Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  “What are we paying him?” Gorlist inquired.

  “We’re not.”

  This logic did not exactly inspire confidence, but before Gorlist could protest, Brindlor presented their request to the half-dragon. The mad necromancer nodded and placed a reverent hand on Pharx’s remains. A glowing mist began to rise from the titanic skull. In moments, a wraithlike image of a deepdragon swirled through the air, circling the skull and weaving in and out through the empty eye sockets like a cat curling around the legs of its favorite human.

  “Pharx’s spirit,” Brindlor said softly. “You can ask it four questions or make four demands. Chose carefully. The dead tend to favor oblique answers.”

  Gorlist stepped forward, glad that his search had yielded the magic gem’s name. “I seek the Ruby of Chissentra. Tell me where it lies.”

  The massive skull swiveled to face him, but the voice came from overhead, where the dragon wraith circled. “How should I know? The Chissentra Ruby was not in my hoard.”

  “One point for the dragon,” murmured Brindlor. He met Gorlist’s murderous stare with a smile and gestured toward the skull.

  “It was added after your death,” Gorlist specified, “and taken from the hoard chamber along with gems you knew. Can you sense familiar gems alongside a large, magic-laden ruby?”

  “Yes.”

  The deathsinger sent Gorlist a wry glance. “That would be two. Care to rephrase that last question for your third attempt?”

  Gorlist gritted his teeth, then tried again. “Describe the stones that accompany the ruby, and tell me where I may find them.”

  The ghostly dragon faded into shadow as if drifting off to seek the gems. After a while, it flared back so swiftly that it seemed, just for a moment, to take on solid form.

  “The Nssidra diamonds,” it mused. “A full score of them, trapped in silver filigree. They frame the gem you seek. I see it gracing an elf woman, a red-gold torch flaming behind walls of black stone.”

  “Black stone,” muttered Brindlor, looking not the least bit surprised and none too happy. “Tell me this: Does this black stone mark the tomb of ancient dragonkind?”

  The dragon wraith looked to the deathsinger, and ghostly fangs flashed in a smile. “You know the answer to that already, deathsinger, or you would not have asked the question. Farewell to you. Sing our story well.”

  With those words, the wraith faded away. The half-dragon, too, drifted back into the cave. His wild babbling subsided into an odd, angular little dirge sung in a language Gorlist had never heard.

  He spun toward the deathsinger, his face hot with fury. “Only four questions, and you waste one of them on something you knew already?”

  “Perhaps I was hoping to be proved wrong,” Brindlor said with a wry smile, “but given the wizard we seek and the clues Pharx’s spirit yielded, our destination is appallingly clear.”

  It was not at all apparent to Gorlist. For a moment, the drow envied the deathsinger his knowledge of the human world, his ability to take on the appearance of other races and mingle with strange people in strange places. Such things gave knowledge, and with knowledge came advantage.

  But Gorlist was a warrior, not a deathsinger. He would fight the battle, not stay to the side and compose songs about deeds done by better drow!

  “You were hired by the Dragon’s Hoard for your knowledge of the Night Above,” he said shortly. “Earn your pay, and speak plainly.”

  Brindlor swept into a bow. “As you command. Legend claims that the city of Waterdeep was once a dragon stronghold. The bards of many races sing songs referring to this city as the tomb of ancient dragonkind. In this city is a famous wizard’s keep fashioned of black stone. Thus, it appears that we’re off to Waterdeep to besiege Blackstaff Tower and spirit away the red-haired elf who lives within. That feat, once accomplished, should justify my pay.”

  Blackstaff Tower, repeated Gorlist silently. He was no expert on Waterdeep life, but even he had heard of this tower and the mage who ruled there.

  Justify his pay, would it? If Brindlor could find a way to accomplish this marvel, all the treasure the deepdragon’s hoard had once held might be accounted a fair reward!

  Not far from the cavern where Pharx’s headless bones lay in repose, Liriel and Fyodor waded through a rat-filled tunnel, moving carefully on high wooden stilts. The footrest stood nearly three feet from the ground, and the wood below had been greased to deter the rats from climbing. Even so, the ravenous vermin swarmed wildly around them, climbing over each other in their frenzy to reach the living flesh just out of reach.

  Liriel grimaced as she picked her way along. “I’m starting to get nostalgic for those sewer tunnels. With a little thought, I’m sure I could find an interesting way to rid the tunnel of these vermin.”

  Her companion teetered, steadied himself with a hand to the low rock ceiling. “No magic,” he reminded her. “Lady Qilué’s command.”

  “Command?” Liriel repeated. “What gives you the impression that we’re under any obligation to follow her orders?”

  “This is her territory,” he pointed out. “Her servant told us what to expect in this passage and gave us what we would need to pass through.”

  The drow kicked away a particularly persistent rodent. “For that we should be grateful? Besides, where’s the harm? There’s a world of difference between clerical magic and a wizard’s spells.”

  “I don’t know what harm might come of it,” Fyodor admitted, “but in this matter I am content to remain in ignorance.”

  Liriel didn’t press the point. Qilué’s miscast teleportation spell, the resulting intrusion of the evil drow goddess into Eilistraee’s stronghold—this was too new and disturbing.

  Suddenly the rats scattered, squeaking in terror. Fyodor dropped to the stone floor and drew his sword. Liriel also tossed aside her stilts but called upon her innate drow magic to keep herself aloft. She pulled a pair of knives from hidden sheaths and waited.

  There was a whispering rush, and a spider the size of a hunting dog darted toward Fyodor.

  Liriel froze in mid throw. For a long moment she hung there, trapped in a nightmare of immobility as the taboo against attacking a spider warred with the need to protect her friend.

  Fortunately Fyodor had no such scruples. He swung his black sword and batted aside the stream of venom the monster spat in his direction. He dived aside, then changed direction and rolled back so that he lay directly under the spider’s front pair of legs.

  The spider’s beaked mouth stabbed down. Fyodor thrust his sword between the two mouthparts and twisted himself to one side. The spider flipped onto its furred back. Eight furious legs beat the air as it tried to right itself.

  The Rashemi leaped to his feet and leaned in, sword leading. One of the spider’s legs curled around the weapon while another encircled Fyodor’s wrist. A single powerful tug tore the weapon from his hand and sent it spinning away.

  A silvery streak dived toward the spider, and one of Liriel’s knives buried itself up to the jeweled hilt. The creature hissed but continued the struggle to regain its footing. The missile had missed a vital spot.

  Liriel bit her lip. She was far from being a master of dark elf swordplay, but her aim with thrown weapons was as good as that of any drow she knew. She hadn’t missed a target since before her blooding ceremony!

  She was not certain which troubled her more: the knowledge of this failure or her suspicion that she hadn’t really missed at all.

  Fyodor made good use of the weapon she gave him. Gripping the dagger with both hands, he pulled it savagely across the furred body. The flailing limbs stilled, and the rounded body deflated like a broken wineskin. Hundreds of tiny spiders skittered away from the corpse, infants freed by their mother’s death.

  The warrior rose and wiped his face. He looked to toward Liriel. To her surprise, there was no accusation in his face, no sense of betrayal.

  “In my land, there are many troublesome and mischievous creatures,” he s
aid softly. “The Rashemi might be better off without them, but not one among us would lift a sword to them. It is not our way.”

  For a moment she gazed down at him, moved beyond speech. She had seen many marvels since leaving her homeland but none so wondrous as this man’s ability to see into her heart. Shortly after they’d met, he’d given her a priceless jewel, an ancient spider trapped in amber. Though he’d assured her that such things were common in his land and not at all costly, Liriel knew that her pendant would be the envy of every priestess in Menzoberranzan. How could he know this? How could he understand things he had never seen?

  The drow nodded her thanks and floated down to his side. She glanced down the tunnel ahead, and her golden eyes widened. “I’ve never killed a spider, but I might not have a choice,” she murmured. “Look.”

  She snapped her fingers, and a small globe of blue light appeared. A gesture of one hand sent the magical thing floating down the stone corridor.

  Thousands of delicate strands glowed in the azure light. Fyodor caught his breath and let it out on a Rashemaar oath.

  Layers upon layers of webs blocked the tunnels. In them lurked the infant spiders, already the size of ravens and growing fast.

  Liriel squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She drew her sword with one hand and conjured a firebolt in the other.

  Fyodor caught her wrist before she could hurl the flaming weapon. “Look at the webs. See how they glisten?”

  She considered his words. Spider webs, even natural ones, were incredibly strong and resilient. These were no natural spiders, and no doubt the webs were preternaturally strong. A fire large enough to destroy their new-spun webs would most likely suck the air from the tunnel.

  A smaller fire spell might do some damage, but the lethal babies were fleet of foot. Most of them would scamper away from the small blaze and bide their time. Liriel glanced at Fyodor and weighed their chances against the hundreds of lurking monsters.

  A small, grim smile curved her lips as a solution presented itself. “Climb up on that boulder,” she told Fyodor, nodding toward a pile of rocks that rose well above the damp floor. “Whatever comes, don’t touch the wall.”

  She slammed her sword back into its sheath and let the firebolt fall to the floor. It sizzled out in a scum-covered puddle, unheeded by the drow who had summoned it.

  Again Liriel summoned her levitation magic. Floating, she began to chant. The damp and fetid air stirred, and a small, jagged flare of light scratched a path against the darkness. The drow seized it and hurled it like a javelin toward the glistening webs.

  Blue light flared and sizzled its way along the spider web, darting from one web to another. The drow flung her head to one side, squeezing her eyes shut against the blazing destruction, clapping one hand over her nose to mute the stench of burning spiders.

  Hours passed, or perhaps moments. She felt Fyodor’s hand close on her ankle and pull her down. She wriggled out of his comforting arms and strode forward, not sparing a glance at the charred bodies. Fyodor followed without comment, as if he understood that the breaking of a lifelong taboo had left her emotions so brittle than a touch, even his, might shatter her composure.

  The rest of the trip passed without serious incident. Within the hour, they found the shaft Qilué’s servant had described and managed to climb its deceptively smooth walls.

  Liriel clung to the last handhold and tapped on the wooden ceiling. The hatch swung away. A beautiful elf face, framed by red-gold hair and backlit by thoughtfully dim candlelit, thrust into the opening.

  Sharlarra greeted the drow with a comrade’s grin. She seized Liriel’s wrist and pulled her up with surprising ease.

  The drow took stock of her surroundings. They were in a small room walled and floored with dark wood. The yeasty smell of ale permeated the air. A tavern, most likely. Another human, a burly, balding man who wore a publican’s apron over a warrior’s bulk, helped Fyodor into the room.

  Liriel shoved a handful of soot-laden hair off her face. “How did you find us?”

  The elf showed her a large, well-cut gem. “This came from your share of the dragon’s hoard. With it I was able to trace you to the ship then follow your path here to the Yawning Portal Tavern.”

  The drow’s eyes lit with interest. “I’d like to learn that spell.”

  “Another time,” Sharlarra murmured, glancing at the older man. “The first order of business is to get you two out of the city. I brought gloves to cover your hands, fashionable cloaks to pull over your heads. I have a spell that will change your appearance to that of a human lady, and Durham—our kind host and the proprietor of this fine establishment—has two horses, saddled and provisioned, awaiting you in the stable behind this tavern.”

  “Horses,” Liriel said with distaste.

  “Well, I thought that giant lizards might be a tad conspicuous,” Sharlarra said with a quick grin. “The road out of the East Gate crosses a stream. After the bridge, veer north and follow the stream to its source, a spring in the hills of a small forest. I’ll meet you there and see you on the next part of your journey.”

  Fyodor came to Liriel’s side and offered his hand. “Come to Rashemen,” he said softly. “If it is adventure and friendship you seek, there is no better place to find it.”

  The elf, looking oddly touched, took his hand in both of hers. “Safe home,” she bade them.

  The pair nodded to Durham and slipped quietly out the back door. The innkeeper turned a somber gaze upon the elf.

  “Your master the archmage isn’t going to like this.”

  She sent Durham a hopeful smile. “Does he have to know?”

  “He always seems to.”

  Sharlarra sighed. “Good point. In that case, I’d better revise the terms of my will before I pack. You’ll be remembered in it, have no fear of that.”

  The man chuckled and gave her cheek a fatherly pat. “Off with you.”

  He waited until Sharlarra had left before easing the heavy wooden cover back into place and carefully filling in the crack with powder from a sack he carried on his belt.

  The substance seemed to melt into the wood, obscuring any trace of the hidden opening. It was a gift from Waterdeep’s archmage, a long-time friend who had never quite approved of Durham’s self-appointed role as guardian to the gates of Undermountain. Khelben Arunsun would certainly disapprove of his apprentice’s sponsorship of the pretty little drow and her Rashamaar companion.

  Durham, however, understood this impulse perfectly. In his day, he would have done much the same thing.

  Come to think of it, his day was far from over.

  Perhaps, Durham mused, his old friend Khelben could wait awhile before learning about this night’s adventure.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HOMECOMING

  Shakti paused at the gate of House Hunzrin. Wrapped in her new piwafwi and cloaked in invisibility, she gazed at her childhood home and her inheritance.

  The family mansion lay on the outskirts of Menzoberranzan, close to the fields and pastures whose care was the business of House Hunzrin. The estate was not as large as many of the city’s mansions, comprising only three large stalactites, a few connecting bridges, and a number of rather ramshackle outbuildings.

  Even so, pride filled Shakti. It was not an imposing estate, but it was hers, or soon would be. Judging from the individual standards that draped one of the crosswalks, her older sister had finally succumbed to that mysterious wasting disease. The banner bearing her mark—a ridiculous thing showing the silhouette of a rothé against a circle meant to depict a wheel of cheese—no longer hung in second position. In its place hung a banner emblazoned with Shakti’s symbol, a pitchfork flowing with magical energy. She was now her mother’s heir, a high priestess in the full favor of Lolth. In many regards, her future looked deliciously dark.

  But first she had to sort through the puzzling secret that had been entrusted to her. It would be rank foolishness to show herself at House Hunzrin before these matters
were settled. She had a younger sister who would not hesitate to exploit the weakness that Shakti’s uncertain state presented.

  Still wrapped in invisibility, Shakti walked through the city to the Baenre estate. As she neared the outer wall, she flipped back her concealing cloak and revealed herself to the guards. Magical wards surrounded the house like a moat, and it was better to come openly than to be caught approaching in stealth.

  A squadron of guards surrounded her at once. They listened with narrowed eyes to her demand for audience and sent a runner to carry this message to the Matron Mother. In moments Triel’s response arrived: a floating disk meant to convey a visiting priestess with honor.

  Shakti settled down on the conveyance and held her head high as she progressed through the several gates that warded the residence. She had no doubt that Gromph would hear of her arrival within the hour.

  Resolutely she put that thought out of mind. She would need all her wits to deal with the subtle and treacherous Triel. Any distraction would be lethal.

  The disk brought her to directly to the door of Triel’s audience chamber. Shakti dismounted on the driftdisk and began the long walk toward the matron’s throne. The chamber was huge, with high-vaulting ceilings and intricately carved walls. Each footstep echoed softly, the sound like that of stones dropped into deep wells. This approach was meant to intimidate, but knowing this did not lessen the effect in the slightest.

  Triel watched her approach through narrowed crimson eyes. The diminutive priestess had augmented her mother’s throne with a gorgeously carved footrest. Shakti supposed it was less than dignified for a matron’s feet to dangle like a child’s when she sat in state.

  She came to a stop at a respectful distance and sank into a low obeisance. The Baenre matron acknowledged Shakti’s reverence with a steady, unreadable gaze, which Shakti met with an equally unwavering stare. Looking directly into the Baenre female’s eyes, she announced, “Matron Triel, I have failed.”

  For a long moment, silence ruled the chamber as Triel plumbed this strange pronouncement for hidden depths.