"We'll see each other again, Danifae," Halisstra said. "Of that I'm certain."
"As am I, Mistress," Danifae replied. "We will meet again in the shadow of the Spider Queen."
"Eilistraee will be watching us both all the way," Halisstra said as she crossed to the waking portal. "She will be watching us both."
Danifae nodded, and Halisstra stepped into the gate, abandoning Ryld to the draegloth, Danifae to the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and herself to the priestesses of the Velarswood.
"You seem as surprised as I am," Gromph said to the lichdrow, "that your friend Nimor has sprouted wings."
Dyrr didn't answer, but his ember-red eyes drifted slowly to the winged assassin.
"Duergar," Gromph went on, "a cambion and his tanarukks, and a drow assassin. Oh, but the drow assassin isn't even a drow. You've allied yourself with everything but another dark elf. Well, you haven't been a dark elf yourself for a very long time either, have you, Dyrr?"
If the lich was offended or affected in any way, he didn't show it.
"He could be allied with a drow, though," Nimor said. "We both could."
"You actually think I'm going to join you?" Gromph asked.
"No," Nimor answered, "of course not, but I have to ask."
"If I do," Gromph persisted, "will you kill the lich?"
Dyrr raised an eyebrow, obviously interested to hear Nimor's answer.
"To have the Archmage of Menzoberranzan himself turn on his own city," Nimor said, "betray his own House, and overthrow the matriarchy with a wave of his hand? Would I kill the lichdrow? Certainly. I would kill him without the slightest moment's hesitation."
That brought a smile to Dyrr's face, and Gromph couldn't help but share it.
Nimor looked at the lichdrow, bowed, and said, "I would try, at least."
The lich returned the bow.
"You're not going to do any of those things, are you?" Nimor asked Gromph. "You won't turn your back on Menzoberranzan, House Baenre, the matriarchy, or even Lolth, who has turned her back on you."
"That's all?" Gromph asked. "That's all you plan to say to try to turn me? Ask a question then answer it yourself? Why are you here?"
"Don't answer that, Nimor," the lichdrow commanded, his tone as imperious as ever. "He's drawing tales out of you. He wants time to try to get away or to plan his attack."
"Or," Gromph cut in, "he may simply be curious. I know why my old friend Dyrr wants to kill me, and I can guess at the motivations of the duergar, the tanarukks, the illithids, and whatever else crawls out of the crevices and slime pools of the Dark Dominion, drawn to the stench of weakness. You, though, Nimor, are half drow and half dragon, aren't you? Why you? Why here? Why me?"
"Why you?" Dyrr said, his voice dripping with scorn. "You have power, you simpleton. You have position. That makes you a target on a good day—and this isn't a good day for Menzoberranzan."
Gromph ignored the lich and said to Nimor, "My sister said the assassin she captured named you as an agent of the Jaezred Chaulssin."
Nimor nodded and said, "I am the Anointed Blade."
Gromph didn't know what that meant but gave no indication of that to Nimor or Dyrr.
"Ghost stories come true," Gromph said.
"Our reputation precedes us," replied Nimor.
"Chaulssin has been in ruin for a long time," said Gromph.
"Her assassins survive," Dyrr said.
His dragon half, Nauzhror said into Gromph's mind, has been identified, Archmage. He is half-drow, half-shadow dragon. More than one generation, perhaps. An incipient species.
"We have placed ourselves in city after city," Nimor said, "all across the Underdark. We've been waiting."
"And breeding," Gromph said, "with shadow dragons?"
Nimor's smile told Gromph how right Nauzhror had been.
"It's over," Dyrr said, and Gromph found it difficult to deny the finality in his voice. "All of it."
"Not yet," Gromph replied, and he started to cast a spell.
Nimor beat his batlike wings and shot up into the darkness. Dyrr followed, more slowly, wrapping himself in additional protective spells.
Gromph finished his spell and held his hands together. A line of blackness appeared between his palms and stretched to the length of a long sword blade. The line was perfectly two-dimensional, a rift in the structure of the planes.
Lifting into the air, the Archmage of Menzoberranzan threw his hands apart, and the blade followed him up. Using the force of his will, Gromph set the planar blade flying in front of him. Choosing a target was simple.
Nimor has to die first, Prath suggested, though it was unnecessary. The extent of his true abilities is the only unknown.
Gromph set the blade hurtling at the half-dragon assassin. Nimor flew as fast as anything Gromph had ever seen fly, but the blade moved faster. It cut into the assassin, and Nimor convulsed in pain. What makes a blade sharp is the thinness of its edge. The blade that Gromph conjured didn't actually have any thickness at all. Being perfectly thin, it was perfectly sharp. Anything that Nimor might have had on him to protect him from weapons would be of no consequence.
Blood pattered down over the floor of the Bazaar, and Nimor roared. The sound rattled Gromph's eardrums, though he didn't hesitate to send the black blade at the assassin again—but it disappeared.
Gromph whirled in midair to face the lichdrow. Dyrr held his staff in both hands. Gromph assumed he'd used some aspect of the weapon's magic to dispel the blade
Disappointing,Nauzhror commented. That was an impressive spell. And effective.
Nimor wasn't flying quite as fast, and he was still bleeding. Gromph had to keep his attention shifting back and forth between the assassin, the lich, and his own next spell, so he didn't actually see Nimor heal himself, but he did—enough to keep himself alive.
Gromph was nearly finished with his next incantation when Nimor blew darkness at him—it was the only way the wizard could think to describe it. The assassin drew in a breath and exhaled a cone-shaped wave of roiling blackness. Gromph tried to drop away from the darkness, but he couldn't. The twisting void washed over the archmage. It was as if all the warmth were drawn out of him. He shivered, and his breath stopped in his throat. His spell was ruined, cut off in mid-word, the Weave energy unraveling.
Part of the layers of defensive magic that he and the Masters of Sorcere had cloaked him in protected Gromph from the full extent of the freezing darkness's power. If not, Gromph would have shriveled to a dead husk.
"I was right," Gromph said to Nimor, trying not to gasp. "It was a shadow dragon, wasn't it?"
"More than one shadow dragon, Archmage," Nimor replied—and Gromph thought the assassin was trying not to gasp himself, "and more than one drow."
The half-dragon assassin drew a needle-thin rapier that glowed blue-white in the gloom of the abandoned Bazaar.
Caution, Archmage, Prath warned.
Gromph winced at the idiocy of his inexperienced nephew. The archmage was always ready for anything—though he wasn't fast enough to dodge out of the way of the rapier as it slashed across his chest.
Nimor had disappeared from where he'd been hovering, several paces away and appeared right next to Gromph and a little above—perfectly in a blind spot. All of that had happened in the precise same instant.
The assassin was gone again just as fast.
The slash in Gromph's chest burned, the wound crisp and jagged. He looked down at the cut. Frost lined the wound, and the blood that oozed from it was cold when it touched his skin. Gromph shivered.
Something hit Gromph from behind, and he grunted and doubled over when the air was smashed out of his lungs. It was a painful second or two before he was able to draw in another breath. Dyrr had hit him with something—a spell or a weapon—from behind.
The spell didn't pass through all of your defenses, Archmage, Nauzhror told him. If it had, you would have been disintegrated.