Sacrifice of the Widow_ Lady Penitent - Lisa Smedman [115]
Spiders of stone.
He collapsed, dead.
Iljrene was busy with a prayer of her own as a second Selvetargtlin burst into the cavern, also screaming his deity’s name. Singing loudly, her magical sword whistling over her head in whirling counterpoint, Iljrene flicked her hand in his direction then squeezed. The second cleric’s eyes widened, and he took a staggering step, another—and his body collapsed into a bloody ball of mangled flesh pierced by protruding splinters of bone. Carried forward by the aborted charge, what remained of the cleric fell to the ground, a wet, bloody ball inside a suddenly loose robe.
It had been a brutal spell, but there was no time for Qilué to mourn yet another drow soul forever beyond redemption. The stone spiders were on them, even as four more Selvetargtlin came running into the room screaming their god’s name. The second of the four held a black rod in his hand—the rod capable of breaking the seal on the Pit.
The judicator who had been leading them was nowhere to be seen.
The stone spiders were quite large—their backs level with Qilué’s head—but they were a distraction only. The one closest to Qilué clamped its fangs onto her shoulder, piercing her flesh and driving in venom, but Mystra’s silver fire instantly purged the poison from Qilué’s body and sealed the wound. With a flick of her fingers—never once taking her eyes off the clerics who were charging toward her—Qilué touched the creature and spoke an arcane word, instantly slaying it. She stepped out from beneath the spider as it toppled over, letting it crash to the floor behind her. A snap of her fingers summoned her singing sword to her hand. She swept it over her head and listened to its gleeful song.
Iljrene, meanwhile, had dealt equally swiftly with the other two spiders. Her song of prayer caused them to soften then sag. They melted away into mud that seeped into the rubble on the floor. The battle-mistress stepped forward beside Qilué, braced as her superior was to meet the four clerics who rushed toward them.
One of the Selvetargtlin chanted a prayer that caused his body to sprout dozens of blades, turning him into a living weapon as he ran. Another shouted a garbled prayer at Iljrene, but the battle-mistress whirled her sword around her head, and the magical confusion was dispelled.
Yet another of the Selvetargtlin shouted a prayer that caused a cloud of utter darkness, shot through with crackling white spiderwebs, to envelop Qilué. Flames raced along them as the web ignited. Qilué felt a brief flash of heat on her skin—heat that was absorbed by the scepter that hung from her belt. Silver fire flared around her and exploded, snuffing out the fire storm.
Then the clerics were on them, and they were fighting hand to hand. Iljrene squared off with the cleric whose body was studded with blades. Qilué fought two of the others, swiftly dispatching one with a thrust that caught him in the throat and trading a flurry of blows with the other. All the while, she kept an eye on the cleric who held the rod—the only one who had not yet closed in battle. When he drew back his arm, she realized he was going to hurl it at the statue in an attempt to disrupt the seal—an act of desperation, surely, since the throw was a long one and might miss. Parrying the cleric who slashed savagely at her with his sword while screaming Selvetarm’s name, Qilué waited for the throw. When the rod passed above her, Qilué would release Mystra’s silver fire in yet another form—one that would temporarily disrupt the Weave, preventing the rod from functioning. The cleric whipped his hand over his head, threw …
Before Qilué could release Mystra’s fire, the rod had passed her—so quickly that Qilué could not even bring her head up to watch the black streak that it became. The cleric who threw the rod also moved in a streak, across the room to a spot beside