Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,97

fanatics still descending. He’d have to make his way to the nearest wall, press his back against it, and hope his invisibility held out.

He decided to make his way to the spot where Jub lay, unconscious and forgotten. He twisted this way and that, slipŹping between the fanatics whenever an opportunity presented itself. Just as he reached the wall, a hand brushed against his shirt—and took hold of the fabric. He tried to wrench away, but the fanatic yanked him close.

“Ally?” the fanatic breathed. Then he coughed.

Naxil realized the “fanatic’s” hand was lingering against his mouth—hiding it, as a mask would.

“Ally,” Naxil hissed back.

The “fanatic” found Naxil’s hand and pressed a gold ring into it. Levitate, his fingers flicked.

Naxil gave silent thanks to the Masked Lady for the boon as he shoved the ring onto his finger. He levitated just above the fanatics’ heads, his back against the ceiling, trying to stifle the urge to cough as he breathed the acid-tinged air. He wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his sleeve, lest any tears fall on their heads and give him away.

Below him, the disguised Nightshadow eased into an indenŹtation in the wall and cloaked himself in magical darkness. The fanatics, meanwhile, concluded their argument. They seemed to have come to some sort of agreement. The high priests called to their respective followers, and the fanatics lined up behind them, each with his hands on the shoulders of the one in front of him. Chanting Ghaunadaur’s name, they shuffled forward, into the Pit.

At first, Naxil thought they were sacrificing themselves. The fanatics, however, didn’t plummet. They sank gently into the Pit, their descent slowed by magic.

As the last of them disappeared into the Pit, a wind sucked the purple mist down after him, and the air cleared. The disguised Nightshadow stepped out of his darkness, crept to the Pit, and peered in. He cocked his head, as if listening to some distant sound. “The trap worked,” he said at last with a smile. “They’ve been driven insane. All of them.”

Naxil descended to the floor, the invisibility gone. He moved to where the other Nightshadow stood. Echoing up out of the Pit, from far below, came the sound of voices. It sounded as if all of the fanatics were screaming or crying out at once, in a frenzied cacophony.

Naxil began to tug the ring off his finger but the other Nightshadow gestured for him to keep it. Naxil nodded. “Thanks…”

“Mazrol.”

“I’m Naxil.”

Mazrol glanced again at the Pit, and shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.”

They moved to the stairs. Naxil paused to check Jub. The half-orc was unconscious, with a nasty bump on the side of his head, but a prayer would rouse him.

Mazrol looked impatient. “Have you seen Valdar?”

“Who?”

Mazrol’s expression turned wary. Naxil tensed. Something was wrong here. Instinct screamed at him that Mazrol had just become his enemy, yet that was ridiculous.

Naxil touched Jub’s forehead and began his prayer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw motion near the Pit: the purple mist, rising again. A tendril of it swirled over the lip and crept across the floor, behind Mazrol. The other Nightshadow hadn’t noticed yet. He frowned down at Jub. “What are you doing?”

Naxil didn’t answer. It ought to be obvious. He kept singing.

Mazrol caught his arm. “Save your prayers.” He nodded at the staircase. “If any oozes come slithering down here, we’ll need them.”

Naxil finished his prayer. “But Jub—”

“Leave him. He’s not one of us.”

Naxil rose—slowly—to his feet. “He’s one of Eilistraee’s.”

Jub groaned, and rolled over. Naxil heard him cough weakly.

Mazrol stared at Naxil a moment, as if taking his measure. “Eilistraee is dead,” he said, his eyes locked on Naxil’s. “The Masked Lord killed her. Everything the priestesses taught you was a lie.”

Naxil’s jaw clenched. He’d heard there were males like this within the ranks of the faithful—Nightshadows who refused to let go of Vhaeraun. Naxil had never worshiped that god, having come to the Masked Lady’s faith only after the goddess’s transformation. It hadn’t been Vhaeraun who had led Naxil out of the misery of Menzoberranzan, but the Masked Lady. Eilistraee.

Mazrol must have seen the flat disbelief in Naxil’s eyes. He gestured at the Pit behind him. “Would Eilistraee have allowed this?” he cried. “Would she have permitted us to open a back door to her enemies? She’s dead, Naxil. The Promenade is ours now—if we can hold it.”

Behind Mazrol, two blood red eyestalks rose above the lip of the Pit. The eyes