolth's fang-tipped jaws. With a sharp cracking sound it enlarged until the skin peeled back from her face.

The goddess shuddered. She contracted still more, tearing the rest of her head free from its hard coating of chitin. Then the cracks spread to the abdomen, releasing her. Lolth tumbled onto the cold iron floor, leaving her molted skin behind. The empty husk, still dangling from its strand of web, twisted above her.

As she stood, Lolth assumed her hybrid form, sprouting a drow head. Her spider body was enormous.Though Halisstra stood twice the height of a drow, she could have walked upright between the goddess's spider legs with room to spare. The new skin on that body, all wrinkled and soft, glistened with the fluids that had loosened the old skin. As the abdomen pulsed, drawing breath, the skin smoothed and hardened to glossy black.

The goddess twisted her head back and forth to work out kinks in her neck and flicked damp hair out of her eyes. Her face was the epitome of beauty: velvet-smooth skin, delicately pointed ears, arched white eyebrows and kiss-pout lips.

Danifae's face. The visage the goddess had worn since consuming her chosen one.

Lolth's pale gray eyes shone with malice. "Battle-captive. I hunger. Attend me."

Halisstra crept forward, trying not to reveal the loathing she felt, and prostrated herself before the goddess. Lolth moved over her, claws clicking like sword points against the cold black iron of the floor. Her cheeks bulged as two palps emerged from them. These probed Halisstra's bare back, parting the matted hair that covered it. Lolth vomited.

As the digestive juices struck her back, Halisstra gasped. There was a moment of warmth-then pain comparable to being scalded. The pain bored deeper, down into the flesh of her back. She could feel her flesh dissolving, sloughing away from her ribs and backbone. Could smell the reek of bile and hear Lolth taking the half-digested flesh up in great, greedy slurps.

Halisstra collapsed, the sudden weight of her body snapping two of the eight tiny legs that protruded from her chest. Yet the pain of cracking chitin was nothing compared to the raw, open mess that was her back. She lay, barely conscious, the jaws protruding from her cheeks gnashing weakly as Lolth loomed over her, eating her fill.

Halisstra had once been a drow, heir to the throne of House Melarn of Ched Nasad. Now she was the Lady Penitent. Doomed to suffer forever at the hands of the female she had formerly commanded. Danifae had once been Halisstra's battle-captive, but now she was Lolth's chosen one. No longer a drow, she had become part of the Spider Queen.

The slurping noises stopped. Lolth laughed-a gloating sound that was all Danifae. Halisstra felt herself gathered up off the floor by arms-drow arms-and cradled against a woman's chest. Lolth had assumed drow form. Despite the disparity in their sizes, she rocked Halisstra back and forth like an infant, one hand caressing the half-dissolved flesh of Halisstra's back as it slowly regenerated. Then she kissed Halisstra-a long, brutal kiss. The kind a matron would force on a House boy.

Halisstra tore her mouth away and retched.

Lolth stood, dumping her to the floor. "Weakling," she spat.

Halisstra hung her head. Even after nearly five years, the word still stung.

Lolth strode in a circle around the room, her arms extended. Webs stuck to her skin, covering the body that had once been Danifae's in a layer of overlapping white filaments. With a snap of her fingers, she summoned tiny red spiders. These scurried back and forth, weaving the webs into a long white gown. When they were done, the spiders dangled from the hem and cuffs in a living fringe.

Huddled on the floor, Halisstra watched the goddess out of the corner of her eye, not daring to say what she was thinking. Before her fall from grace, Lolth had been the Weaver of Destiny. The goddess needed the help of arachnids to construct so much as a simple garment. Everything Lolth touched turned into a tangled mess; every web Halisstra had seen her spin had been lopsided and asymmetrical. As skewed in their design as the restless and confused mind of the Queen of Spiders herself.

Halisstra felt the prickle of flesh knitting back together as her muscles grew into place, and the stretch of new skin spreading across her back. When she was strong enough, she rose to her feet and waited for the goddess to speak.

"Do you know why I summoned you to my chamber, Halisstra?"

"To feed?"

The goddess laughed. "More than that. Guess again."

Halisstra felt her pulse quicken. It had been almost two years, by her rough reckoning, since Lolth had sealed her inside a cell, deep within her iron fortress. In all that time, she had removed Halisstra from the cell perhaps a dozen times, in order to feed. What new torment did the goddess have in mind this time?

"You've taken me out because…" Halisstra paused, searching for the most unlikely of answers-something that would amuse the goddess."… because you've decided to set me free?"

Lolth spun and clapped her hands together. "Exactly!" she cried. "I'm sending you away from the Demonweb Pits."

Halisstra prostrated herself, hiding the thrill of anticipation she felt. "How am I to serve you, Mistress?"

"Serve me?" Lolth tossed her head. "Think again, mortal."

Halisstra hesitated, uncertain of the goddess's meaning. During the time she'd done penitence to the queen of the Demonweb Pits, she had come to know Lolth as well as any mortal could. Even so, she had no idea which twisted path Lolth's mind was walking now. Anything, however, would be better than being locked away-practically forgotten-in a cell.

That imprisonment, the goddess had explained, had been Halisstra's punishment for helping to kill Selvetarm, the demigod who had been Lolth's champion. He had been slain-in the Demonweb Pits-by a priestess of Eilistraee, the Darksong Knight Cavatina. When all had seemed lost, Halisstra handed Cavatina the sword that made Selvetarm's death possible.

Halisstra had expected to be commended by Lolth for her "cunning" in aiding the Darksong Knight. The Spider Queen had intended for her champion to be slain; that's what she'd wanted all along. She'd gloated about Selvetarm's death afterward-spoken with glee about how his priests had thrown down their temples and scuttled back to her, like flies to a web.

Then she'd imprisoned Halisstra.

"Where are you sending me, Mistress?" Halisstra asked.

Lolth laughed, her lips emitting a gout of spiders. Then she waved a hand. The iron-walled room disappeared.

Halisstra found herself standing next to Lolth on a featureless, wind-blasted plain illuminated by a pale yellow sun. She tasted salt on her lips and squinted against the wind-borne grit that stung like shards of glass. The wind whipped her hair around, flicking it against her face. It tore at Lolth's web-garment, swiftly pulling it to pieces that streamed away on the wind.

One of these brushed against a mound of salt, its sticky filaments pulling a little of the salt away. A heartbeat later, the entire pile collapsed as something crouched under it suddenly rose. Enormous bat wings flicked open, and a shaggy head shook off the dust that obscured the face. Massive horns protruded straight out from the creature's head in the place where ears would normally be. His muzzle, when it opened in a lazy yawn, revealed row upon row of jagged teeth.

A balor.

The demon cleared his wide, flat nose in a violent exhalation that sent a gout of flame out of each nostril, and spat a gob of sticky black tar onto the salt-encrusted ground. He folded his wings over his shoulders and lazily scratched his blood-red chest as he stared at the Spider Queen.

The wind died. A palpable tension filled the stillness.

"Lolth," the demon said. "At last." Each word released a puff of oily black smoke.

The demon had a sword strapped to his back; his flame-shaped blade glowed white-hot. Smoke curled lazily from the place where the weapon touched a strip of black hair that ran down the demon's back, hair that curled around his buttocks to his groin. Within this dark tangle was something bulbous and red.

"After so many centuries, have you at last come to play?" the balor hissed.

Halisstra felt fingers lock in her hair.

"No," Lolth said, her voice a lazy purr. "But this one has." She shoved Halisstra forward.

Halisstra gasped as she realized what was happening. Lolth didn't have a new mission in mind for her. She was discarding Halisstra like a toy she'd grown bored of playing with. "Mistress, no!" Halisstra gasped. "I can still serve you. Pl-"

Lolth's harsh laughter cut her off. "The Lady Penitent," she mocked. "Pleading? You should know better than that by now."

"Mistress," Halisstra whimpered, "let me prove myself. I'll do anything."

"Of course you will," Lolth said, her voice as smooth as freshly spun silk. "We both already know that, don't we?"

The demon moved closer, his clawed feet crunching against the salt-encrusted ground. He pointed a finger at Halisstra, then dropped his hand. Compelled, she fell to her knees. With the demon so close, she realized that he was not much taller than she was; had they stood side by side, their eyes would almost be level. Yet the raw power he exuded was nearly as great as Lolth's own.

Involuntary tears squeezed from Halisstra's eyes and trickled down her face, carrying the taste of salt to her lips.

Lolth laughed at Halisstra's discomfort. A snap of her fingers brought a strand of web tumbling from the sky. She seized it with one hand, then turned back to the demon.

"I'll call for your services soon, Wendonai," the goddess told him. "Until then, I'm sure you can find a way to amuse yourself." She nodded at Halisstra. Then she scurried up the strand of web and was gone.

The demon loomed over Halisstra. This close, she could smell the stench of scorched hair and the oily tang of his breath. He lowered his nose until it almost touched the top of her head, and inhaled deeply.

He jerked back. "You're not-" He halted, as if suddenly reconsidering what he'd been about to say. He forced her prone, then craned his head back. "Lolth!"

No response came from the empty sky.

"Lolth!"

Unable to contain her curiosity, Halisstra peered up at the demon. He was upset about something. Her scent? Had it revealed the fact that she had once been a priestess of Eilistraee? That she served Lolth under duress? Whatever Halisstra lacked, it made the demon furious. As his agitation grew, the wind rose.

The blowing grit crusted her nostrils when she breathed. It filled the air with glittering salt dust, obscuring the landscape once more. Small drifts formed against the demon's feet as he raged at the sky, still shouting Lolth's name. Halisstra rose to her hands and knees, but the demon didn't seem to notice. Encouraged, she began to creep away. Depending upon which layer of the Abyss they were in, she might be able to locate a portal back to the Prime Material Plane. Once there, she could prove to Lolth that she was no weakling, that she was worthy of-

A clawed foot crashed down onto her head, slamming her to the ground.

"Drow!" he roared. "There will be no escape. I am your master!"

Halisstra tasted blood; the demon had split her lip. "Yes, Master," she gasped.

The wind stilled.

"That's better," the demon said, shifting his foot from her head. He squatted beside her. "I'll strike you a bargain. You want your freedom, and I want someone to play with. Someone more… agreeable to my tastes." He reached out and hooked a finger under Halisstra's chin, spearing her flesh on the point of his claw. "Think carefully. Is there anyone who might trade positions with you to save your wretched hide?"

The rush of relief left Halisstra lightheaded. "There's someone who… owes me a great favor."

"Her name?"

"Cavatina."

"Cavatina." The demon rolled the name around in his mouth as if sucking on something sweet. "What is she to you? Lover? Kin?"

Relief flooded Halisstra. She'd gambled that the demon hadn't heard of Cavatina-he'd been buried under salt for "centuries," after all. It looked as though her gamble might pay off. Cavatina was a Darksong Knight, a hunter of demons. A slayer of demigods. She'd make short work of the balor. One swing of the Crescent Blade, and Lolth's pet demon would be dead.

That would make the Spider Queen sorry for tossing Halisstra to him.

Halisstra shook her head in answer to the demon's question, but the motion drove the claw deeper into her flesh, making her wince. "Cavatina is neither lover, nor kin. She's a priestess of Eilistraee. I saved her life, once. I'm certain she would feel compelled to do the same for me."

The demon smiled, revealing jagged teeth. "Perfect."

He removed his claw from under her chin. He straightened, grabbed the claw with his other hand, and yanked. The claw came free in a burst of dark, tarry blood. Taking Halisstra's left hand, he pressed the claw against her palm. It stung like hot wax as it was forced into her flesh. When it was done, only a dark, rough callus remained.

"When you find Cavatina, touch her with this hand, and call my name," the demon instructed. "Do you understand?"

Halisstra rubbed her palm, already regretting what she'd just promised. The spot on her palm ached with a fierce heat. "I understand."

The demon swept Halisstra up as if her body were as light as a web and stared into her eyes. "Go. Find Cavatina." Then he raised her above his head and hurled her into the air.

The sky split open in a flaming crack, and a shrieking wind carried Halisstra away.

Cavatina ran through the woods, heedless of the scratches the branches left on her bare skin. Off to her left she could hear the beaters crashing swords against shields, moving steadily through the forest. Most of the priestesses would be ahead of them, swords poised to skewer whatever monsters the lay worshipers flushed out, but Cavatina preferred to hunt alone.

She'd stripped off even her boots for the High Hunt; she wore only her holy symbol. The dull-bladed ceremonial silver dagger bounced against her chest as she ran. She'd also left most of her magical items behind, trusting to the goddess's blessings to protect her. She carried only her magical hunting horn, slung over her shoulder on a strap, and her sword.

The sword sang as Cavatina ran, its silvered blade vibrating in the warm night air like the reed of a woodwind instrument. Gripping the hilt tightly in her right hand, Cavatina felt the weapon's anticipation. It was one of twenty-four sacred weapons identical to Lady Qilue's own blade-forged, according to the sacred hymns, by Eilistraee herself from a solidified moonbeam. The pommel was set with a translucent white moonstone that glowed faintly with a tinge of blue whenever the moon struck it. Half of the moonstone, however, had turned black-dark as the half of the moon that lay in shadow on this night of the autumn equinox.

Dark as a Nightshadow's heart.

Cavatina didn't want to think about that. Running alone through the moonlit woods, it was easy to pretend that the changes that began in the winter of that fateful Year of Risen Elfkin hadn't happened. That Eilistraee's worship was as it had always been. That the goddess herself was unchanged, more than a year and a half after assuming Vhaeraun's worshipers as her own.

Cavatina leaped across a fallen log as gracefully as a deer. She was tall, with a body narrow as a sword blade, her muscles honed by a lifetime of dancing and fighting. Her skin, black as a moonless night, contrasted with her long, ivory-colored hair. Normally, she wore her hair bound in a braid or bun so it wouldn't fall across her face and distract her while she fought, but tonight she'd left it loose. Tonight she let herself run wild, open to whatever the Shilmista Forest threw at her. She prayed whatever monster Eilistraee caused to cross her path would be a challenging one. Something worthy of the singing sword, and the Darksong Knight who held it.

She heard the blare of a hunting horn. Another of the priestesses had spotted something. A voice sang out through the night, calling for the others to join her. The cacophony of banging shields fell away; the beaters had done their work and were no longer needed.

Cavatina ignored the exhortations to join in the kill. She ran until the voices and horns faded in the distance. She plunged down a slope and found a shallow stream that sparkled with reflected moonlight. On impulse she followed it, her bare feet dancing lightly from stone to stone. At first, the stream wound through verdant forest, but as Cavatina followed it downhill, the vegetation on either side grew increasingly sparse. She clambered over a dead tree that had fallen across the stream-a tree whose trunk had been eaten away on one side. Other trees on both sides of the stream showed similar gouges. Their bark hung in tattered strips. Some had been stripped of their branches, leaving only skeletal trunks that were dark against the moonlit sky.

Something had been feeding on the vegetation there. Something big.

Cavatina slowed, her senses alert. She was panting heavily from her run, but the singing sword was steady in her hand. It, too, fell silent as if listening. The only sound came from the stream that flowed past Cavatina's ankles, chilling her bare feet.

A faint splash came from the bank to her left. A tiny head broke the surface a moment later: a small black creature with a pointed muzzle and rounded ears, its bare pink tail lashing behind it as it swam. A rat.

Swift as a striking hawk, Cavatina jabbed her sword down, skewering it. The creature squeaked as the sword point thrust it under water, a peculiar noise that almost sounded like a cry. When Cavatina lifted her sword again, the rat was dead. She flicked it from her blade, into the dead foliage at the side of the stream.

Something else moved on her right-a second rat. It emerged from the stream and scurried uphill through the shadows that had given the forest its Elvish name. Cavatina saw the disturbance it made through the scatter of dead sticks and leaves as it climbed the bank, but made no move to follow it. She was already sorry she'd sullied a singing sword with the blood of vermin.

She held the tip of the blade in the stream, letting the water wash it clean, and asked, "Is that the best you can send me, Eilistraee? A rat?"

This hunt was already a disappointment.

She walked on, following the stream. After several dozen paces, she noted movement to her left. The hillside shifted. She whirled to face it just as a tree toppled across the stream with a splash.

A creature erupted from the earth: an enormous beetle the size of a cabin, with mandibles as big as stag antlers and a curved claw at the end of each of its six legs. Chunks of soil slid off its gleaming black carapace as it reared up; it must have been hiding just below the surface. It stared at Cavatina, its dimpled red eyes gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

She smiled and raised her sword. Ready.

The beetle sprang.

Cavatina thrust her sword at its thorax. The blade sliced through chitin and cut deep into flesh. The sword sang a joyous peal as bright orange blood rushed from the wound. Then the mandibles scissored shut, their jagged points gouging into Cavatina's sides. The beetle reared up to bring its front two legs into play, yanking her into the air.

Shuddering with pain, blood flowing down her sides, Cavatina gasped out a prayer. A circle of blinding white appeared on her palm, and streaked from it to strike the beetle's head. Suddenly weakened, it sagged backward and let Cavatina fall to the ground.

Cavatina lurched to her feet, the singing sword still in her hand. It sang a soothing melody as she slapped her free hand to her blood-slippery side and prayed. Eilistraee's moonlight sparkled brightly against Cavatina's skin as healing energy flowed into her, closing her wounds.

The beetle struggled to rise on trembling legs. Before it could recover, Cavatina danced in close and slashed. With a blow like an axe striking a heavy tree limb, she severed one of the mandibles. The beetle stabbed a leg down at her but Cavatina twisted aside just in time. The claw thudded into the fallen tree instead. The beetle yanked free, tossing the trunk aside like a stick. The log tumbled down the bank toward the stream, branches snapping from it.

Though weakened, the beetle was still very much alive. Cavatina might hack at it all night and still not kill it-the beetle was that large. The hunting horn that hung from her shoulder was capable of taking the beetle down, but its blare would be heard throughout the forest. It would draw the other priestesses like moths. Cavatina wanted to make this kill on her own, with sword and spell, as was proper for the High Hunt.

The beetle lunged, snapping at her with its remaining mandible. Alerted by her sword's warning peal, Cavatina leaped to the side, avoiding all but a grazing blow. She retaliated with a prayer that summoned a whirling circle of magical energy, pale and sparkling as a moon halo. It coalesced into individual blades of flashing silver and blue-black steel, each as sharp as a freshly honed dagger. With a twist of her hand, Cavatina hurled the whirring circle of magical blades at the monster's head. Whipping her hand around in an ever-tightening spiral, she closed the circle. It tightened in a deadly noose that sent bits of black chitin flying in all directions. Even as it closed, Cavatina raced forward and plunged the singing sword into the beetle's thorax.

As it died, the beetle let out an angry whir. Then its stiffened front wings sprang open. The whirring noise intensified, drowning out the muffled singing of Cavatina's sword, buried to the hilt in the beetle's thorax. Something whizzed past Cavatina's head: a winged, wormlike creature half the length of her forearm. Then another, until the air was thick with flying creatures.

Cavatina yanked her sword free and jumped back as the beetle collapsed. The air was filled with dozens of the flying creatures: the beetle's young, launching themselves from beneath the hard exoskeleton that formed the front wings. Like wasps spilling from a smashed nest they buzzed through the air, forcing Cavatina to dodge and weave. She slashed right and left with her singing sword, slicing several of them in two, but the rest rose up through the trees and escaped.

"Eilistraee!" she cried. "Smite them!"

Whipping her hand forward, she clawed magic from the moon and hurled it at the departing swarm. Moonlight flared, illuminating the trees around her in a wide circle. Wings shriveled and larval bodies imploded under the sheer weight of the goddess's magic. What remained thudded to the ground like soggy hail. A handful of the brood, however-perhaps half a dozen insects-whirred away into the night.

When each landed, it would carve out a home for itself in the forest. There, it would feed, and grow. And if it was female, produce yet another brood.

Cavatina swore softly. She hadn't purged vermin from the forest this night. She'd just spread it around a little, like a demon sowing taint.

The sword in her hand sang a victory paean, but Cavatina didn't share its zeal. She'd killed a brood beetle-quite an accomplishment for a priestess hunting alone-but the rush of exultation that should have accompanied her kill hadn't come.

Part of the reason, she realized, was that nothing could ever live up to slaying a demigod. Any kill paled in comparison to the fierce joy she'd felt in the moment that her sword had severed Selvetarm's neck.

Her eyes narrowed. Not her sword. Not any longer. The Crescent Blade was Qilue's now.

She shoved the jealousy aside but couldn't shake off her melancholy. There had been streaks of darkness in the moon bolt she'd used to weaken the beetle, and black blades among the silver in the magical circle of steel. Reminders, each of them, of how much had changed.

Cavatina didn't want things to change. The sound of male voices singing the Evensong hymn was just wrong. So was the energy they added to the sacred dance. It was supposed to end in a shout of joy and the clash of swords, not in couples slinking off into the darkness to sheathe swords of a different kind.

She shook her head. She wasn't foolish enough to try to pretend that nothing had changed. Nor was she about to go to the other extreme and give up her faith entirely, as many of Vhaeraun's clerics-and a handful of Eilistraee's priestesses-had done. But that didn't mean she had to embrace the changes enthusiastically. Some rituals, at least, could be performed in solitude.

She nudged the severed mandible with the point of her sword. It was a trophy of the night's kill, one she normally would have carried back to the shrine. She decided to leave it there. To be burned, together with the rest of the brood beetle's body.

She trudged back down the bank, stepping over bits of shattered chitin and earth that had been torn up by the beetle's emergence from the ground. Kneeling beside the stream, she washed her blade clean, splashed water on her skin, and washed off the sticky beetle blood. Then she stood and waved the sword back and forth, drying it. The singing sword let out a low, contented hum, as if pleased with the night's work. It, at least, drew no distinction between degrees of victory.

Balancing the blade on her shoulder, savoring the feel of the silvered metal against her skin, Cavatina walked back the way she had come. For her, the High Hunt was over this night. Eilistraee had caused her to cross paths with a monster, and Cavatina had slain it. That the brood beetle had been about to release a swarm of young was something Cavatina could not have known, she told herself. Perhaps the goddess had been trying to remind her of something: that even the tiniest fragment of evil could beget more evil. That evil had to be eradicated at its root, before it could spread. That-

As she passed the spot where she'd seen the rats, a movement at the top of the bank caught her eye. A drow male stood there, silhouetted by the motes of light that trailed behind the moon on its passage through the evening sky. And not just any drow, but one of the recent converts who'd been invited to take part in the hunt this night.

Like her, he was naked, and his thin, muscular body gleamed with sweat from his run. A square of black cloth covered much of his face. His holy symbol. Vhaeraun's mask.

The mask that Eilistraee herself wore as a trophy of her kill.

Cavatina's eyes narrowed. Bad enough, having Nightshadows involved in the High Hunt. Worse luck still, that one had crossed her path. She glared up at him.

The male glanced down at something on the ground, then crouched and spoke in a voice just low enough that Cavatina couldn't make out what he was saying over the gurgle of the stream. He nodded, then pulled a ring off his finger and held it out. A small black rat-identical to the one Cavatina had killed a short time ago-rose up on its hind legs and plucked the ring from his fingers. The rat turned the ring with its forefeet, sniffed it, and slipped the ring onto one foreleg as if it were an armband. Then it scurried away.

As the male rose from his crouch, Cavatina strode up the hill. She knew full well what the male was doing: talking to the creatures of the forest, no doubt asking them where a suitably impressive monster might be found. One that would "prove" his worth as a hunter. But that wasn't how it was supposed to work. Participants in the High Hunt weren't meant to sneak up on their prey and stab it in the back. They were supposed to take down whatever monsters Eilistraee chose for them. Kill them using only their swords-not with the hand-crossbow that Cavatina could see strapped to the back of the male's left forearm. Nor were they supposed to wear magical protections, like the amulet that hung from a chain around his neck.

"What do you think you're doing?" Cavatina demanded.

The male whirled and raised his short sword. For a moment, Cavatina thought he would attack. She slapped it aside with the singing sword; the blades clanged together.

The male's eyes blazed with anger. "Dark Lady." His voice sounded surprisingly even, given his expression. "You startled me."

His accent hinted that he was fresh out of the Underdark, but surely he recognized her. Any moment now, he would whisper her name in awe or fold in a subservient bow. He did neither. Cavatina found herself getting even more annoyed by the way his amber-orange eyes refused to so much as blink under her challenge. "You're supposed to be killing vermin, not conversing with them."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "The rat."

"The rat," she agreed.

"A moon rat," he added. "A creature that gains intelligence as the moon waxes."

The unspoken jibe rang loudly in Cavatina's ears. Her singing sword hummed a warning as she readied it. "Are you looking for a fight?"

The male stared up at her. That close, she could see the scar tissue on the left side of his face. Most of it was hidden by his mask, but what showed of the old wound gave his left eye an ugly pucker. "No need to look," he said in a level voice. He nodded at something behind her. "One's already found me."

Cavatina danced back, wary of trickery, and glanced around. A few paces distant, a figure stood in the forest, its body shrouded in an enveloping black robe. Though a hood hid its face, Cavatina could see hands as black as her own. A silver ring gleamed on each finger, marking the figure as one of Kiaransalee's priestesses.

"By all that dances," Cavatina whispered under her breath. "A Crone."

The male touched his mask. "Shield me, Masked Lady."

A haze of darkness blurred his outline-darkness shot through with sparkles of moonlight.

Cavatina sang her own protective prayer. Moonlight glowed briefly on her skin as it took hold-moonlight marred by motes of black. Then she hurled a spell. A ray of moon-chilled light sprang from her hand, striking the evil priestess in the chest.

Instead of retreating, the Crone flung up one ring-encrusted hand. Without so much as a glance in Cavatina's direction she addressed the Nightshadow. "You!" she screamed, pointing a finger at him. "Assassin!"

The cleric cringed, raising one hand to shield his eyes. His other arm swung up in a gesture that mirrored the Crone's and his hand-crossbow thrummed. A bolt streaked through the air, burying itself in the Crone's throat. The priestess clawed at the black fletches and made a strangled sound, but did not fall. Her cowl fell back, revealing a face with sunken cheeks and hollow, staring eyes. Her bone-white hair was matted and filthy. She yanked the bolt out of her throat.

"That… won't work, Karas," she croaked, flinging the bolt aside. "Not… this time."

The breeze carried the stench of death to Cavatina's nostrils. She grabbed the silver dagger that hung around her neck. She wrenched its chain over her head and thrust Eilistraee's symbol in the direction of the undead Crone.

"By Eilistraee's holy light," she shouted. "Return to the grave from which you came!"

Cavatina had her sword ready. Should the undead priestess merely turn away, instead of being destroyed utterly, she would slice the creature in half. The blade sang a high-pitched peal. Eager. Ready.

But the Crone neither crumpled nor turned. She strode toward the Nightshadow, a dry, half-strangled chuckle rasping out of the hole in her throat.

The male didn't move. He stood stock still, his arm not quite high enough to shield his eyes.

Paralyzed.

Cavatina blinked. What was this thing? Even something as powerful as a lich should have hesitated at the sight of her holy symbol.

Cavatina leaped forward, her weapon raised. The undead priestess turned toward her and sang a single, mournful note. Low as a shaum, it reverberated through Cavatina's mind.

Suddenly, Cavatina's mother was before her. Her long white hair whipped around her head as she spun with a dancer's grace. She flung up an arm to meet Cavatina's descending sword. Only at the last moment was Cavatina able to wrench the sword aside to avoid severing her mother's arm.

The singing sword shrilled a warning. The shrill, urgent note penetrated Cavatina's consciousness, shredding the veil that had clouded her mind. The illusion of her mother was replaced by the reality: a desiccated corpse that had been given a hideous semblance of life. White nubs of bone protruded through the tips of those grasping fingers. The cloak hung loose on bony shoulders.

One hand lashed out. Bony fingers brushed Cavatina's shoulder. A wound appeared there, as if a dagger had sliced it open. Not deep, but it stung.

"This is not… your affair," the Crone croaked. Its voice was stronger, and Cavatina could see that the wound the crossbow bolt had torn in its throat had already knitted together.

Cavatina blinked, surprised at the Crone's complete disdain. She raised her sword and swung-a powerful two-handed blow. The singing sword gave a peal of glee as it descended.

In that same instant, the Nightshadow moved. He lashed out with his own sword in an upward diagonal blow. Their two blades clanged together, throwing both Cavatina and the Nightshadow off balance. The Crone ducked aside, unwounded.

"Out of the way!" the Nightshadow shouted.

The Crone lunged, slapping at him with a bare, bony hand. Only by twisting violently aside was the Nightshadow able to avoid being disemboweled. He gasped as the fingers brushed across his hip and buttocks, opening a deep wound.

While the Crone's back was turned, Cavatina leaped and swung. This time, her sword connected. It bit deep into the Crone's neck, cutting through the tough, dry skin and severing the spine. The headless body folded, then fell.

The Nightshadow stared at it, his panting breaths fluttering his mask. One hand clutching his wound, he gasped out a prayer. Slowly, the bleeding stopped.

Cavatina waited, keeping an eye on the body of the Crone, making sure it wasn't going to rise again.

Instead of thanking her, the Nightshadow spat out a curse. "Next time, keep out of the way."

Cavatina stiffened. She couldn't believe what she'd heard. "And let her kill you?"

"She nearly did, thanks to you."

Cavatina's face grew hot. "You were paralyzed," she said. "Helpless."

"I faked it. To draw her in close."

He was lying, of course. It was only to be expected from a Nightshadow. Cavatina was already sorry she'd stepped in. But then she gave herself time to think about it, and realized the unlikelihood of the paralysis wearing off precisely at the moment the Crone came in close enough to kill with a sword blow. Maybe he wasn't lying.

"My apologies," she said at last. "If it happens again, I'll wait until I'm absolutely certain you really do need my help, before jumping in." She shrugged. "Of course, next time you might not be faking the paralysis."

The male met and held her eye in a flat, level stare. Then he turned his attention to the corpse. "It has to be burned," he said. "Before it knits itself back together again."

The head rocked back and forth, as if struggling to do just that. The Nightshadow rolled it away from the body with his sword. Without another word to Cavatina, he began gathering dried wood and placing it atop the dead torso.

"What-" Cavatina stopped herself before asking the question. As a Darksong Knight, her training had focused on hunting demons, and only to a lesser degree on the undead. She was loath to reveal her ignorance by asking about the creature. She nodded at the severed head. "She knew your name: Karas."

He nodded.

"Why?"

"I was one of her consorts. Briefly."

"Until you learned who she served?"

"Until I killed her."

"Ah," Cavatina said, suddenly understanding. "She's a revenant."

"Yes."

That made sense. The Crones' thirst for vengeance was unquenchable. Their goddess dictated that any slight, no matter how small, must be avenged. A fatal bolt in the back from the crossbow of a consort would rank right at the top of the list. Kiaransalee herself must have lifted it from the grave.

Cavatina used her sword to flick the robe away from what remained of the Crone's feet. They were mere stubs, the toes and front of each foot long since worn away. "Looks like she walked a long way."

Karas nodded. "All the way from Maerimydra."

Cavatina looked up. "Were you there-in Maerimydra? When it fell to Kiaransalee's cultists?"

"Yes. And before that, when the army of Kurgoth Hellspawn overran the cavern."

Cavatina stared at Karas with a fresh respect. Whatever else he might be, he was a survivor. Kurgoth's army of goblins, bugbears, and ogres had laid waste to the Underdark city of Maerimydra during Lolth's Silence. According to the stories, its streets had been filled with thousands of corpses after the army had sacked it. A bountiful harvest for the Crones who'd ruled what remained of the city afterward.

"Did you see Kurgoth yourself?"

"No, shadows be praised."

"That's… fortunate," Cavatina said. A lie-she would have loved to have crossed swords with a fire giant who was reputed to be half fiend. She supposed, however, there had been plenty of other adversaries wandering the streets of Maerimydra after the city's fall. She wondered if the Crone they'd just battled was the only one of Kiaransalee's worshipers Karas had killed.

She glanced around at the moonlit forest. "Do you expect more of them? More revenants?"

"No." He dumped more wood on the corpse. "The moon rat only mentioned this one." Over his shoulder, he added, "Do you know a prayer that can raise fire?"

"No."

He sighed then unfastened the straps that held the crossbow to his forearm and detached the bow from the rest of the mechanism. Then he reached for a stick.

Cavatina sheathed her sword and watched Karas twist the bowstring around the stick. He carved a hole in a dried scrap of wood and set one end of the stick in it, and added some dried moss. Then, holding the top of the stick loosely, he sawed the bow back and forth, twirling the stick rapidly in place. Eventually the base of it smoldered. A moment later, tiny flames crackled through the dried moss. Karas blew them to life, gradually adding tinder. Soon, he had a fire.

The flames licked at the undead priestess's robe, charring it. Then the body itself burst into flame. It burned rapidly and with great heat, melting away like a candle. Karas rolled the head into the fire. A smell like burning leather filled the air.

Cavatina moved closer to Karas as the Crone's head was consumed. The Nightshadow stared at it without emotion as the flames danced across its desiccated flesh. She wondered if the Crone had been beautiful when still alive-whether Karas had loved the woman, once. Then she remembered that they did things differently in the Underdark. Females simply "took" males when they wanted them. If it had been like that, little wonder Karas betrayed no emotion.

Cavatina was curious to hear how the undead hordes of Kiaransalee had been driven from the city, and even more interested in hearing about Kurgoth Hellspawn. She turned to ask Karas about the city's fall and recapture.

He was gone.