Dissolution

TWENTY

«Let me do it,» Houndaer growled. His scimitar at the ready, he stalked toward Ryld. The Master of Melee-Magthere tried and failed to rise. As a student at the Academy and in all the years since, he'd studied techniques for transcending pain, but he'd never felt anything comparable to the invisible blow the undead illithid had struck him. It had been like a spear driving through his mind. Syrzan emerged from its momentary trance and said, «No.» Houndaer turned. «No?» he asked. «You were right about them. Obviously.» «And I trust,» said the lich, its mouth tentacles wriggling, «that you'll remember whose judgment is superior. Now that they're here, however, they might as well serve our cause as you hoped they would. It's just a matter of reshaping their minds.» The bard lifted an eyebrow and asked, «Can you do that?»

«Yes,» said Syrzan, «but not instantaneously, and not now. I need my strength to give the Call.» It pulled Pharaun's silver ring off the unconscious drow's finger. «Lock them up for the time being,» the alhoon ordered. «All right,» said Tsabrak. «I hope you're going to fix it so we can all control them.» He too advanced on Ryld. The weapons master struggled once again to rise. Someone lashed him over the head with the flat of a blade, and all the strength spilled out of him like wine from an overturned cup. The next few minutes were a blur. Houndaer, Tsabrak, the bard, and another renegade carried their captives to a cell. It had the same grime and air of desolation as much of the rest of the castle, but someone, exhibiting a proper dark elf's sense of priorities, had gone to the trouble to refurbish the locks and restraints. The rogues divested Ryld of his cloak and armor, then chained him to the wall. As he'd expected, the conspirators took more elaborate precautions with the wizard, even though Pharaun had suffered a violent seizure shortly after Syrzan stu

«Pharaun,» he said in a low tone. «Are you truly unconscious, or is it a trick?»

Slumped with the steel harness clamped around his head, the Master of Sorcere didn't respond. If not for the rise and fall of his chest, Ryld would have feared him dead. The swordsman tried to go to Pharaun, but his chains were too short. He undertook an examination of the shackles. The cuffs fit tightly, and the locks were strong. The links were heavy, well forged, and anchored securely in the wall. Ryld had broken free of bonds a time or two in his turbulent early years, but without tools or a miracle, he wouldn't be sundering these. Nor, denied the use of his voice and hands, was Pharaun likely to fare any better. Still, Ryld suspected the mage was his only hope. Pharaun was clever. Perhaps he could think of a workable ploy, if only he was conscious. «Wake up!» Ryld roared. «Wake up, curse it. You've got to get us out of here!» To add to the din, he beat a length of chain against the wall. To no avail. He shouted until his throat was raw, but Pharaun didn't stir. «Bleed it!» the weapons master swore. He hunkered down on the floor and tried to work up some saliva to wash away the dryness in his mouth. As the renegades hadn't bothered to provide a water jug, spit was the best he could do.

«You have to wake up,» he said in a softer voice. «Otherwise, they've beaten us, and we've never let anyone do that. Do you remember when we hunted that cloaker lord? We found out too late that it had sixty-seven other chasm rays in its raiding parry, many more than our little band of third-year students was prepared to confront. But you said, 'It's all right, it just takes the proper spells to even the odds. First you conjured a wall of fire. .» Ryld rambled on for hours, talking his throat raw, recounting their shared experiences as they occurred to him. Perhaps the stories would strike a spark in Pharauns unconscious mind, and in any case, it was better than just sitting and wondering what life would be like after Syrzan corrupted his mind. Finally the wizard's chin jerked up off his chest. His eyes were wild, and he tried to cry out. The bit turned the sound into a strangled gurgle even as it cut into the corners of his mouth. Beads of blood blossomed from the wounds. «It's all right,» Ryld said. «Whatever the lich did to you, it's over.» Pharaun took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Rationality returned to his eyes. Ryld got the feeling that if not for the harness, the wizard would have smiled his usual cheery smile. He nodded to the weapons master, thanking him for the reassurance, then he inspected the sheath constraining his hands. He bashed it on the floor a few times to see if he could jolt the catches open. They held with nary a rattle. He shook his head, sat still for several seconds, then closed his eyes and settled back against the wall, no doubt pondering their plight. After several minutes, the wizard straightened up. He started scraping the heel of one boot against the side of the other. Ryld felt a stir of excitement. He could only assume his fellow master had a talisman hidden inside the footwear. It was odd the wizard hadn't remembered until then, but perhaps it was a result of the seizure.

Like all drow boots, Pharaun's were high and fit snugly. By the time it slid off the mage's foot, Ryld was avid with curiosity to see … nothing. Nothing but trews and a stocking. Pharaun set to work shoving off the other boot. Ryld wished he knew what his friend had in mind, but knew it would be pointless to ask. With his hands concealed, the spellcaster couldn't answer even in the silent drow sign language.

Eventually the second boot slipped free, whereupon Pharaun pushed off his socks. His bare feet were of a piece with his hands, slender and long, the digits included.

The wizard lifted his right foot, stared at it intently, and started curling and crossing the toes. He fumbled through a sequence of moves, then repeated it. It took Ryld another few moments to comprehend, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In point of fact, the Underdark abounded in creatures, Syrzan included, whose extremities differed notably from a dark elf's, yet who worked magic nonetheless. So maybe Pharaun had a chance. Maybe he could cast one of those spells that only required movement, not an incantation or material components. But only if he could shift his feet and toes through the proper patterns, those precise and intricate passes he'd spent years learning to execute with his hands.

When the toes of his right foot grew tired, he started working with those of his left. After that, he shifted his weight back, lifted his legs, and practiced twining them together. Ryld might have found it quite a comical spectacle had his life not depended on the mage's success.

Soon Pharaun began to sweat and occasionally to tremble, which always forced him to stop and rest for a bit. After an hour, he moved on to the next phase of his experiment: putting the elements of the spell together, moving everything at the same time with the proper sequence and timing. Ryld watched the process intently. He was no wizard, but to his untutored eye, it appeared that after a while, Pharaun was producing exactly the same pattern two times out of three. The rest he fumbled in one way or another. Finally, breathing hard, he looked at the weapons master and shrugged. «That's all right,» the swordsman replied. «Two out of three is good odds.»

Pharaun slumped back and spent the next few minutes resting. When he sat up and, heedless of the fresh blood that started from the corners of his mouth, he growled through the mask. He banged the box encasing his hands twice against the floor, then looked at Ryld. «I understand,» the warrior said. «Make noise. Bring someone.» Pharaun nodded. The cage around his head clinked.

«Ho!» Ryld shouted. «Somebody, come here! I'm a Master of Melee-Magthere. I know secrets about the defenses of the great Houses, secrets you must know for your plans to succeed. I'll trade them for my freedom!» He continued in the same vein for several minutes, clashing his chains against the wall for emphasis. Meanwhile Pharaun lay motionless, as if he were still unconscious. Finally, eyes appeared at the little barred window in the door. «What?» the newcomer snarled. It wasn't a voice Ryld had heard before. «I need to talk to you,» the weapons master said. «I heard,» said the other drow. «You have secrets. The alhoon will rip them out of you, no bargain required.» «Syrzan said it would take time to turn us into mind-slaves,» Ryld replied. »I have information you need before you unleash the undercreatures. Their rebellion will do you no good if the weapons masters strike them all dead before they even get started.» «How could the masters-of-arms do that?» asked the rogue. «A secret,» said Ryld, «that we brothers of the pyramid teach to a chosen few.» «I don't believe you.» «We've been studying war for mille