Chapter Seventeen
WEAPONS
I’m so delighted to have found you still here. I rather thought you’d have run to the safety of the Sorcere by now.”
Startled, Kharza-kzad whirled to face his unwelcome visitor. As his eyes settled upon the copper-haired drow—who was sprawled with insolent ease in Kharza’s own chair—the wizard bitterly cursed the day he’d started trading with the merchant. Once again Nisstyre had slipped into Spelltower Xorlarrin, using the gate they had established many years ago for that purpose, without invitation or permission. It had become a frequent, disturbing practice.
“What do you want?” Kharza-kzad demanded. The merchant smiled and propped his feet up on the study table, paying no heed to the pile of scrolls dented by his boots. “No more than any other drow in the city. I want Liriel Baenre’s amulet.”
The wizard willed himself not to let his eyes slide to the faint, nearly faded outline of the gate that had taken Liriel to safety.
“I’ve no idea how rabble like you heard such news, but it will do you little good,” he said with a godd deal more bravado than he felt. Even flushed with the excitement of his first kill, Kharza-kzad had no real wish to raise his battle wands against another wizard. He knew success in battle involved more than might of arms and magic; it required instincts he himself had never tested, much less developed. His best chance of avoiding such a conflict, he believed, would be to utterly discourage the merchant wizard.
“By the word of the Ruling Council, the amulet was taken to the Sorcere for study,” Kharza said, deliberately invoking all the powers of Menzoberranzan. “Unless you plan to apply as a student there, it’s well beyond your reach.”
“I think not,” Nisstyre said calmly, ignoring the older drow’s insults. “Somehow I doubt the amulet has made its way to the Sorcere. You are here, after all. And, if I am not mistaken, awaiting a visit from your student.”
“Such a visit would be welcomed, but it is unlikely. Liriel is at Arach-Tmilith,” lied Kharza-kzad.
“Not so, I’m afraid. My sources at Arach-Tinilith assure me Liriel is hiding somewhere in the city, or in the Underdark nearby. Or perhaps,” the merchant said slowly, “she has already escaped into the Night Above.”
Nisstyre rose to his feet and bore down upon the wizard. “Tell me what you know,” he hissed.
In response, the Xorlarrin wizard snatched a wand from his belt. If ever he’d had any compunction over killing, it did not show now in his hard, narrowed gaze. Blue fire sizzled down the length of the weapon and hurtled in a ball of light and power toward the copper-haired merchant.
To Kharza’s astonishment, the fireball passed right through
Nisstyre’s body and struck the far wall of the chamber. It exploded silently, showering the carpet with bright sparks. The fire caught, and flames licked upward at the walls. A priceless tapestry hanging there began to smolder and smoke.
Kharza realized the Nisstyre standing before him was no more than a magical projection. The younger wizard’s true body was elsewhere, perhaps far from Menzoberranzan, more likely in this very room. Kharza whirled, looking frantically for his enemy, but there was no other sign of the red-haired drow.
“Do you have the courage to join me in the open?” mocked Nisstyre’s image. “Or shall the two of us raze Spelltower Xorlarrin to its foundation?”
So it had come to this: he had no choice but to fight. Strangely enough, Kharza-kzad felt none of the fear he’d expected. A surging elation swept through his ancient frame, and he glared steadfastly at the projected image of his nemesis.
“I am ready,” he said simply. “You have only to choose the site.”
“It is chosen, and I await you.” The magical projection extended one slender, apparently solid hand. “Give me a personal item, a ring or some such, so I might attune the portal to you.”
Kharza-kzad did not consider this demand unreasonable, for he knew magic gates had an endless variety of requirements. Some demanded an offering of gold or gems, others granted transport only at certain times, still others required spells or rituals. He had not heard of a need for attunement, but it was not inconceivable. So he stripped a gold and onyx ring from his finger and dropped it into the outstretched hand.
At once the Xorlarrin wizard felt the magical swirl of a teleportation spell surround him, carrying him off with a rush of power and movement such as he had never experienced. Kharza had seen little need for magical portals in his long life. He could summon a mere five or six, and on only one occasion had he used one himself: the brief trip from Uriel’s room at Arach-Tinilith to Spelltower Xorlarrin. Of course, he knew enough about general magical principles to help Liriel practice the gate spells in her new book, but he had not bothered to copy any of the spells or learn them himself. He regretted that now, for this new experience was exhilarating beyond words.
Suddenly he felt solid stone beneath his feet, and he found himself in a vast, uninhabited cavern. As he looked around in awe, the wizard realized this was his first time out of Menzoberranzan. Under less dire circumstances, he would have been fascinated by the wild stone landscape, untouched by magic or artifice, and by the seething pool of melted rock that bubbled and spat far below him.
Kharza-kzad shot a glance upward. His eyes were not accustomed to such distances, nor was his mind equipped to register them. But he perceived high overhead a distant light, a brilliant snatch of blue that could only be the sky of the Lands Above. Nisstyre, it seemed, had chosen the heart of a live volcano for their confrontation. So be it, thought Kharza, and he steeled himself for the fight to come.
“Show yourself,” he shouted. “Let it begin!”
In response, a bolt of liquid stone rose from the pool and shot toward him. Kharza crossed his forearms before his face and spoke a single word of power. A rounded shield, glimmering black but as transparent as glass, sprang up between him and the onrushing lava. The glowing stone hit the magical shield with a tremendous hiss, cooling instantly to become a solid wall of protection.
With insolent ease, Kharza cast a spell that shattered the wall into pebbles and dust. He stood there, his arms crossed and a faintly bored expression on his wrinkled face.
Mocking applause echoed through the cavern, and Nisstyre stepped into view. The copper-haired wizard stood on the far side of the lava pool, on a ridge of rock roughly on eye level with his foe.
“I believe the first round is a draw,” he conceded with a slight bow.
“And the second will be mine,” Kharza assured him. The wizard took a sticky pellet from a hidden pocket of his robes and hurled it high into the air. The pellet exploded, and what had been merely a wad of spiderweb expanded into gray lines of magical force. Sticky tendrils shot off in all directions, seeking solid stone and quickly finding purchase. In less than a second the entire cavern was enmeshed in a giant, shadowy web. The web trembled far over the heads of the wizards, like a giant canopy. A large sticky drop slowly broke free to fall with a hise into the lava pool below.
Nisstyre’s face, which glowed red in the darkness of the cavern, paled nearly to gray as the web of shadows magically stole his body’s warmth. His features registered the pain of the bone-deep chill, and his hands moved with agonizing slowness as he formed the gestures of an answering spell.
The Xorlarrin wizard did not wait for the attack; he chanted the words of a summoning. Giant spiders appeared at his command and scurried across the sticky gray web toward their assigned prey. They slipped through the strands and began to descend on silvery threads toward Nisstyre.
“A fit death for a heretic!” exulted Kharza-kzad as the venomous spiders, so beloved of the Lady of Chaos, closed in.
“Do you really fight for the honor of Lloth?” sneered Nisstyre.
The younger wizard’s hand swept slowly forward in a menacing arc, not at the spiders, but at the web itself. Kharza had expected this to come sooner or later, for only a magical attack could dispel the web. To his astonishment, the copper-haired wizard unleashed not a pulse of fey energy, but a bolt of simple fire.
Simple, but effective. Flames raced along every strand, setting the entire web ablaze. The web of fire was a glorious, dazzling sight, and Kharza marveled as he beheld it. It was also, he conceded, a brilliant strategy. The heat and the punishing light of the fire forced him to deal with the burning web. This would give his enemy time to marshal his own magical strength, to recover somewhat from the magical chill. Fortunately, Kharza was well prepared for the task.
Shielding his eyes with one hand against the brilliant light, the wizard drew a fist-sized obsidian sculpture from a pocket of his robes. As was befitting of a master of the Sorcere, he possessed an Amulet of Plelthong, an ancient and powerful drow device that commanded many attacks and defenses, Kharza spoke the words that would unleash the needed force. He raised the amulet—the graven face of a smiling drow wizard—and pointed it toward the flaming web.
The obsidian lips pursed, and the drow-shaped amulet spat a stream of cold blue light upward. The magic expanded, becoming a cone of power that engulfed the fire and extinguished it. The web remained, but it was blackened and brittle. The charred bodies of the spiders dangled and swayed for a moment, then fell toward the waiting lava.
Kharza allowed himself a smile of triumph and just a moment’s celebration. Too long: a black dart sped toward him and pierced his uplifted hand. His priceless amulet was knocked from his grasp to roll amid the common stones.
The wizard let out a shout of pain and outrage, but he had learned the danger of hesitation. Without bothering to pull the needlelike dart from his hand, he snatched a wand from his belt and pointed it upward.
As he had anticipated, two more of the death darts had taken flight, and yet another was in Nisstyre’s hands. The merchant wizard did not hurl the final dart. He mockingly lifted it to his lips and tossed it into the air as if throwing a kiss. He did not bother to aim, and he did not need to. Magically enspelled to seek out their target, the long black weapons circled the cavern and swooped toward the Xorlarrin wizard like birds of prey.
Kharza squeezed the grip of his wand once, twice, and then a third time. He held the wand steady in case its fourth and final attack was needed. But his aim was true, and three globes of light flew to meet the incoming darts. The wizard summoned his natural power of levitation and rose at a sharp angle, putting as much distance between himself and the coming impact as he could.
The globes struck the death darts and exploded, one after another, in spectacular bursts of greenish light. Acid spat from the globes, corroding the black metal and sending droplets of green acid and liquid metal to the ledge where Kharza had stood an instant before.
But the Xorlarrin wizard was safely beyond the lethal shower. Floating high above the battle, he threw back his head and let out a laugh of pure exultation. What wonderful power, what delightful destruction, his creations unleashed! He had possessed these marvelous toys all these many years and never enjoyed them!
Nisstyre observed his enemy’s pleasure and took note of his growing confidence. He allowed Kharza his moment, knowing it would soon end. All was going as he, Nisstyre, had planned. The copper-haired wizard had studied Kharza-kzad well, and he had anticipated the older wizard’s every attack and parry. He knew the Xorlarrin wizard was a master of battle magic and tactics, and he’d gotten to know Kharza well enough to suspect that the isolation of study, the focused effort needed to craft wondrous weapons of destruction, had left dangerous blind spots in Kharza’s education. Xorlarrin might be a master of magic and convoluted draw logic, but he did not have a fighter’s instinct for the terrain. The simpler the attack against such an opponent, the better its chances for success.
So thinking, Nisstyre unleashed his next spell. At his command the air of the cavern began to stir, to gain force and momentum. Before the levitating Kharza could react, a mighty wind caught him in midair and flung him still higher, into the waiting arms of the web of shadows.
The fire had thinned and blackened the web, but no physical force could destroy its magic. The Xorlarrin wizard struck the sticky strands and was held there, bouncing slightly and facing the pool of lava. His eyes darted toward Nisstyre; the younger wizard’s hands flashed as he formed a spell that would destroy the web. Kharza knew it well, and he understood the danger he was in. His natural ability to levitate had been exhausted. Once freed from the web, he might be able to cast a spell of levitation before he fell to his death. He was not sure; he had no idea how long it took one to fall such a distance.
Kharza-kzad had not long to decide, for his pounding heart beat perhaps thrice before the other wizard finished the dispellment, and then he was plummeting toward the deadly pool. The old wizard could see only one chance of survival, and he took it. As he fell, his fingers closed upon another wand, his greatest creation and his deepest secret.
It was Nisstyre’s turn to laugh now as he watched his rival splash into the pool of molten rock. He had planned this battle, step by step, and he had also prepared a spell that would fish the old droVs bones from the lava. He’d doubted from the beginning that a live Kharza-kzad would willingly yield up any useful information, but there were ways of compelling a spirit to speak truth. Soon he would know everything the wizard had learned about Liriel Baenre and her amulet, and he would be well on his way to possessing both.
Nisstyre’s laughter died abruptly. Something was stirring in the pool of lava. Some dark shape was breaking free of the bubbling surface. As he watched, stunned, the skeletal form of a drow rose slowly from the molten rock. All flesh had been melted away by the lava, but the wizard’s robes—and presumedly all the magic they contained—had survived intact. Nisstyre did not know how Kharza-kzad had done it, but he knew what the old draw had become.
Kharza-kzad was now a lichdrow, a dark-elven wizard who existed beyond death, beyond the limitations of mind and body. Invulnerable, nearly invincible, the undead creature could cast at will all the spells gathered throughout its centuries of life.
The lichdrow soared upward, pausing only upon becoming eye-level with its dumbfounded enemy. It raised a skeletal hand. Clasped in the bony fingers was a slender metal rod, still glowing with the lava’s borrowed heat.
“My finest creation,” announced the undead wizard in a whisper as dry as desiccated bone. “A wand of lichdom. Would you care to see it demonstrated again—on you, perhaps?”
Nisstyre was terribly outmatched, but even now he was determined to have the final word. He clasped a ring of tele-portation that would take him from this place, and he painted a mocking smile on his face.
“Perhaps several centuries from now, when I have witnessed Vhaeraun’s triumph and have grown tired of life, I might be tempted to accept your offer. When that time comes, I will no doubt find you still here.”
And with those words, the merchant summoned the magic that would take him out of the volcano and beyond reach of the lichdrow Xorlarrin.
In time, the former Kharza-kzad might find his way back to Menzoberranzan, but Nisstyre knew the wizard had few gate spells at his command. He’d made sure—or at least, as reasonably certain as one drow could be about the secrets of another—that Kharza knew no way back into his own Spelltower. At the present, therefore, Nisstyre felt safe enough in returning to the city.
He might not have gotten the information he needed from Kharza, but there was another drow in Menzoberranzan who knew more about Uriel’s plans than she would admit. It was time to get seek out his new partner.
Shakti Hunzrin had just returned to Tier Breche when the summons came. Along with a dozen other high-level students, she was attending a tutorial session on accessing the lower planes and conversing with its denizens. The subject held little interest for Shakti; indeed, after the events of the last few days, all of her studies at Arach-Tinilith seemed no more than a dreary anticlimax. She would have welcomed almost any interruption.
Almost.
Eight armed female guards—part of the elite forces of House Baenre—came to the very door of the classroom and respectfully commanded Shakti to accompany them. With them was a driftdisc, the floating magical conveyance used by the most powerful of matrons and priestesses. Shakti had never expected to ride on one, and she took little pleasure in it now as she glided in state toward the Baenre fortress, surrounded by her prestigious escort. For in sending a driftdisc, Matron Triel was not honoring her guest but blatantly displaying her own might and position. To Shakti, it seemed the logical first step toward a very public execution. Lloth might have decreed no priestess kill another, but the Baenre clan always seemed to be beyond law.
Her prospects did not brighten when they reached the Baenre fortress. She was ushered into the very heart of the first house—the vast chapel. Gromph pushed past her at the door, looking grim and sullen. Shakti understood why at once: eight Baenre priestesses gathered about the altar. A dark rite would be performed in this chamber that no mere male could witness.
Matron Triel beckoned Shakti to come toward the altar. As the younger priestess drew near, the matron slowly raised her arm. In it was a whip armed with the heads of two angry, writhing snakes.
“Lloth knows what is in your heart,” Triel said in «her cold, even voice. She began to advance, slowly, a glint of mocking pleasure in her usually unreadable eyes.
At that moment Shakti understood the Spider Queen had witnessed her deal with Nisstyre and had informed the First Matron of her treachery. Because there was nothing else to do, Shakti stood awaiting the first lash of the whip. To her utter astonishment, the Baenre matron turned the whip and offered it, handle first, to the younger drow.
“By the command of Lloth, you are to be elevated to high priestess. This whip will be yours. Ascend the altar for the rite of atonement.”
Not without fear, Shakti did as she was commanded. She had witnessed the rite, which was usually administered after the graduation ceremonies. It was not a sight for the fainthearted. But she would have undergone the rite gladly, had she trusted Triel to actually go through with it.
For once, the Baenre matron kept her word, and the circle of priestess enacted the ritual that attuned the weapon to the emotions of its sole wielder.
Much later, the eight priestesses helped Shakti down from the altar. The living snakes that had bound her there slithered off into the shadows, but for the three which had been magically added to the whip. Shakti admired her new weapon with a mixture of pride and awe. Five heads! Few priestesses commanded as many, and such a whip was a sign of Lloth’s highest favor.
Triel dismissed the other priestesses with a wave of her hand and then motioned Shakti into a seat.
“We must now talk about your future,” she said bluntly. “You need not return to the Academy, except to attend the graduation ceremonies when the time comes. You are free to attend your family business, bearing the full rank and honor of a high priestess. If that business takes you from Menzoberranzan from time to time, so be it. House Baenre and House Hunzrin have worked together in the past. We will do so again, as never before, to the glory of the Queen of Spiders.”
The hidden meaning in Matron Triel’s words begin to dawn on Shakti. She was supposed to serve House Baenre as a traitor-priestess! From time to time the matriarchy uncovered a spy among the clergy—usually a male priest—who served Lloth on the surface, Vhaeraun underneath. The reversal was almost unknown, and the prospect of gaining such a double spy clearly had Triel salivating with dark glee.
Shakti absorbed this, and again glanced at the snake-headed whip tucked in her belt. Lloth was courting her. Her!
Triel continued to speak, outlining Shakti’s mission with precise detail and an occasional threat, but the Hunzrin priestess did not hear the matron’s words. Another voice, even more powerful, commanded her attention.
It was a whisper at first, a dark insinuating voice in her mind. Soft and seductive, the voice grew in power as it gave to Shakti spells of thought concealment. Gave them. Shakti knew beyond doubt she could cast the new spells at will, without rest or study.
These spells are but the first of my gifts. With them you can swear to Lloth, insisted the voice, yet maintain first loyalty to me.
The voice continued, giving promises of power, claiming immortality was his to give, even hinting he had not yet found a worthy drow consort.
Shakti had never prayed to Vhaeraun, but with awe she recognized the voice of the Masked Lord. The drow god was not only real, but he was also powerful enough to speak hidden words in Lloth’s inner sanctum! And she listened, tempted, without incurring the Spider Queen’s wrath. The mind shields of Vhaeraun were clearly more powerful than any that Shakti knew, for the snake heads, which would have turned at once upon a faithless priestess, continued to writhe companionably at her side. Spells such as these could mean the difference between life and death in Menzoberranzan, where every high priestess could read the thoughts of another.
Two deities, marveled Shakti, vying for her allegiance! This put her in an impossibly dangerous position, but it also offered her power beyond her darkest dreams. She might not survive, but she would not refuse.
Nisstyre’s interview with Shakti Hunzrin did not go at all as he’d expected. She’d come at his summons readily enough, but she swaggered into his place of power with the whip of a high priestess on her hip.
The wizard carefully masked his fear. For centuries, Lloth’s clergy had made a holy task of seeking out and destroying the followers of Vhaeraun. Shakti had no proof against him, but now that she was a high priestess a single word of accusation would be enough to have him flayed alive and hung in pieces from the various comers of Arach-Tinilith.
Well, accusations could be spoken both ways; she had offered to turn traitor-priestess.
“If you are sincere about your commitment to Vhaeraun, that thing will hardly endear you to the Masked Lord,” the male said dryly, pointed at the writhing snake-headed weapon.
Shakti gave him a smile of supreme confidence. “Vhaeraun is with me,” she said stoutly, and then she spoke a word of power that Nisstyre—himself a mighty wizard—had never heard. A dark shadow appeared, flitting around the room and then settling upon Shakti’s face, taking the form of a half-mask of blackest velvet. The wizard recognized the manifestation of Vhaeraun, the Masked Lord.
As Nisstyre watched in stunned silence, the double priestess held out her hand, palm up. Cradled within it was a gem, a sparkling ruby about the size and shape of a draw’s eye.
This is but one of the Masked Lord’s gifts to me,” Shakti said with dark pleasure. “In turn, I give it to you.”
Her velvet mask dissolved, reforming into the black shadow. The darkness flowed like smoke to engulf the wizard. Nisstyre’s astonishment turned to terror when he realized he could neither speak nor move.
Shakti advanced upon him, the ruby in her outstretched hand. She pressed it to Nisstyre’s forehead. With a searing hiss, the gem burned into his flesh and sank deep into his skull. The pain surpassed anything he had ever known or imagined. Only the steadying arms of his unseen, treacherous god kept him from falling to the floor.
At last the ordeal ended, and the white-hot pain in Nisstyre’s brain dulled to a burning throb. Shakti smiled and ran her fingers over the part of the gem still exposed. “A third eye,” she explained. The ruby is attuned to a scrying bowl that will enable me to see whatever you see, even in the Night Above.”
It was that term, more than anything, that convinced Nisstyre the drow god was truly with Shakti. Only the followers of Vhaeraun referred to the surface lands as the Night Above. The god had spoken with this priestess and had made her his own despite the weapons of Lloth she wielded. Which deity claimed Shakti’s deepest allegiance, Nisstyre could not know. That uncertainty made the priestess dangerous beyond reckoning.
“Wherever you go, my eyes will be upon you,” Shakti continued. “Through the power of the gem I can speak into your mind at will, and I can inflict terrible pain. If you try to betray me, you will die,” she announced with the newfbund calm and confidence of the truly powerful.
She settled into Nisstyre’s own chair, pointed to a lesser chair, and bade him take a seat. He did so, without any act of will on hie own part. “You have received the gift of Vhaeraun. Now it is Lloth’s turn.”
The wizard received this announcement with silent dread. If his own god had made him a virtual slave to this female, what might the Spider Queen do? Then came the second surprise: Lloth’s gift was information.
Shakti told him all she knew about Liriel Baenre’s amulet, even gave him copies of the notes the girl had written. The particulars of the young wizard’s experiments were not spelled out, but this much was clear: Liriel’s amulet was indeed the one Nisstyre had stolen from the human warrior, and it gave her the power to take both her innate drow magic and dark-elven wizardry into the Night Above.
Nigstyre received this news with an excitement that transcended his pain and humiliation. This was the key he sought, the thing that might lure the proud drow from their subterranean homeland! And if this device could be duplicated, what wonders might he accomplish! He envisioned an army of drow, a silent and invisible force sweeping the surface lands. With such a thing, Vhaeraun’s kingdom—and his own reign—was virtually ensured.
The wizard looked into Shakti’s glowing crimson eyes and saw there a lust for power to equal his own. “The interests of Vhaeraun and Lloth need not conflict,” he ventured. When Shakti did not interrupt, he continued with more confidence. “You know what this amulet could mean. If it falls into the hands of the matriarchy, it will only increase their power, fuel the endless chaos. The city will continue much as it has for centuries. But with such magic in my hands, I could entice an army of drow to the Night Above. You are young; before you end your second century of life this army could return and march to your command. You could come to rule Menzoberranzan.”
“And from Menzoberranzan, the Underdark,” Shakti added confidently. The First Directive of Lloth has been ignored for too long. Most drow will welcome the chance to conquer the Lands Below.”
“I have many alliances on the surface world,” the male continued. “Supplies, slaves, information—you will need all these things to accomplish your goals. The more power I have, the more assistance I can offer you.”
The priestess nodded. “Your kingdom above, mine below.”
Despite everything, it was a most satisfactory arrangement. Nisstyre smiled, and the sharp pain in the center of his forehead fled as they spoke the words that bound their pact.
Shakti hurried to her private chamber in the Hunzrin compound. She rapped sharply on the wall, and in response to her summons, the dark naga slithered up through its tunnels and into her room.
“What have you found for me?” she demanded.
The naga promptly coughed up a map of the surface world. When Shakti smoothed the scroll flat, the creature flicked out its long blue tongue, marking a spot near a large forest.
“Here be many caverns,” hissed the snakelike mage. “Ssasser been there, born there. Close to surface, no radiation magic. Many time Ssasser see drow come through gates there. If drow female be wizard, then this way she might have gone. Ssasser take quaggoth fighters, travel through magic gate.” The dark naga paused for a thunderous belch. He spat out a set of combs, beautiful, costly things made of the shells of giant Underdark turtles and studded with gems. “These Ssasser take from drow female’s house. The quaggoth fighters get from them the female’s scent, track her down.”
It was a logical plan, but Shakti’s nearsighted eyes narrowed in suspicion. The naga had received most of its magical training in House Hunzrin, and priestesses seldom used spells of teleportation. Through the power of Lloth they plane-walked, moving to the lower planes and back with ease, but they seldom had the wizardly skill needed to com- mand the gates that took them from one place to another on the material plane.
“And where would you have gotten such a spell?” She did not wait for an answer. A simple mind-reading enchantment took the image of a spellbook from the naga’s thoughts, and she ordered the creature to turn it over. Sheepishly, the naga hacked again and yielded up the stolen book. Shakti did not open it, for she knew better than to read unlearned spells.
“Let’s see what you can do with it,” she told the naga.
The creature nosed open the book and began to read the arcane symbols. But the needed gate spell was beyond its power; the dark naga whimpered with pain and curled into a writhing mass of looping coils.
Shakti sighed and yielded to the inevitable: she would once again have to hire the expensive wizard. She hated parting with more gold, and she simply could not afford to involve an outsider in her current plans. But what else could she do?
The naga, once he recovered from his spell-inflicted agony, was only too glad to go off to summon the draw mage. In the meantime, Shakti sent a servant to bring around a pair of mated quaggoths.
House Hunzrin kept and bred the bearlike creatures for use as guards and shock troops. Quaggoths were ideal for both. Seven feet tall, heavily muscled and protected by tough hide covered with thick white fur, the quaggoths were fearsome in appearance and were strong, fierce fighters. They also had an unpleasant surprise in store for anyone who managed to wound or anger them.
Shakti gave the creatures the combs Ssasser bad pilfered from Liriel’s home. The quaggoths had keen noses and were excellent trackers, provided she was able to set them in the right direction. It was time to test the power of Nisstyre’s ruby.
The priestess took a small scrying bowl, as red and as black as dried blood, and placed it upon the map the naga had stolen. She cast the spell that would enable her to locate Nisstyre. Saasser’s map glowed, marking the spot where the drow wizard now stood. The naga had done his research well, for the glowing spot was in the caverns the snake-creature had named. Apparently Nisstyre held similar opinions concerning Liriel’s destination.
When Ssasser returned with the wizard, Shakti handed the drow the spellbook and told him to open a gate near the spot marked on the map. Intrigued, the male leafed through the book until he found the proper spell. After a period of study, the wizard cast the enchantment. A shimmering oval appeared in Shakti’s chamber.
“Will the gate close of its own accord, or does that require another spell?” she demanded.
“It will last only a few moments, then dissipate,” the wizard assured her.
Shakti nodded approvingly, and the snake heads at her belt began to writhe in anticipation. The new high priestess seized her weapon, enjoying the feel of the cool adamantine handle in her hand, and she lashed out at the hired wizard.
The five snake heads dove in to fasten their fangs in his flesh. Numbing, burning pain coursed through the drow male. Unable to move, unable to «ftst a spell in his defense, he slumped to the ground. The sight drove Shakti into a frenzy of vicious delight, and she lashed at the defenseless wizard again and again.
When it was clear he was dead, Shakti tucked the weapon away. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly—more from excitement than from the effort of killing the male—but a rare expression of calm suffused her face. She felt sated by the wizard’s death, utterly content for now but also eager to kill again.
“Take the male through the gate with you,” she instructed Ssasser. When the naga hesitated, puzzled, she added, “You and the quaggoths might enjoy a snack before starting your hunt. Leave no trace of him for anyone to find.”
The naga grinned fiercely and sank his blue fangs deep into the dead drow. Lifting his burden, Ssasser struggled to the gate and slithered through eagerly. But the quaggoths hung back, obviously leery of the unfamiliar magic.
Shakti seized her pitchfork and stabbed one of the reluctant creatures—the male, of course—in the backside. The quaggoth let out a roar of pain and plunged into the shining oval. His mate glanced at the glowering drow, then stepped through the gate without further hesitation.
Finally alone, the traitor-priestess placed her new weapons in a row, along with the magic pitchfork that had hitherto been her only claim to power. She admired them—the pitchfork, the snake-headed whip, the ruby scrying bowl of Vhaeraun—and debated which among them was her favorite.
It was pleasant exercise, for in truth she really did not have to pick, although the day might come when she would have to make such a choice. Until that day, Shakti intended to enjoy all her weapons, all her power, to the fullest extent.