Forgotten Realms - The Lady Penitent - Ascendancy of the Last Page 3

  “It’s a wizard’s construct,” Leliana answered. “Deadly when active, but this one looks frozen with rust.”

  The human and the drow male both took a nervous step back. Jub merely grunted. He clambered down into the trough in the magic-parted river and yanked on the net, trying to free it. Blindfish scattered from it and landed gasping on the slick rock. Jub put a foot on one of the construct’s legs and boosted himself higher, trying to unhook the net from the barbed tail. Rust flaked away under his boots.

  “Don’t get so close to it, Jub!” the human called, stepping forward. “Be careful!”

  Jub laughed. “It’s not gonna come alive. Even if it does, there’s a Protector here.”

  Leliana smiled. Three and a half years ago, at the time of the Selvetargtlin attack, Jub had been reduced to a few scattered body parts by a dracolich. The priestesses had recovered what remained, and resurrected him. He didn’t fear anything any more. Not after he’d danced, briefly, with the goddess.

  Jub climbed higher. Balanced with one foot on the scorpion’s back and the other on the base of its tail, he wrenched at the net. The barbed tip bent with a loud creak. Then it snapped off, sending Jub tumbling backward in a tangle of net and wriggling blindfish. He scrambled to his feet and held up the net triumŹphantly. “There! All it took was a little muscle and—”

  “Quiet!” Leliana barked.

  Jub looked puzzled. “What—?”

  “Listen! That crackling sound.”

  Jub cocked his head. He dropped the net and used his hands. I don’t hear anything.

  Leliana hesitated. Had she actually heard something, or was that just the rush of the river? Then a white-hot spark streaked out of the hollow stump where the tail barb had been. She smelled the sharp tang of lightning-burned air.

  “Jub!” she shouted. “Get away from the construct! It’s animating!”

  She drew her sword and motioned the other two lay worshipŹers back. Then she leaped down into the hollow in the river. She motioned Jub behind her and braced herself, sword raised. Ready. The singing sword sharply pealed, eager for battle.

  More sparks erupted from the tail. Leliana heard a scratchŹing sound, like claws scrabbling against metal. It started inside the head of the construct, and worked its way down through the abdomen. Leliana began a hymn of protection, but before she could complete the verse, a smaller construct, this one made of gold and shaped like a crab, appeared at the broken end of the tail. It teetered a moment, like a plate on a blade’s edge, then fell with a clang onto the riverbed. Leliana immediately changed her prayer to one that would disable the construct, but the crab was too quick for her. It scurried sideways and disappeared into the wall of suspended water.

  “What was that?” Jub asked. “The scorpion’s brain?”

  “Good guess,” Leliana said, impressed. For someone who was only half drow, Jub was pretty bright.

  “There!” the drow male shouted. “It’s climbing out of the river.”

  Leliana scrambled up the bank and looked where he was pointing. The gold crab was scuttling sideways across a cavern fronting onto the river—a cavern that opened onto a twisting maze of passages that held the ruins of a drow city.

  Leliana ran for the bridge. “Stay there,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Don’t try to follow.”

  That last had been for Jub’s benefit. The half-orc wasn’t even armed, save for his fishing knife. If the construct was on its way back to its wizard master and Jub followed, he’d only get himself killed. Again.

  “Right,” he called back. “No favors. Got it.”

  Leliana didn’t have time to wonder what he’d meant. She hurried into the cavern on the opposite side of the bridge, past its trio of columns, and on into the maze of twisting corridors. As she ran, she cast a sending. She tried to remember the name of the young Nightshadow who was patrolling that cavern. She could picture him clearly in her mind: he was as light-footed as a dancer, with straight-cut bangs above intense red eyes. A recent convert who worshiped the “Masked Lady” and wore a sword-shaped pendant in addition to his black mask.

  Suddenly the name came to her. “Naxil!” she shouted.

  Eilistraee’s magic filled her. His mind touched hers. Alert. Questioning.

  A construct is coming your way. A plate-sized gold crab. Halt it, but don’t destroy it. Qilué will want to examine it.

  His reply was tense, excited. I see it!

  Leliana ran on, turning right, then left, then right again. She passed the first of the tunnels that led back to the Sargauth—back to the cavern the crab had scurried into after climbing out of the river. This first tunnel followed a laborious, winding path, but there was a shorter route just ahead. She turned into this second tunnel, and at last reached the cavern that overlooked the river. It was empty. She stood, panting, looking around for the Nightshadow.

  Which way had he gone? Three different corridors led from this cavern to the maze of corridors beyond. She bent to inspect the floor, hoping the crab might have left a dribble of water that would show her which corridor it had entered.

  Naxil emerged from the third tunnel, startling her. “Dark Lady,” he panted. “My apologies. The construct escaped.”

  He met her eye unflinchingly as he delivered the bad news. For someone who’d left Eryndlyn behind only a year ago—who would still have the matron mothers and their ways fresh in his mind—Naxil was refreshingly bold.

  “Where did you last see it? Show me.”

  Naxil spun and pointed. “This way.”

  He led her down a corridor that dead-ended, and pointed at the blank wall. “There.”

  Leliana examined the stone. It was utterly smooth, worn down by the oozes and slimes that had slithered through this area for centuries, prior to Qilué and her companions cleansing this place. There were no crevices into which the crab construct could have scuttled, no cracks in the floor or chimneys in the ceiling.

  “Are you certain it didn’t double back? Get past you?”

  “I’m certain. It ran to this spot and … vanished.”

  “A portal,” Leliana concluded.

  Naxil nodded. “Must be.”

  Leliana sang a prayer and passed her free hand over the wall. She didn’t expect her hymn to reveal anything: three and a half years ago, after the Selvetargtlin attack on the Promenade, these passageways had been carefully examined by priestesses more experienced in portal magic than she. The corridors had also been examined by mundane means: the Promenade’s lay worshipers included several rogues who were adept at detecting hidden doors and passages. Even so, the construct had to have gone somewhere.

  A flicker of Faerzress blossomed on the wall next to Naxil, momentarily washing his face with a faint blue glow. He was a handsome male—young enough to be Leliana’s son, and in his physical prime. Later, when things were quieter, she just might take him. With his permission, of course, she reminded herself. Since her redemption, she’d played by Eilistraee’s rules.

  “Dark Lady?” Naxil asked. “Should I return to my post?”

  “Not yet.” Leliana sheathed her sword. She wanted to check the corridor one last time, to gather as much information as she could before reporting to the battle-mistress. “And call me Leliana.”

  She squatted to inspect the floor. As she ran her fingers across it she felt a slight tugging. It was almost as if the floor were a lodestone, exerting a pull upon the rings she wore. Yet neither ring should have been drawn to a lodestone. Her shield ring was platinum, and the one next to it—the ring that allowed her to levitate—was gold.

  Just like the construct.

  The pull suddenly intensified. Her hand jerked downŹward and touched the floor. She saw Naxil stagger sideways and felt her stomach lurch. A glow surrounded them: a golden circle in the floor, centered on the spot where Leliana crouched.

  “Mother’s blood,” Leliana swore. She leaped to her feet and drew her sword.

  They were no longer in the corridor. The portal had actiŹvat
ed, sending them somewhere else: a roughly oval cavern about a hundred paces wide, with a ceiling so low Leliana could have reached up and touched it. A multitude of hair-thin crevices criss-crossed the floor, walls, and ceiling, giving them the appearance of old, cracked pottery. The stone glistened slightly in spots, as if wet: probably condensation; it felt hot and moist in here.

  Leliana could see three exits, all of them natural tunnels. Two led off into darkness; from the third came a dull red glow. Warmth flowed out of it, stirring the air and filling the cavern with the smell of molten stone.

  Defensive stance, Leliana signed with her free hand.

  Naxil swiftly repositioned himself, his back to hers. He held his magical dagger by the point, ready for a throw. She heard him whisper a prayer of protection. Each scanned the area, their free hand held out where the other could see it in peripheral vision. Leliana’s sword hummed softly, anticipatŹing danger.

  No threat spotted, Naxil signed.

  No immediate threats, Leliana agreed.

  Nor was there any sign of the construct. There were, howŹever, half a dozen large jumbles of iron that might once have been other constructs, lying in rusting heaps on the floor.

  Do you know this place? Naxil asked.

  No.

  The gold circle started to fade. Leliana squatted and touched her ring to the floor. Nothing happened. The golden glow disappeared. It looked as though they weren’t getting out of here via the portal.

  Fortunately, they had another way out: a prayer that would return them to the spot on the surface that Leliana had desŹignated as her sanctuary. But she didn’t want to invoke that magic yet. She wanted to learn more about where the portal had sent them.

  She decided to send a brief message to the battle-mistress, before moving out. Rylla, she sent. There’s a new portal in a dead-end between Three Pillars and Dragon Throne Cavern. I accidentally activated it. Can you scry me?

  She waited. No reply came. The portal had either sent them to another plane—unlikely, this certainly felt like part of the Underdark—or this place was somehow warded to prevent magical communication.

  Something dripped from the ceiling onto her shoulder. A moment later she felt dampness as it soaked through her chain mail, into the padded tunic she wore underneath—then a burning as it reached her skin. Acid! She heard Naxil suck air through clenched teeth. A drop must have struck him, as well.

  She sprang away from the spot, and Naxil did likewise. They looked up. Acid-slicked strands of what looked like gray mucus were oozing from one of the cracks in the ceiling, directly over the spot where they’d just been standing. The strands twitched slightly, like worms, elongating even as Leliana watched.

  Gray ooze, she signed. A quick glance around confirmed her fear: the stuff was weeping from several other spots in the ceiling. In some places, acid fell in a steady dribble. In others, it dripped. A drop of it landed on her hand, stinging it.

  She pointed at one of the darkened tunnels. Check it. See if it’s safe. Order given, she sprinted for the other dark tunnel and peered inside. The cracks in its floor, walls, and ceiling extended as far as she could see. Ooze seeped through the ceiling here too.

  Naxil turned away from his tunnel. No good. More ooze.

  Leliana hesitated. She glanced at the third exit. Was it wishful thinking, or was the floor in front of it slightly less slick? She flicked a hand: That way. If they didn’t find a safe spot soon, she’d be forced to teleport them out of here.

  She had to run nearly doubled over to avoid the strands of ooze hanging from the ceiling. Acid splattered her back, dribbled in between the links in her mail, and burned its way to her skin. Other drops struck the back of her head. Naxil slipped on the acid-slick floor, nearly falling. Leliana grabbed his arm and dragged him into the tunnel.

  A few paces in, the acid dribbles stopped. Though the stone here was also cracked, the gray ooze didn’t seem to like the dry heat. The farther up the tunnel they ran, the drier the floor got. At last Leliana called a halt. She gritted her teeth at the hot flares of pain in her back, shoulders, scalp, and hands. It was as if a dozen wasps were stinging her all at once. And those had just been drips. Once that ooze forced its way fully through the cracks in the cavern ceiling, there would be no going back.

  Naxil’s free hand strayed to his shoulder, fingers gingerly touching an acid burn in his leather armor. He winced.

  “Have you been taught the healer’s prayer?” Leliana asked softly.

  Naxil nodded. “A lesser version of it.”

  “Use it.”

  Together they sang their prayers—softly, their voices mere whispers in the darkness. When they were done, Naxil sighed deeply and flexed his shoulder, stretching the healed skin. “What are the battle-mistress’s orders?”

  “Rylla didn’t answer my sending. Looks like we’re on our own.”

  Naxil glanced back the way they’d come. “I think I know where we are.”

  “Oh?”

  “Does the name Trobriand mean anything to you?”

  Leliana shook her head.

  “He was an apprentice of Halaster—the wizard who used magic to carve out much of Undermountain.”

  “Him, I’ve heard of,” Leliana said in a wry voice. Among the drow, Halaster was a name often followed by an oath. Centuries ago—long before Qilué had founded the Promenade—the “mad mage” and his followers had waged war upon the drow of Undermountain, slaughtering hundreds, if not thousands. Halaster had harassed the drow with his spells through the long centuries since. When the mad mage had died four years ago, Qilué had led the priestesses of the Promenade in a song of rejoicing.

  “I’ve been thinking about the construct we followed here,” Naxil continued. “Trobriand was known as the ‘metal mage.’ He was famous for his constructs. The portal may have deposŹited us in one of his sanctums. That would explain why the crab made for it.”

  “How do you know so much about ancient wizards?”

  Naxil’s eyes crinkled. “My father was a sorcerer. An alcheŹmist. I was training as his apprentice, before I joined the Masked Lady’s dance.”

  Leliana’s eyebrows rose. Naxil was a boy of hidden talents. “Do you know any spells?”

  “Only a couple of cantrips—and not terribly useful ones. I can inscribe objects with an indelible House glyph, and”—his fingers twitched, and his voice suddenly shifted to a point behind her—”I can shift sounds.”

  “Not bad,” Leliana said. “So why did you give up wizardry?”

  His expression flattened. “I got tired of the beatings.”

  A silent understanding passed between them. Leliana had been raised in Menzoberranzan, the daughter of a noble House. She too had learned early on that prestige and punŹishment walked hand in hand. Her back was clear now, but for years she’d worn the scars of her mother’s lash. When she’d borne a daughter of her own, Leliana vowed to give her a better life.

  She wrenched her mind back to the present. “Expensive, to build constructs out of gold,” she commented.

  “Practical,” Naxil countered. “Gold resists acid—that’s one of the ways you can distinguish it from the coarser metals. The only thing that will dissolve it is aqua regia. Trobriand obviously intended that the crab survive the oozes, once it had used the portal.”

  Leliana glanced up the tunnel, to the dull red glow. “Let’s see what lies ahead,” she decided. “I’ll lead. You watch my back. Keep close, in case I need to sing us out of here.”

  They made their way down the tunnel. Here and there, Leliana could see a momentary flicker of the Faerzress that had spread far and wide when the Crones worked their fell magic with the voidstone. Its light was drowned out, however, by the red glow from up ahead.

  The farther they went, the brighter the glow became. The air grew hotter and drier. Leliana breathed warily, alert for the first signs of lightheadedness. If there was lava ahead, as she suspected, the air in the tunnel could prove poisonous. She glanced back at Naxil and saw sw
eat beading his brow and trickling down his temples. His hair and clothes were damp, as were hers.

  They came to a place where the passage bent sharply. Leliana motioned for Naxil to halt and peered around the corner. The tunnel beyond it was bisected by a deep crevice in the floor that glowed with an eye-searing red light. Heat made the air above the crevice shimmer. Leliana sniffed, and caught the whiff of sulfur she’d been expecting. Somewhere deep in that crack, lava flowed.

  The gap was too wide to jump. She decided they’d risked enough for one day. Time to get out of here and report what they’d discovered.

  “Touch my back,” she whispered to Naxil. “We’re leaving.”

  He did so, and she sang a hymn of return, but the sudden lurch of slipping sideways through the dimensions didn’t come. The prayer should have conveyed them both to the Misty Forest shrine: her designated sanctuary. It didn’t.

  Naxil waited. His eyes held a silent question.

  Leliana shook her head. “Trobriand must have warded his sanctum against teleportation. I’ll try something else. Keep watch.”

  She stepped away from Naxil, sheathed her sword, and hummed a wordless prayer. With one hand touching her holy symbol, she turned slowly. Which way? she asked silently. Which way is the Promenade? She concentrated on its most prominent feature: the statue of Eilistraee that had been erected at the site of Qilué’s victory over Ghaunadaur.

  The magic took hold, halting her. Her extended hand jerked straight up.

  “By all that dances,” she exclaimed. “The Promenade is directly above us!”

  Leliana nodded to herself. That explained how the tunnel ahead had cracked open deep enough to reach lava. Both it and the other, smaller cracks must have resulted from the powerful earthquake that had rocked Undermountain four years ago, a few months before the Selvetargtlin attack on the Promenade. If Eilistraee’s statue was above this spot, the rubble-filled shaft leading to the Pit of Ghaunadaur would be somewhere nearby. It too would have been affected by the earthquake. The walls of the shaft must have cracked open wide enough for the gray ooze to slither out.