Regrettably, he proved quarrelsome once too often. And so I had to deal with him before he learned of his surprise. But the Demon Goddess works in mysterious ways. Because here you are to take his place.”
“If you kill me, I’ll only return and hunt you down. I’m bound on the wheel of reincarnation.”
“No. You’re wrong. When I give your heart to Lolth, it won’t be just this mortal life she’ll strip from you. She’ll take every last future incarnation, too. She’s the Queen of the Demonweb Pits. When a soul is sacrificed to her, she lets no scrap fall between her mandibles.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Screams clawed the air, high and piercing. They emerged from the edge of the surrounding crowd of drow slave-soldiers. Chenraya’s gluttonous gaze shifted from Demascus as she searched for the cause. He didn’t volunteer that the sounds were likely the result of his friends attacking the army’s flank, to provide him a distraction. The momentary lapse of her regard lessened the paralyzing weight that’d settled over his mind.
He uttered a plea for divine radiance, made to the universe at large. In answer, a burning mark scribed the air directly over his head. The mark wasn’t as brilliant as the noonday sun, but it was still damn bright. The drow on the raised dais were creatures of the Underdark and unused to anything brighter than dim cave light. The robed drow and the two warriors turned, Chenraya fell back, and the last warrior threw a forearm over his eyes. If any of them had been vampires, they might have taken fire, too. Sadly, none sizzled, not even a little.
However, the dazzling light erased any shadows close enough for him to work with. He hadn’t thought his ploy all the way through. Worse, his body remained determinedly locked in paralysis to the staff, which itself was planted as solidly as a five-hundred-year-old tree in the forest. And the blades of
“Veil!” he rasped, “Help me!” The scarf uncoiled from his neck in billowing loops. One end wriggled down his arm and wrapped the staff’s headpiece. The other end whipped out like a striking adder. It caught one drow warrior around the neck in a winding grasp. The moment of contact between drow and staff closed, lightning cracked the air. And Demascus’s muscles eased, just as the drow warrior dropped, smoke issuing from eye sockets.
The Veil went limp, steaming and a little blackened at the edges. Demascus fell, too, in a convincing imitation of a rag doll. He hit the web floor with one shoulder and tucked into a flopping roll that moved him a few paces closer to the edge of the dais. He found himself staring up into the face of another drow warrior holding a glaive with a spike on the end.
The drow tried to stab him with the pointy bit.
Demascus jerked out of the way. The spike grazed his armor but failed to pierce flesh. As the warrior raised the glaive for a second try, Demascus pulled his knees up to his chest, then lashed out as if his legs were a released spring. He smashed a boot heel into the warrior’s knee. The joint made a funny popping sound. The drow collapsed, gasping in surprise at his sudden inability to hold his own weight.
And Demascus was up. He was shaking like a drunkard too long deprived of drink, sure, but being on his feet was better than on his back.
The three remaining drow-the last warrior, the fellow in the wizardly robes, and Chenraya-got their bearings. The howling ettercaps and driders kept up their din. Demascus hoped his friends were responsible. At least none of the driders had yet tried to climb the dais to help their mistress, despite that Demascus was in among the drow leaders, killing or disabling them one by one.
One by one … Yes. That was how it was supposed to be. None of this stealing and running. The Sword of the Gods might strike from the shadows, but he never, ever ran from a fight. A cold grin stretched Demascus’s lips.
The imprimatur of his ancient office swept the deva into its joyous, bloodythirsty embrace.
“The Sword has come,” he said, his voice suddenly resonant. His announcement gave all the drow pause. Even Chenraya blanched. His eyes sparked as he considered how he’d exterminate each one in turn. The wonderful thing about his office was that he was allowed to remove everyone who learned of its existence, at his sole discretion. Which was convenient.
His weapons were out and moving in a rhythm of defending curves and slashing threats, though he didn’t recall drawing them. The runes on each blade flared brighter and lifted slightly from the metal. The interweaving of his kata created a light painting in the air, a palimpsest of rune on rune, red on white, a fractal lure capable of fascinating the weak-minded.
None of the dark elves, however, apparently suffered from that particular mental handicap. The last warrior narrowed his eyes, hefted his ebony shield, and flicked his short sword from its sheath, launching a fluid series of cuts. Demascus parried each with his weaving blades. But the warrior caught each of Demascus’s countering cuts just as deftly on his shield.
This one was skilled! And wasting the deva’s time. Each moment he spent fencing gave Chenraya and the robed drow time to marshal their own attacks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the priestess gesticulating, purple light building on her fingertips.
“Lolth blast you!” screamed Chenraya, her arms suddenly motionless in a pose of exultation. The hair on Demascus’s neck lifted as if something immensely powerful moved beneath him like a sea monster under the waves threatening to breach.
The deva threw himself to one side. A gray bolt of power sundered the air where he’d been standing, brushing him, and where it touched, he lost feeling. The deadened spots were only a spattering, but each one was more than mere numbness; they were like holes in his existence. He laughed. He felt most alive when the stakes were highest! Even though a distant part of his mind was yelling at him to be careful, the Sword ignored it.
The drow warrior cut a trail of blood in the deva’s forearm with his flicking short sword. Demascus’s counterblows banged harmlessly on the shield. He should probably stop playing and neutralize them, before they coordinated their offensive. He lurched toward the muttering male wizard, whom the deva had left alone for too long. The warrior got in his way and, still startled, left off whatever spell he’d been concocting with a surprised exclamation that summoned the night. A natural ability these dark elves drew on instinctively when threatened, some past life whispered in his ear.
Blackness pinched out Demascus’s mark of radiance and settled over the central circle, blotting out all that occurred within its velvet cover. The drow could see perfectly in the dimness.
And with a flick of the Veil, it wrapped around his head like a blindfold, so the Sword could sense his surroundings, too. The scarf was still recovering from its previous exploit, though, so everything seemed scratchy and uncertain.
Chenraya was chanting again, maybe preparing for another shivering blast of divine power. The robed one who’d summoned darkness dug in the satchel hanging at his belt, searching for something.
The warrior charged. Demascus pretended to stumble, using the motion to duck under a sword swing as he went down on one knee. He shuffled and made a quarter turn so he was again directly between the two remaining male drow. Chenraya was still out of reach.
The wizard yelled something in a tongue Demascus didn’t recognize. Probably something like, “He can see us!”
Demascus grinned. “I am the Sword of the Gods,” he intoned. “Do you think darkness could deny an assassin of heaven?”
Queen Arathane called the storm. Despite how far they were beneath the surface, lightning answered and thunder roared. With her spear, she blasted waves of ettercaps, spiders, and lurching animated miners, rendering them indistinguishable smoking heaps. Even so, new waves of foes clambered over the wreckage to reach her.
Riltana and Chant fought at her side. The three of them constituted a competent and impressive force. Chant
