“The rooftops!” the wizard called.
Halisstra backed away from the gargoyles and squinted at the bright sky, searching for more attackers. Tawny blurs crouched atop a high wall perhaps forty or fifty yards distant, a handful of lamias who carried heavy crossbows and watched carefully for opportunities to shoot into the fray, their beautiful faces twisted into evil grins. Even as she watched, one took at shot at Ryld. The bolt whistled past the weapons master’s head, smashing a divot from the soft stone wall nearby. Ryld flinched away.
“Someone take care of the snipers!” he snapped, while slashing at the gargoyles.
A second later, two more bolts flew at Ryld. One bounced from his breastplate, but the other caught him on the right side while his arms were raised to wield Splitter. The bolt lodged in the arm-opening of his armor. Ryld staggered back two steps and collapsed in the dust.
Halisstra reached down and snatched up Pharaun’s wand.
“Aid Quenthel,” she told Danifae.
She leveled the wizard’s weapon at the lamias on the high wall. She knew something about using such devices—a talent she wouldn’t normally have wished to reveal, but the fight was desperate. She spoke an arcane word, and a bolt of purple lightning shot out at the first lamia, blasting the creature from the wall in a spray of shattered stone. Thunder reverberated in the dusty ruin. She aimed at the next lamia, but the monsters weren’t stupid. They abandoned their lofty perches at once, leaping back behind the wall to avoid more lightning. From the shadow of the back wall, Pharaun returned to the battle, armed with another wand. This one produced a blazing bolt of fire, which he directed against the gargoyles overhead. With shrieks of pain, the monsters flapped off, though the one poisoned by Quenthel’s whips didn’t get far before its wings folded. It plummeted down among the rooftops some distance away.
Valas dispatched the last of his attackers with a double-handed slash that nearly cut the creature in two, and Jeggred stood amid a virtual heap of asabi bodies, his flanks heaving. The wizard glanced around once, and noticed Ryld on the ground.
“Damn,” he muttered.
He knelt by the weapons master and turned him over. Ryld was dying. Blood streamed from the bolt in his chest, and he fought for each breath, bloody spittle streaking his gray lips. The wizard scowled, then looked up at Quenthel.
“Do something,” he said. “We need him.”
Quenthel folded her arms with a cold frown and said, “Unfortunately, Lolth does not choose to grant me spells of healing at the moment, and I have already expended almost all of the healing magic I brought on our journey. There is little I can do for him.”
Halisstra narrowed her eyes, thinking. Again, she didn’t like the thought of what she was about to do, but there was a benefit to revealing her secret. If she proved herself useful, the Menzoberranyr would be hesitant to discard her. Besides, she thought, they likely already know.
“Move aside,” she said quietly. “I can help him.”
Quenthel and Pharaun looked up suspiciously.
“How?” Quenthel demanded. “Do you mean to say that Lolth has not withdrawn her favor from you?”
“No,” Halisstra replied. She knelt by Ryld and examined him. She would have to move quickly. If he died, he would be beyond her assistance. “Lolth has denied me spells, just as she has Quenthel, and presumably every other priestess of our race. I have some ability to heal by a different means, though.”
With that, she began to sing. Her song was a strange keening threnody, something dark and eerie that tugged at the drow admiration for beauty, ambition, and black deeds skillfully done. Halisstra molded the shape of her voice and the ancient words of the song, summoning the magic of her lament as she set her hand on the quarrel and drew it from the wound.
Ryld started, his eyes wide and staring, and blood spurted over Halisstra’s hands—but the wound closed into a puckered scar, and the weapons master coughed himself awake.
“What happened?” he groaned.
“What happened, indeed?” Quenthel replied. She eyed Halisstra suspiciously.
“Was that what I thought it was?”
Halisstra nodded and stood, wiping blood from her hands.
“It is a tradition in my House that those females who are suited for it may study the arts of the bae’qeshel, the dark minstrels. As you can see, there is power in song, something that few of our kind care to study. I have been trained in the minstrel’s lore.”
Ryld sat up, looking down at his breastplate and the bloody quarrel lying in the dust. He looked up at Halisstra.
“You healed me?” he asked.
Halisstra offered her hand and pulled him to his feet.
“As your friend Pharaun observed, we need you too much to allow you to inconvenience us with your death.”
Ryld met her eyes, obviously considering some reply. Gratitude was not an emotion many drow bothered to act upon. The weapons master perhaps wondered what Halisstra might choose to do with his. She spared him any more serious reflections by turning her attention to Pharaun, and handing the iron wand back to him.
“Here,” she said. “You dropped this.”
Pharaun inclined his head and replied, “I admit I was surprised to see you wield it, but I heard you sing in Ched Nasad. Shame on me for not adding two and two.”
“Let me see your arm,” Halisstra said.
She sang the song of healing again, and repaired Pharaun’s injury.
She would have examined the others and aided them if she could, but Quenthel interrupted her.
“No one else is dying,” the high priestess said. “We must move now or our enemies will surely descend on us again. Valas, you lead the way. Head toward the outer walls so that we may make for the open desert if we decide to flee.”
“Very well, Mistress Baenre,” the scout acquiesced. “It will be as you say.”
3
Kaanyr Vhok, the half-demon prince known as the Sceptered One, stood on a high balcony over the old dwarven foundry and watched his armorers at work. The great smelter had once been the heart of the fallen realm of Ammarindar. The cavern was immense, and its roof rested upon dozens of towering pillars carved into the shapes of dragons, glowing red with angry firelight and the lurid radiance of molten metal. The clanging of hammers and roar of kilns at work filled the air. Dozens of hulking tanarukks, bestial fiends bred from orcs and demons, toiled on the foundry floor. They might have lacked the skill and enchantments of the dwarves who once worked there, but Kaanyr Vhok’s soldiers possessed a cunning instinct for the making of deadly weapons infused with dark lore.
Kaanyr himself fit the infernal scene well. Tall and powerful, he had the stature of a strong-thewed human warrior and the strength of a stone giant. His skin was red and hot to the touch, and his flesh was hard enough to turn a blade. He was strikingly handsome, though his eyes danced with malice and his teeth were as black as coal. He wore a golden breastplate and carried a pair of wicked short swords made from some demonic black iron in rune-chased scabbards at his belt. He grinned fiercely with delight as he looked out over the gathering storm of his army.
“I now lead nearly two thousand tanarukk warriors,” he said over his shoulder,
“and I have just as many orcs, ogres, trolls, and giants at my command. I think the time has come to try my strength, my love.”
Aliisza allowed herself a smile and moved closer, pressing herself to the demon prince’s side. Like Kaanyr Vhok, she too possessed demonic blood. In her case, she was an alu-fiend, the spawn of a succubus and some mortal sorcerer. Wings as smooth as black leather sprouted from her shoulder blades, but other than that she was dusky and seductive, voluptuous and inviting, a half-demoness whose allure few mortal men could resist. She was also clever, capricious, and very skilled in magic, and therefore well-suited to be the consort of a demonspawned warlord such as Kaanyr.