“That might w—”
Pharaun gasped and thrashed. Ryld held on to him for fear that he’d roll off the roof.
When the seizure ended, the Mizzrym’s face seemed gaunt and drawn in a way it hadn’t been before. More blood seeped from his wounded stomach.
“This isn’t going to work,” said Ryld, “not by itself. Unless you have some more healing, you’re going to die.”
“That would be . . . a profound tragedy . . . but . . .”
“We have plenty of dark elves in the Braeryn tonight. One of them surely brought some restorative magic along. I’ll just have to take it from him, or her. Here’s that darkness.”
Ryld touched the roof and conjured a shadow that covered the Master of Sorcere and not much else. With luck, the effect was localized enough that no one would notice the obscuration itself.
The weapons master rose and raced away. Whenever possible, he ran along the rooftops, bounding from one to the next. Often enough, however, the houses were far enough apart that he had to jump down to the ground and skulk his way through the slaughter.
It was at such a time that he saw another hunting party. Unfortunately, the group was too large to tackle. He had to hide from it instead. Crouched low, he watched a mage on lizard-back lob a yellow spark through the window of one of the houses. Booming, yellow flame exploded through the room beyond. A moment after it died, the screaming began. Ryld winced. As a child of six, he’d survived precisely such a massacre, and, severely blistered, lain trapped for hours beneath a weight of charred, stinking bodies, the luckier ones dead, the live ones whimpering and twitching in their helpless agony.
But it wasn’t him burned nor buried tonight, and he spat the unpleasant memory away. He glanced about, checking to see if anyone was looking at him, then broke from cover and floated upward.
He dashed on along a steeply sloping roof engraved with web patterns and defaced, he noticed, with another slave race emblem. He sensed something above and behind him, and pivoted. His boots slipped, and he levitated for an instant while he found his footing amid the carvings.
He looked up and spied a huge black horse galloping through the air as easily as the common equines of the World Above could run across a field. Fire crackled around its hooves and pulsed from its nostrils. The dark elf male on its back held a scimitar, but wasn’t making any extraordinary effort to lift it into position for a cut. Apparently he was counting on his demonic steed to make the kill, and why not? What goblinoid could withstand a nightmare?
Ryld froze as if he were such a hapless undercreature paralyzed with fear. Meanwhile, he timed the speed of the nightmare’s approach. At the last possible moment, hoping to take the phantom horse and its master by surprise, he whipped Splitter out of its scabbard and cut.
And missed. Somehow the demon arrested its charge, and the blade fell short.
Its fiery hooves churning eighteen inches above the rooftop, the nightmare snorted. Thick, hot, sulfurous smoke streamed from its nostrils, enveloping Ryld, stinging and half blinding him. He heard more than saw the black creature lunging, striking with its reptilian fangs, and he retreated a step. The move saved him, but when he counterattacked, the nightmare too had taken itself out of range.
Through the stinking vapor, he glimpsed the infernal horse circling. It sprang at him again, this time rearing to batter him with its front hooves. He crouched and lifted Splitter. The point took the steed in the chest, and for a moment, he thought he’d disposed of it, but, its legs working frantically, it flew upward, lifting itself off the blade before it could penetrate too deeply.
The next few moments were difficult. Ryld could barely make out his foes, while the nightmare could apparently see through its own smoke perfectly well. He stood and turned precariously on the crest of the roof, in constant danger of losing his balance, whereas the flying horse could maneuver wherever it pleased. Just to make life even more interesting, the rider started swinging his curved sword. Fortunately, like most denizens of the Underdark, he had little notion of how to fight on horseback, but his clumsy strokes still posed a danger.
Ryld wanted to end the confrontation quickly, before someone discovered Pharaun’s hiding place. Unfortunately, in light of all his disadvantages, the weapons master thought the only way of doing that was to take a risk. The next time the demon reared, he let one of the blazing hooves slam him in the chest.
His dwarven breastplate rang but held. The blow hurt cruelly but didn’t break any ribs or otherwise incapacitate him. He fell backward, banged down on the east pitch of the roof, and started to tumble. Kicking and scrabbling, negating his weight, he managed to catch himself and twist around into a low fighting stance.
The nightmare was rushing in to finish him off. He swung Splitter, and this time the demon was too committed to the attack to halt its forward momentum. The greatsword slashed through its neck, nearly severing the head with its luminous scarlet eyes. The steed toppled sideways and rolled, leaving a trail of embers. The rider tried to jump free, but he was too slow. The nightmare crushed him on its way to the ground.
Ryld tore open the dead male’s purse, then floated down to the demon horse and checked the saddlebags. There were no potions or any other means of mending a wound.
Why, he wondered, should he expect to find such a thing among the noble’s effects? The noble had come to the Braeryn for some lighthearted sport. He hadn’t believed the goblins couldn’t hurt him or that he was in any other danger, so why bring a remedy for grievous harm to the festivities, even if he was lucky enough to possess one?
There were only five hunters who’d come there with a deadly serious purpose, prepared to cross swords with formidable foes: Greyanna and her retainers. They were far more likely to carry healing magic than any other drow whom Ryld might opt to waylay.
Alas, they were likely to prove more trouble as well, but if he wanted to save Pharaun, he’d just have to cope. Pharaun was a useful ally, and Ryld was unwilling to let that carefully nurtured relationship expire easily. He skulked on, ignoring the hunters who obliviously crossed his path, until he finally spied a familiar figure on a rooftop just ahead of him.
Still masked, one of Greyanna’s twin warriors was stalking along that eminence. An arrow nocked, he peered down into the street below.
Ryld threw himself down behind a stubby little false minaret on his roof. He peered around it, looking for the rest of the would-be murderers.
He didn’t see them. Maybe the band had split up, the better to look for their quarry. They’d have to, wouldn’t they, to oversee the entire district.
He ducked back, cocked his hand crossbow and laid a poisoned dart in the channel. He and Pharaun had been reluctant to kill their pursuers, but with the wizard dying, Ryld was no longer overly concerned with a petty retainer’s life.
He leaned back around, his finger already tightening on the trigger—and the space where the archer had stood was empty. Ryld cast about, and after a moment spotted the male atop a round, flat-roofed little tower adhering to the main body of the building.
That posed two problems. One was that the warrior was farther away and ten feet higher up, at or beyond the limit of the little crossbow’s range. The other was that the male happened to be looking in Ryld’s direction. His eyes flew open wide when he spotted his quarry.
Ryld shot, and his dart fell short of the tower. A heartbeat later, the twin pulled back his bowstring and loosed his arrow in one fluid motion. The shaft looked like a gradually swelling dot, which meant it was speeding straight at its target.
Ryld dodged back. The arrow whizzed past, and the archer shouted, “Here! I’ve got him here!”
The weapons master scowled, feeling the pressure of passing time even more acutely than before. He didn’t want to be there when the rest of the enemy arrived, and the only hope of avoiding it was to dispose of his present opponent quickly. The longbow simply had his hand crossbow outclassed. He needed to get in close.
He drew Splitter,
sprang out into the open, and strode toward his foe. The archer sent one arrow after another winging his way, and he knocked them out of the air. The defense was considerably more difficult advancing across the irregular surface of the roof than it would have been standing still on the ground.
Ryld began to sweat, and his heart beat faster, but he was managing. There came another shaft, this one aglitter with some form of enchantment, and he swatted it down. Rattling, it rolled on down the pitch of the roof.
He took another step, slapped aside another missile, then heard something—he didn’t know what, just an indefinable change in the sounds around him. He remembered that some enchanters created magical weapons capable of more than flying truer and hitting harder.
He spun around. The sparkling arrow had launched itself back into the air and circled around behind him. It was streaking toward its target and was only a few feet from his body.
Ryld wrenched Splitter across in a desperate parry. The edge caught the arrow and split it in two. Spinning through the air, the piece with the point hit his shoulder, but, thanks to his armor, did him no harm.
He lurched back around with barely enough time to deflect the next shaft, then marched on. Four more paces brought him to the end of the roof.
The gap between this house and the next was five yards across. He took a running start, made himself nearly weightless, and jumped. The twin tried to hit when he was in the air, but for a blessed change, his arrow flew wild. Ryld thumped down atop the same structure his opponent occupied. It felt as if it had taken forever to get this far, even though he knew it had really been but a few moments.
Not that he was done running the gauntlet. The arrows kept hurtling at him, including one that gave an eerie scream, filling him with an unnatural fear until he quashed the feeling, and another that turned into a miniature harpy in flight. Yet another struck two paces in front him and exploded into a curtain of fire. Squinting at the glare, he wrapped his piwafwi around him and dived through, emerging singed but essentially unscathed.
After that, he was close enough to the tower to cancel most of his weight and leap up to the top. He sprang into the air like a jumping spider and alit on the platform. The twin hastily set down his bow and drew his scimitar.
“Do you have any healing magic?” Ryld asked. “If so, give it to me, and I’ll let you go.”
The other warrior smiled unpleasantly and said, “My comrades will start arriving any moment. Surrender now, tell me where Pharaun is, and perhaps Princess Greyanna will let you live.”
“No.”
Ryld cut at the warrior’s head. The other male jumped back out of range, sidestepped, and slashed at the weapons master’s arm. Ryld parried, beat the scimitar aside, and the fight was on.
Over the course of the next few seconds, the Mizzrym warrior gave ground consistently. Twice, he nearly stepped off the flat, round tabletop that was the apex of the tower but on both occasions spun himself away from the edge in time. He was a good duelist, and he was fighting defensively while he waited for reinforcements to arrive. That made him hard to hit. Hard, but not impossible.
Pressing, Ryld feinted high on the inside to draw the parry, swung his greatsword down and around, and cut low on the outside. Splitter sheared into the Mizzrym’s torso just below the ribs, and he collapsed in a gush of blood.
Magic trilled and flickered through the air. When Ryld spun around, the other twin and Relonor popped into being on the rooftop below. Obviously, House Mizzrym’s mage could teleport on his own, without the aid of the brooch Pharaun had pilfered.
His voluminous sleeves sliding down to his elbows, Relonor lifted his arms and started to cast a spell. The newly arrived twin nocked an arrow and drew back the string of his pale bone bow.
Ryld threw himself down on his stomach. He was ten feet above his adversaries, and he hoped that they couldn’t see him. Sure enough, no magic or arrow flew in his direction. He scuttled across the platform—enchantments in his armor deadening the sound of his footfalls—and grabbed his previous opponent’s bow and quiver, then scrambled to his knees.
The twin and the wizard rose above the platform, the former levitating, the latter soaring in an arc that revealed some magical capacity for actual flight. The archer loosed an arrow, and mystical energy flashed from Relonor’s fingertips.
The Mizzrym’s magic reached its target first. A ghastly shriek stabbed through Ryld’s ears and into his brain. He cried out and flailed in agony. The warrior’s arrow plunged into his thigh, and the razor-edged point burst from the other side.
After a moment, the screaming stopped. Ryld could feel that it had hurt him, perhaps worse than the arrow had, but had no time or inclination to fret about it. Quickly as few folk save a master of Melee-Magthere could manage, he loosed two shafts of his own.
The first took Relonor in the chest, and the second stabbed into the warrior’s belly. They both dropped down out of sight.
Ryld looked at the twin with the sword cut in his flank. The male appeared to be unconscious, which would facilitate searching him. Ryld hobbled over to him to rifle his pockets and the leather satchel he wore on his belt.
Blessedly, he found four silver vials, each marked with the rune for healing. Greyanna had indeed outfitted her agents properly for a martial expedition. It was the twin’s misfortune that he hadn’t had time to drink of her bounty before going into shock.
His brother and Relonor no doubt carried healing draughts as well, and Ryld had no guarantee that they’d be unable to use them. They might come after him again any moment, and he’d just as soon avoid a second round. He needed to beat a hasty—
Enormous wings beat the air. A long-necked, legless beast passed overhead with Greyanna and the other priestess, the skinny one, astride its back. Glaring down at Ryld, Pharaun’s sister pulled at the laces securing the mouth of her bag of monsters.
Ryld dumped the remaining arrows out of the quiver, the better to examine them. One was fletched with red feathers while the rest had black.
He’d already seen his first foe shoot one fire arrow. Praying that the red-fletched arrow was another, he drew back his bowstring and sent it hurtling into the air.
The arrow plunged into the sack, and burst into flame. The scarred high priestess reflexively dropped the bag, and it fell, burning as it went. The magic spores combusting inside turned the fire green, then blue, then violet.
Greyanna screamed in fury and sent the foulwing swooping lower. Ryld looked for another magic arrow and found that none were left. He nocked an ordinary one, and his hands began to shake, no doubt an aftereffect of the punishment he’d taken.
For a moment, it seemed to him that he was finished. If he couldn’t shoot accurately, he couldn’t hit one of the foulwing’s vital spots, or the riders on its back, for that matter. Nor was he in any shape to fight them hand to hand.
Then he realized he still had a chance. He surrounded his arrow with a cloud of murky darkness, then shot it upward.
The descending beast was a huge target. Even shooting blind with trembling hands, he had a fair chance of hitting in somewhere, and the foulwing gave a double shriek that told him he’d succeeded.
He watched the mass of darkness he’d created tumble and zigzag drunkenly through the air. Stung, suddenly and inexplicably sightless, the winged mount inside had panicked, and Greyanna was evidently unable to control it. She quite possibly could have dissolved the darkness with some scroll or talisman, but she couldn’t see either or lay hands on her equipment easily with the foulwing lurching and swooping about beneath her.
Ryld snapped the head off the arrow in his leg and pulled the offending object out. He gathered up the healing potions, and quickly as he was able, activated the magic in his talisman, floated down off the roof, and limped away.
chapter
thirteen
As Quenthel skulked down the corridor, it occurred to her that at the same time, Gromph was casting his radiant heat into the base of Narbondel. Even
revelers and necromancers were settling in for a rest. She, however, was too busy to do the same. She wouldn’t have a chance to relax until late the next night, unless, of course, she wound up resting forever.
Fortunately, one of the Baenre alchemists brewed a stimulant to delay the onset of the aching eyes, fuzzy head, and leaden limbs that lack of rest produced. Quenthel extracted a silver vial of the stuff from one of the pouches on her belt and took a sip of it. She gasped, and her shoulder muscles jumped. Jolted back to alertness, she continued on her way.
Quickly enough, she reached the door to Drisinil’s quarters. In deference to the status of her family, the novice resided in one of Arach-Tinilith’s most comfortable student habitations. Quenthel regretted not sticking her in a dank little hole. Perhaps then the girl would have learned her place.
The high priestess inspected the arched limestone panel that was the door. She couldn’t see any magical wards.
“Is it safe?” she whispered to the vipers.
“We believe so,” Yngoth replied.
How reassuring, Quenthel thought, but it was either trust them or use another precious, irreplaceable scroll to wipe away protections that probably didn’t exist.
She activated the power of her brooch. When a novice came to Arach-Tinilith, the enchantments on certain doors were keyed to allow her to enter, based on the unique magical signature of her House insignia, rooms the high priestesses deemed it necessary for her to pass into. Only Quenthel’s brooch could unlock them all.
She unlocked Drisinil’s door and warily cracked it open. No magic sparked, nor did any mechanical trap jab a blade at her. As quietly as she could, Quenthel crept on into the suite. Sensing her desire for quiet, the snakes hung mute and limp.
She found Drisinil sitting motionless in a chair, her bandaged, mutilated hands in her lap. For a moment, Quenthel, thinking the other female must have a dauntless spirit to enter the Reverie at such a perilous time, rather admired her—then she caught the smell of brandy, and noticed the bottle lying in a puddle of liquor on the floor.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 21