Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,94

female had to be under some sort of magical protection.

Lolth’s?

Behind Halisstra, the night twist continued its mournful song. Wendonai, it wailed. A hot, salty wind coursed through its branches, twisting them against one another. Black bark creaked, and the song shifted. It wasn’t the balor’s name the night twist was singing, but something else entirely: a message, stabbing at Halisstra’s heart.

We … don’t… die …

“Yes, we do,” Halisstra snarled. She understood, now, why the priestess had come here: to kill her. She must be a demon hunter, a Darksong Knight like Cavatina. Maybe this was Cavatina. Halisstra’s laugh skittered at the edge of sanity. “You’re not going to use the Crescent Blade on me!” She grabbed the female’s hands and tried to unbend her fingers. She would have the Crescent Blade—she must! Yet the fingers didn’t move. Nor could they be clawed away; Halisstra’s nails skidded harmlessly off them. She placed a foot on the female’s wrists, grabbed the sword’s crossguard, and tried to lever the Crescent Blade out of the fallen priestess’s hands. She strained until her muscles ached and sweat ran down her temples.

“Let… go … of… it!”

The priestess refused.

“Abyss take you!” Halisstra snarled as she let go.

A movement in the jungle caught her eye. She whirled, the spider jaws in her cheeks gnashing. The priestess who’d led her here! Halisstra had forgotten her. The spying, sneaking wretch had seen it all: Halisstra’s humiliation, her anger … her fear.

Halisstra leaped to the spot where the priestess crouched, swept her up, and spun her around. Webs flew from Halisstra’s hands.

The priestess didn’t resist. “Queen of Spiders, I commend unto you my soul,” she droned. “May I prove as worthy in death as I did in life.”

“Have you learned nothing?” Halisstra screamed, outraged. “It isn’t Lolth you serve, but the Lady Penitent!”

The priestess’s voice grew muffled under the layers of web. “May I sing Lolth’s praises through all eternity. May I dance upon her webs like a spider. May my soul return to her—”

“Stop it!” Halisstra shrieked. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” She flipped the web-bound priestess and caught her by the feet. Then she swung her through the air like a club. Flesh met steel with a dull thwack. The priestess’s head sailed away, parted from her body by the Crescent Blade.

There. That shut her up.

Halisstra hurled the body into the jungle. The night twist’s vines eagerly caught it and drew it to the trunk. Halisstra sneered. Plenty more, where that priestess came from. “Return to Lolth,” she taunted. “If you still can.”

She turned back to the priestess who held the Crescent Blade—a little too quickly, still blinded by her rage. The female’s body rocked slightly, then toppled to one side.

Halisstra started. She leaped on the fallen priestess and grabbed the Crescent Blade. But tug as she might, the priestŹess still clung to it.

No matter. Halisstra picked up the demonic looking priestŹess and tucked her under one arm. There were songs Halisstra could sing, later, that would remove the sword from those hands. And then she would use the sword to kill the interloper.

From there, who knew what might be possible? Perhaps Halisstra would finish what she’d started, so many years ago. Kill Lolth—and maybe Eilistraee too, while she was at it. Anything was within her grasp, now that the Crescent Blade had been returned to her.

Shrieking with laughter, she hurried back to her temple.

CHAPTER 11

Naxil struggled to rise. He wasn’t held by ropes or chains—something he might have escaped—but by magic. The fanatics had bound him with words. “Follow,” they’d said, and he had. “Kneel,” they’d ordered, and he had. Now, “Drink.”

He tried to wrench his head aside, but couldn’t. Compelled by magic, he gulped down the licoŹrice-flavored drug the green-robed fanatic tipped into his mouth. As the drug took hold, the world slanted dizzily this way and that. Though his body hadn’t physically altered, it now felt like a puddle of molten wax, soft and compliant. A numbness settled on his mind, quieting the screaming voice within. He smiled. Drool trickled down his chin.

Part of him knew there was nothing to smile about—and everything to scream about. He’d only joined the Masked Lady’s faith a year ago, but he’d lived in the Promenade long enough to appreciate the terrible stillness that had settled upon the Cavern of Song. The chorus of voices that had filled it with sacred music and moonlight since its founding had been extinguished, and it was no longer a holy place. Now