Storm of the Dead - Lisa Smedman [100]
At the center of the lake lay an island, on which stood the ruined city of V'elddrinnsshar. The island itself was a slumped mass of off-white limestone whose top had been leveled. Streets wound between empty stalagmite buildings that rose like tapering fingers questing for the ceiling. At the center of the island stood a larger spire of stone, its top sheared off. Kiaransalee's temple capped it, a brooding block of black marble. Ghosts flitted above it like demented swallows, their anguished moans filling the air in an eerie chorus.
As the boat drew closer to the island, Kвras could make out huddled shapes choking the streets of the abandoned city: the bodies of the dead. Several lay on the dock, arms or legs draped loosely over the edges where they had fallen. A dozen rose to their feet in silence as the boat scraped against the stone steps that led up to the dock. All were drow, their skin paled to dull gray. Each had flesh pocked with enormous, long-since ruptured blisters: the puffball-like hallmark of the ascomid plague. Had those blisters been fresh, the slightest touch would have ruptured them, releasing a cloud of deadly spores that would propagate the disease. But it had been a century since the plague had swept through there, killing everyone in the city.
Kвras twisted around on his seat and saw that Talzir's eyes were wide, his lips tight. Gindrol, who was rowing, still had his back to the dock.
"Steady," Kвras told them, his svirfneblin voice strange in his ears. "Remember, they need our voidstone. They're not going to kill us… yet."
The svirfneblin that was Talzir cracked a grim smile.
One of the undead drow-a female whose finery hung in tatters on her blistered body-staggered down the steps and reached down for the strongbox Kвras held. Shaking his head, he drew it out of her reach.
"This isn't for you, Mistress," he told her. "It's for your Reaper."
A chuckle sounded from one of the doorways at the rear of the dock. From it stepped a drow female wearing the loose black robe and gray skullcap that marked her as a Crone.
Silver rings decorated each finger. An hourglass, filled with white sand, hung against her chest, and a dagger with a bone handle was sheathed at her hip. Her skin was smudged with gray: ashes, taken from a pyre and mixed with rancid fat. Kвras steeled himself against the smell as she approached. Back in Maerimydra, it had always made him gag.
He clambered up the steps, gripping the strongbox. Talzir and Gindrol followed. All three bowed at the Crone's approach. Barely acknowledging them, she tossed the sack she was holding at their feet. It landed with a clatter: the sound of gemstones clicking together.
When she reached out for the strongbox, Kвras feigned reluctance. He shifted the box in his hands, making sure to draw her attention to it. The wood appeared gouged, as if it had been chewed on
"Is there a problem?" she asked. Her voice was as cold as a corpse.
"We were attacked." Kвras said. "A bulette mistook the strongbox for its lunch."
"Good thing it didn't swallow the contents," Talzir piped up from behind him, "or it would have gotten a terrible stomach ache." He gave a nervous-sounding laugh.
The Crone's eyes narrowed. "Give it to me."
Kвras shifted his feet. "But-"
"Give it to me!"
Kвras obliged, lifting the strongbox. Just as the Crone's hand was about to touch it, he moved the box upward. Her hand passed through the illusionary lid and touched the voidstone. For the briefest of instants, her eyes widened in alarm and her mouth parted in a scream.
Then she was gone.
With a thought, Kвras altered his form. His body doubled in size, changed gender, assumed the face he'd just been staring up at. His vest became a robe, his mask a skullcap, and the dragon-skin ring on his finger multiplied itself by eight and turned silver.
He stared disdainfully down at the other two Nightshadows and shouted in a cold female voice, "Where did he go? Speak!"
The undead drow glanced back and forth between the transformed Kвras and the spot where