Descent into the Depths of the Earth (41 page)

“Is it hot?” Escalla cut her off.

Hot?
Benelux swelled with grandeur.
Imagine the inside
of a vast, undying, ever-churning sun. Imagine pure light and heat eternally
exploding upward like a fountain of power! Imagine—!

“All right, that’s hot. That’s perfect!” Escalla chased the
last few dozen prisoners through the bone gate. “People,
we are leaving!”

Escalla looked around desperately. The last battered refugee
in sight stumbled through. If there were more, they were on their own. She
couldn’t wait any longer.

Escalla shoved Jus forward, and he disappeared. Seeing her
prey escaping, Lolth reared and screamed. The demon’s head swam to the
nightmarish effects of vintage sixty-three. Lurching sideways, all eight legs
churning and slipping, the colossal spider blundered through her own altar,
sending the bowl of blood clanging to the ground. The temple guards had fled,
but the drow from the main caverns were closing fast. Escalla gave a last look
over the underdark, tucked severed hand and lich staff underneath her arm, then
quickly sped away.

She shot through the great bone arch, popped out of a mirror,
and bounced upon a trampled, crushed, and altogether broken bed. She flew out
the room’s shattered windows to wave to a faerie who stood goggling at the vast
crowd of refugees milling on his lawns.

Naked, blood smothered, and carrying a severed hand, Escalla
gave the faerie a salute.

“Hey, Dad! Did you miss me?”

* * *

The blindness was clearing.

Jus blinked, holding onto a broken balustrade as he stared at
once beautiful gardens that were now trampled flat by two thousand panicked
feet. Refugees had swarmed over the lawns, where a dozen faerie sorcerers held
them in a magic fence. Lord Charn hovered, tearing his hair out, appalled at the
destruction to his home.

The splinter and crash of breaking woodwork sounded as one
last refugee thundered through the magic portal—a gateway that exited from an
ornate mirror mounted on Escalla’s bedroom wall. Velvet curtains had been torn
down as a solid battering ram of humans, elves, halflings, half-orcs, and even a
dwarf or two had charged over a balcony and into the sylvan gardens beyond.

The Justicar blinked, and the last of the blindness fell
away. Seeing Escalla hanging bloody and disheveled at his side, he said, “We’re
in the faerie lands!”

“Yep!”

“This is your old bedroom!”

“The Nightshade key is kept in Dad’s vault just down the
hall.” Escalla looked at Jus’ dubious face. “Hey, man! I’m the heir! Of course
the key’s hidden in the palace. Dad and I were always looking after it.”

Jus angrily wiped his eyes and asked, “Who knew the key was
here?”

“Dad, me… maybe Mom and Sis.” The girl shoved the
severed hand down the portable hole. “Now hurry! Get this mirror onto the lawn
before Lolth comes through. There’s about a hundred million drow charging
straight toward the gate!”

Escalla’s father appeared, looking stunned. He opened his
hands and demanded an explanation.

Jus looked at the mirror—a vast heavy thing of silver, framed
with gold, and fixed to the wall. He gripped the frame and heaved, plaster
cracking and exploding as he tore the mirror from the wall. With a roar, the
huge man dragged the mirror free and held it above his head.

“Where to?”

“Grove of the planes!” Escalla cleared the way, bellowing at
faeries who had come swarming in droves toward the room. “Outta the way! Demon
goddess comin’ through! Move-move-move!”

Jus leaped from the balcony, slamming to the grass a dozen
feet below. With the huge mirror held above him, he charged through the hordes,
who screamed in terror as one gargantuan spider leg began to probe slowly out of
the mirror’s face. Jus jumped a fence and thundered into the plane tree grove at
the heart of the gardens.

Escalla whirred madly back and forth trying to look at every
tree. She scrunched her fingers inside her hair and tried to think. More and
more spider leg began to shove through the mirror. “Crap! Which tree? Which
tree?” One tree had pure white flowers. “This one!”

The mirror went clanging down to lean against a tree. Escalla
hovered frantically beside the arch made by the branches of the pure white fruit
tree.

“Jus, the sword! The tree is triggered only by something from
the home plane!” Escalla recoiled from the mirror, screeching as Lolth poked her
front legs through. “Just the tip! Hurry! Hurry!”

Drawing his sword, the Justicar took aim, then sliced the
blade in a blinding arc. There merest hair’s breadth of the tip whisked beneath
the archway, and instantly a glowing plane of force sparkled beneath the arch.
With titanic spider legs shoving through the mirror, Jus picked the mirror up,
roared like a giant, and hurled it toward the magic trees.

Lolth’s face emerged through the mirror, the demon screaming
in anger as she finally caught sight of her prey. The scream turned to a wail of
absolute despair and horror as the mirror shot through the archway and plunged
straight into the plane of positive energy.

The mirror disappeared. Benelux gibbered, having lost a
sixteenth of an inch from her tip. Jus and Escalla stared at the glowing magic
archway and panted, watching blankly to make sure all was well.

“Well, that’s that!” Escalla seemed a tad dazed. “Guess
that’s Lolth unable to manifest for about a hundred weeks!”

Jus blinked. “Is that good?”

“It’s so-so.”

The tree suddenly shuddered violently, then shuddered again.
The force field changed to fiery red, then shook as the whole tree almost tore
itself out of the ground.

Cinders stiffened his tail and whined,
Run bye bye now!

Jus coughed. “Can things get out that gate?”

“Like if all that energy in Lolth exploded?” Escalla drifted
away from the quaking tree. “Um, a strategic retreat is probably—”

Something blasted like a volcano deep inside the plane of
elemental light. Jus turned and ran like hell, Escalla only slightly ahead of
him. Behind them, the grove of plane trees exploded, trees blasting apart.
Energy flashed, and suddenly there was nothing but a shiny-sided crater of
molten glass fifty feet across where the grove had once stood. A cloud of flames
rose into the sky, showering ashes across the staring faces of two thousand
refugees and several hundred faeries.

Lurid red flames lit faerieland. Burning brands showered down
over the palace and the gardens. Into the silence, Cinders’ voice carried to
every single ear as the hell hound breathed out in awe.

Spider go bang!
The black dog wagged his tail.
Hoopy.

By evening, things were calmer. Illusion spells covered the
worst of the damage to Clan Nightshade’s palace, and Lord Nightshade and Lord
Faen had tended to the eighteen hundred and eleven surviving refugees. Wounds
were tended, and a faerie feast had been prepared—a feast devoid of faerie
wines, particularly vintage sixty-three.

Sitting at a huge campfire roasting a dozen giant frogs, the
Justicar sat with Cinders at his side, watched in awe-stricken silence by
countless nearby refugees. The pimple smothered boy and a half dozen survivors
from Sour Patch all hovered in the shadows of the trees nearby, all looking for
some way to do the big ranger a favor. Jus merely did what had to be done and
tried to keep his temper as far too many hands tried to pass the salt.

Benelux lay bared across Cinders’ fur and had gone into a
blubbering great sulk.

It’s a liberty!
The female voice had kept its tirade
going for at least half an hour.
You could have killed me!

Jus spared the sword a hostile glare. “It was only the tip.”

That tip was shaped by a titan!
Benelux wailed in loss.
Where can we find a hand skilled enough to repair my damaged beauty?

Jus turned one of the frogs, which sizzled greasily above the
campfire. “Faeries said they could fix it.”

Faeries?
Benelux bridled.
Are they properly qualified?

“I guess.”

Well, see to it that they are swordsmiths
—not
blacksmiths.
The magic sword gave a sniff.
I do not want myself pawed by
just any faerie!

Jus sheathed the weapon and shut it up. For a few moments,
peace reigned until Escalla came wearily traipsing down the hill.

She looked a little pale and worse for wear. She wore
stockings, elbow-length gloves, and a bodice made of black silk with a skirt
deliberately cut short from a faerie dress. Washed and scrubbed, she still
looked like hell. The faerie kept one hand on her stomach as she walked into the
light.

“Hey, boys.”

Hi!
Cinders’ tail wagged a hello.
Frog onna fire!

“Hoopy.” Escalla came over to sit upon the plush, soft hell
hound fur. She leaned on her lich staff and looked plain tired. “Well, the
trial’s set for an hour from now. All the right invitations are out.”

Looking levelly at the faerie, Jus smoothed her a place at
his side. “Have they tried to arrest you?”

“Killing Lolth tends to make people a tad nervous about your
powers.” The girl gave a sour smile. “Heh. I’m still kind of officially under
house arrest. They’ve sent out couriers to bring in the hunting teams.” Escalla
helped herself to campside tea. “My sister and my mother are back. Not a word
said. Keeping to their rooms.”

“Of course.” The Justicar served Escalla food from the fire.
“Is Clan Sable still here?”

“They will be. The faerie clans are coming here now.
Apparently we’ve got King Oberon coming along as referee. Guess we’ve got an
hour before show time.” Escalla looked down at her food then put a hand on her
belly. “Ooooh, I feel awful.”

“Really?” Jus looked at her. “Is the slowglass safe?”

“Yep.” Escalla looked a tad green. “I, ah, passed it in as
evidence.”

An embarrassed silence reigned. The faerie realm was filled
with the babble voices, the smell of campfires, and the sound of shocked people
trying to convince themselves they were still alive. Faerie warriors watched
over their “guests”—surprisingly polite, all things considered. Gates flashed
all over the palace as more and more faeries began to arrive, the sound of
clarions becoming monotonous as the Seelie Court gathered for the trial.

Prodding at the leg of giant frog that roasted over his
campfire, Jus stared at the flames and asked, “How’s Polk?”

“He, ah, h-he—” Escalla’s bottom lip quivered. She swallowed
and went on. “He didn’t make it. He died, Jus.”

The Justicar stood, actually mad—
no, furious.
Burning
with utter rage, he slowly clenched his fists and paced round the fire. Escalla
sat by the fire and gazed at the coals.

“There wasn’t anything we could do. That drow got him right
through the heart.” The girl rubbed at her eyes. “The kid’s with him. He’s
bruised all to hell and a bit cut up, but otherwise he’s fine. They made a good
team, you know?”

Upset, angry that he was upset, and annoyed at being angry
about being upset, Jus stopped pacing and swiped at his eyes.

“They did well. They really did.” Jus cleared his throat—a
cold seemed to be making him sound a little hoarse. “Can your people fix it?”

Escalla sighed and gave a nod. “Probably. Dad put a priest on
it. Said we’ll probably have him back from the dead by tomorrow morning… if
all goes well.”

“Good.”

From the palace, horns blew an insistent little fanfare,
summoning the court of faerie law. Jus signaled some nearby refugees that they
were welcome to the campfire and the food, then gathered up his gear.

Jus’ calm eyes turned to look long and thoughtfully at
Escalla.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Escalla took charge of her staff, scroll tube,
and the portable hole as Jus swept Cinders into place around his shoulders. The
girl let Jus lift her up and set her on his shoulder. He rested his face against
her flank for a moment, and the girl gave his big, stubble covered head a hug.

“All right, J-man. Let’s do it!”

The central ballroom of Clan Nightshades palace had again
filled with faerie aristocracy. Chairs were arranged into a vast ring about the
floor, and chandeliers blazed brightly above. Banners from ancient conflicts
hung in splendor beside paintings so perfect that they had lives all their own.
As hundreds of gorgeously costumed faeries flew in through the doors to take
their seats, Jus and Escalla walked slowly inside with Henry trailing awe-struck
in their wake.

All speech stopped. All eyes instantly turned to stare at the
rebel Escalla and the huge figure of the Justicar.

At one end of the ballroom, a throne had been arranged. A
wing of crimson-armored guards knelt beside a lean, cool figure who sat upon the
throne. The Justicar walked across the open ballroom and delivered a long, grave
bow to the Erlking, Oberon. Escalla joined him, giving a cool nod. Henry bobbed
like a child’s toy, bowing again and again until Escalla dragged him away to the
sidelines where the boy could do no harm.