Extinction

A moment later, something flashed past him: Valas. Magic lending him unnatural speed, the mercenary had sprinted across the jagged rock of the ceiling with a dagger in either hand to slash at the demon. One of the enchanted blades bit deep into Belshazu's wrist, spitting blue sparks of magical energy as it cleanly severed the bone. The demon howled in wounded rage and flailed with his remaining pincer at his new target, but Valas darted out of range.

As Pharaun felt the severed pincer fall away from his bloodied foot he levitated away from the ceiling, pushing himself out of range of the demon. Still roaring, with foul-smelling black blood pumping from its severed wrist, Belshazu reversed the spell he had cast a moment before. Danifae and Valas fell back to the cavern floor, the mercenary at once clambering to his feet to menace Belshazu with his dagger. Quenthel and Jeggred floated down after Pharaun.

Pharaun, favoring his mangled foot, landed on the frozen pond behind the demon. Blood squelched out of his torn boot and spread across the ice, freezing to pink on the intensely cold surface. He fumbled a small metal flask out of a pocket of his piwafwi, uncorked it, and drained the contents. The healing potion took effect almost immediately, numbing his pain like a glass of lace-fungus brandy. In another moment his wounded foot was whole again. He tested his weight on it, and no more than a slight tingling feeling remained. Aside from the tear in his boot, he might never have been wounded.

From the slope where the others had landed came the low hiss of the vipers in Quenthel's whip. Their mistress's voice was equally impatient.

"Pharaun! Stop wasting time. Compel the demon to tell us what we need to know."

Pharaun gave a brief bow in Quenthel's direction, then turned to Belshazu, who had sagged into a crouch on the frozen pond, feet still bound by the ice. The demon was wheezing from his exertions and held his severed wrist tight against his chest. He appeared to be sulking?but by the blaze in his violet eyes Pharaun could see that the demon had not been tamed. Yet.

Like a sava grand master, Pharaun put his final piece into play.

"Here's something else I think you should know," he told the demon. "My spell not only froze the pool, but also crystallized the water vapor in the air. That's what you can feel inside your lungs … thousands of tiny hexagrams, sawing away at your flesh. Tell us what we want to know, and I'll release you before they do any further damage. Keep stalling, and you'll die."

As Belshazu considered that, Pharaun carefully kept his face composed. He had no idea whether the ice crystals inside Belshazu's lungs could actually harm the demon?but it sounded good.

Belshazu roared in anger, but the roar ended in a wheeze. The demon gave Pharaun a pained look, then grudgingly nodded.

"I do not know of any gate," he growled.

Behind Pharaun, one of the vipers in Quenthel's whip gave a soft hiss of frustration.

"But there is a way to reach the Abyss from this plane," the demon continued. "There is a demon ship that will carry you there. . if you can find it."

"A demon ship?" Quenthel echoed.

Belshazu glared at her.

"Have you heard of the Blood War?" Belshazu asked.

His voice was heavy with scorn, as if he expected the drow to be ignorant of the doings of his kind.

"Of course," Quenthel answered. "It is a contest between the Abyss and the Nine Hells?a glorious war that has raged for millennia."

"Glorious?" Pharaun scoffed. "More like loud, sloppy, and pointless. Neither side remembers what they're fighting about?let alone has the slightest hope of winning."

"The devils of the Nine Hells will be defeated!" Belshazu bellowed.

"In due time, I'm sure," Pharaun interjected dryly. "But for the moment, you were telling us about a ship?"

Still snarling, the demon wrenched his attention away from Pharaun and addressed himself to Quenthel.

"In ages past, my kind found a fresh way to launch our attacks against the Nine Hells. We built ships of bone bound with strands of spirit stripped from the manes who serve us, and hung with sails of flayed skin. These ships sail between the planes, blown by the winds of chaos.

"Centuries ago, one of these ships of chaos set out into the Plane of Shadow, seeking a new route to the Nine Hells. It sailed down the River of Shadows to a place where that river touches upon this plane, and there it was lost. Of its crew of thirteen, only one returned: a groveling mane. It babbled something about the uridezu who captained the ship being overcome and of a terrible storm. We subjected the mane to the fiery lash and the torments of boiling oil, but it was able to give us only one useful piece of information. Just before the ship was lost in the storm, it had visited a city of your world. The city's name meant nothing to us, but perhaps you will know it?Zanhoriloch."