Resurrection

A few desiccated caveflies hung from the strands like tiny marionettes.

She walked to the web, head cocked, and held the candle aloft.

She studied the strands, thinking them beautiful in their intricacy. Every strand had a reason to exist in the web, every strand served a purpose.

Every strand.

The web made sense in a way that her life, death, and resurrection did not.

She looked more closely at the web, moved the candle around it, but saw no spider. She lightly brushed it with her finger, hoping the vibration would draw the creature out of hiding.

Nothing. The caveflies bounced on their strings.

For no reason that she could articulate, Quenthel hated the web. An impulse took her, and she could not stop herself.

She lifted the candle and held its flame to the strands. She knew it was blasphemy but she did it anyway, unable to contain a crazed grin.

The strands curled and disintegrated, vanishing into fleeting streams of smoke. The caveflies rained to the floor. Warming to her work, Quenthel continued until she had obliterated all sign of the web. She kneeled and burned each of the caveflies, one by one.

The serpents of her whip were too stu

Mistress? K'Sothra finally managed.

Quenthel ignored her and stalked off, her rage inexplicably abated.

Chapter Sixteen

Danifae lost track of Jeggred the moment she stepped onto the Pass of the Soulreaver. One moment he was there; the next, gone.

She was alone.

A narrow passageway stretched before her, lined on each side by sheer walls of rock. A gray mist crawled over the ground. Her skin went gooseflesh from the chill.

With nothing for it, she walked forward. She felt as though she was covering leagues with each step, taking days to draw each breath. She pressed on, waiting for the Reaver to show itself.

After only a few moments, whispers sounded in her head, then hisses, pained wails. She could not see the source.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her breath came fast.

It was behind her! She knew it with certainty.

She lowered her morningstar and turned around slowly.

A mere five paces away, the misty, serpentine form of the Soulreaver filled the passage. Its empty eyes reduced her to insignificance. Its open mouth could have swallowed an ogre whole.

Deep in its throat, in its bowels, glowed i

Danifae struggled to find herself, to show no fear. She knew she faced another test of her worthiness.

She touched her holy symbol, and the amber felt cool in her palm.

The Reaver was so immense, so ancient, so terrible. .

The screams of the souls filled her mind. She bore it, though she wanted to dig a furrow in her skull.

The Reaver opened its mouth wider, simultaneously beckoning and challenging her to come forward, to test herself against what it would show her.

She started forward on leaden legs but stopped after only two steps.

Danifae gestured it toward her and said in her most seductive whisper, "You come to me."

It did not hesitate. Mouth agape, it streaked at her, terrifyingly fast. She held her ground as its maw engulfed her.

A thousand muttering voices, terrified, hopeless voices-the voices of the trapped souls-rang in her ears, sounded in her being.

She answered their scream with one of her own.

Anival, First Daughter to the Matron Mother of House Agrach Dyrr, watched from high atop one of the walls as the Xorlarrin forces shifted their ranks in preparation for an assault. She could see little. Strategically placed spheres of magical darkness shielded much of the movement.

Shouted commands and the ring of metal carried across the moat chasm.

Standing beside her, Urgan, the scarred weapons master of House Agrach Dyrr, said, "They will attack within the hour, Mistress Anival."

Anival nodded. She put her hands to the hafts of the two enchanted light maces that hung from her belt. Each sported a head fashioned in the shape of a spider.

"The timing is not coincidental," she said but did not explain. She assumed the attack to be designed to protect the archmage. His allies surely knew that the matron mother had learned of his deception.

Anival looked up and down the line, at walls of adamantine and stone. They had stood for mille

Dyrr solders lined the battlements, and Anival could see from their hard expressions that all of them sensed the impending attack. A tense rustle rippled through the ranks.

"We will hold," Anival said, speaking to herself as much as to Urgan.

The weapons master said, "We will."

Anival thought she heard doubt in Urgan's tone but let it pass. She wondered whether she should hope for her mother's success or failure in stopping the archmage. If the matron mother died and the lichdrow's phylactery was destroyed, Anival might-might-be able to negotiate an end to the siege.

But first, she needed to hold her walls, and without either her vrocks, or her House wizards.

Xorlarrin war trumpets sounded.

"Here they come," Urgan said.

Each of the spider golem's forelegs ended in a sharp claw of jet as long as a short sword. Its mandibles churned with fangs as long as Gromph's hand.

Gromph did not care. Transformed into a skilled warrior by the power of his spell, he charged straight at the golem's front, axe held high in both hands.

The golem crouched at his approach, and two claws lashed out in rapid succession before

Gromph got within reach. Anticipating the move, Gromph spun aside and partially parried one blow with his axe. The other claw struck at one of the mirror images, hit it, and caused it to vanish with a pop.

Using the force of his spin to add momentum to his swing, Gromph whirled in close, slashed with the duergar axe, and cut a wedge of jet from the construct's thorax. With his spell-

augmented speed, he followed up with another, cleaving a furrow in one leg.

The spider leaped backward-crushing a bench under its weight-and struck at Gromph with one claw, then another. Gromph ducked and dodged, trying again to get in close. Two more images vanished. The construct moved with astounding rapidity, despite its weight.

For a moment, the two circled, a few paces apart. The golem stepped over the benches,

cracking stone as it moved, waving its pedipalps hypnotically. Its clawed feet thumped into the floor with each step.

Gromph followed it with his eyes, light on the balls of his feet.

A boom against the temple doors turned Gromph's head. Someone was trying to get through his holding spell. Yasraena had located him.

Seeing his distraction, the golem lunged at him, knocking over benches in its haste. Gromph dived aside and rolled. Claws thumped into the ground around him-one, then another, and another-and three images vanished in rapid succession. A claw nicked his shoulder, drawing blood. His ring began to heal the wound.

Gromph leaped to his feet and intercepted a decapitating claw strike with his axe. The parry severed one of the golem's legs, and a shaft of jet as large as an ogre's arm crashed into a nearby bench.

Another boom against the door. His spell held but Gromph had little time.

Dodging first one blow, then another, he darted inside the golem's reach and struck at its head with his axe. He cut a sliver from it, but it backed off, toppling benches. Gromph pressed but the creature responded by exhaling a cloud of black mist.

Acid, Gromph realized, but could not avoid it. The personal wards that would have protected his own body did not protect Larikal's. Agony lit his skin. His nonmagical clothes disintegrated-