R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation

by Richard Lee Byers; Thomas M. Reid; Richard Baker

  Gromph knew that many of the folk in the city below had no idea what was occurring—it was possible that even some of his erudite colleagues didn’t know—but whether they understood or not, clouds, lightning, and weather were paying a call on the hitherto changeless depths of the Underdark.

  As one, the clouds dropped torrents of water to fall in frigid veils. The Baenre could hear the sizzling sound as it pounded the cavern wall.

  “That’s impressive,” said Guldor, “but are you sure it will put out the flames? The fire’s magical, after all.”

  Gromph’s bruise gave him a twinge.

  “Yes, instructor,” he growled, “because I’m not an incompetent from a House of no account. I’m a Baenre and the Archmage of Menzoberranzan . . . and I’m sure.”

  Before it was over, Pharaun lost track of how many battles he and his comrades had fought. He only knew they kept winning them, through superior tactics more than anything else, and that despite their losses, their numbers kept growing, swelled by garrisons that had fought their way out of their castles.

  Occasionally the ragtag army came upon a section of the city that had already been pacified, and though he never caught so much of a glimpse of them, Pharaun knew Bregan D’aerthe was fighting in concert with his own company. It was as much a comfort as anything could be on this fierce and desperate night.

  Finally the army from Tier Breche encountered an equally impressive force under Matron Baenre’s command. The two companies united and marched on Narbondellyn, where several bugbears with some degree of martial experience had striven to organize thousands of their fellow undercreatures into a force capable of withstanding their masters’ wrath.

  The great stone pillar of Narbondel shone above fighting that was wild and chaotic. Miraculously, partway through, the upper reaches of the cavern began to storm, allaying Pharaun’s greatest fear. An hour later, the drow swept in and annihilated the opposing force, and thus they took their homeland back.

  In the aftermath, the wizard walked through the downpour, looking this way and that. Strands of wet hair clung to his forehead, and his boots squelched. As a mage, he had to concede the storm was a glorious achievement, to say nothing of the salvation of Menzoberranzan, but it was a pity his colleagues couldn’t have accomplished the same thing without wreaking havoc on everyone’s appearance and chilling them to the bone.

  The Mizzrym grinned. Neither Quenthel nor Triel was anywhere around. He’d taken direction from them all night, willingly enough, but he wanted to command the finale of this extraordinary affair himself, and their absence gave him an excuse to proceed without consulting them.

  He cast about once more and spied Welverin Freth. The capable weapons master of the Nineteenth House, Welverin excelled at combat despite the seeming impediment of a prosthetic silver leg, and had fought in tandem with Pharaun several times during the night. Currently he was huddled in a doorway conferring with two of his lieutenants.

  “Weapons Master!” Pharaun called.

  Welverin looked up and gave him a nod. “How can I help you, Master Mizzrym?”

  “How would you like to help me kill the creature responsible for this insurrection?”

  The warrior’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Is this another of your jokes?”

  “By no means. But if we’re going to do this, we’d better do it quickly, before our quarry slinks away into the Underdark. I trust that you and your troops can ride aerial mounts?”

  Pharaun gestured to the giant bats, created by some enchanter, penned in a nearby latticework dome. It seemed a petty miracle they’d survived the rebellion unsuffocated and unburned.

  “Where do they keep the tack?” Welverin asked, peering at the cage.

  chapter

  twenty-four

  Water dripping from the hem of his cloak, Pharaun found that the layout of the renegades’ fortress wasn’t quite so perplexing when he wasn’t dodging hunters and suffering the brain-jangling aftereffects of a psionic assault. The empty, echoing rooms and corridors still seemed just as ominous, however, just as fitting an abode for wraiths and maledictions.

  The Mizzrym watched Welverin and the other warriors of House Freth to see if the place was unsettling them. It didn’t look like it. Perhaps they were too brave. Or perhaps the fresh, butchered corpses littering the floor turned their thoughts from shadowy terrors to the commonplace violence that was their profession.

  They found the bodies, often cut in two or more pieces, lying here and there about the castle. Pharaun was astonished at the quantity. Apparently poor wounded Ryld had had a nice long homicidal run of it before the conspirators slew him. Perhaps it had even required Syrzan to do the job.

  In retrospect, Pharaun wondered why the alhoon hadn’t joined the search for the escaped prisoners right from the start. Maybe giving the Call had temporarily depleted its strength.

  The Master of Sorcere led the soldiers into a long, spacious hall with a large dais at the far end. there, no doubt, a matron mother had held court and also dined, judging by the benches and trestle tables stacked in an alcove. Carved and painted spiders crawled everywhere, a sort of mask, Pharaun supposed, given that the former tenants of the keep had petitioned other deities in private. Sheets of genuine spiderweb veiled the artwork.

  Welverin said, “Look.”

  Pharaun turned his head, then caught his breath in surprise. Ryld Argith had just stepped from the mouth of a servants’ passage midway up the left-hand wall.

  The weapons master’s strides were even and sure despite his wounded leg. He was noticeably thinner, as if his body was burning fuel at a prodigious rate, and somehow he’d recovered Splitter.

  The soldiers aimed their crossbows.

  “No!” Pharaun said. Not yet, anyway.

  Ryld pivoted toward the newcomers and stalked forward. His eyes were intent yet somehow empty, his face, expressionless, and he seemed indifferent to the weapons leveled at his burly frame. One warrior muttered uneasily, as if he’d mistaken the Master of Melee-Magthere for a ghost. Pharaun knew better; he recognized a deep trance when he saw one. Evidently his friend had utilized some esoteric martial discipline to keep himself alive.

  “Ryld!” Pharaun said. “Well met! I knew you could defeat Houndaer and the rest of those buffoons. Otherwise I never would have left you.”

  The lie sounded thin even to the liar.

  Certainly it didn’t impress Ryld. Perhaps in his altered statue of consciousness, he hadn’t even heard it or recognized his fellow master, either. He just kept coming.

  “Wake up!” the wizard said. “It’s me, Pharaun, your friend. I came back to rescue you. These boys hail from House Freth, and they’re our allies.”

  Ryld took another gliding swordsman’s advance, still directly toward the Master of Sorcere.

  I’m sorry, Pharaun thought, but this time you bring it on yourself. He drew breath to give the order to shoot, and shapes surged through the three tall arched doorways at the rear of the dais.

  In the lead capered several human-sized creatures wrapped in lengths of clattering chain. They were kytons, malign spirits whom mages could summon and control. Behind the devils strode the surviving conspirators, and Syrzan in its decaying robes.

  Ryld wheeled and oriented on the conspirators. The rogues shot a flight of whistling quarrels, and the Freth warriors responded in kind. The renegades had the advantage of their elevated platform, and the soldiers, of numerical superiority, but neither volley dropped more than a smattering of its targets. The combatants were too well armored, by metal, magic, or both.

  Eager to see if swords would serve where the darts had failed, the Freth soldiers howled a battle cry and charged. Most of them, anyway. In his deep, booming voice, Welverin ordered some of the troops back outside to find their way around to the entrances the traitors had used and attack them from the rear. Not a bad idea, but Pharaun thought the warriors had a good chance of getting lost instead

  Whirling loose lengths of chain, eight k
ytons, each a match for a dozen ordinary fighters, leaped down off the stage to meet the oncoming foe. The rogues remained on the platform with Syrzan, where they started reloading their crossbows with the obvious intention of shooting down into the melee.

  Pharaun decided he wouldn’t allow that. He levitated above his comrades, thus obtaining a clear shot at the dais.

  He felt a twinge in the center of his forehead, but only for a moment. As he’d expected, Syrzan had attacked first with a psionic thrust, not realizing its foe had warded himself against such effects with apposite talismans and spells.

  This time, the Mizzrym thought, you’ll have to fight me charm to charm and spell to spell.

  To his surprise, he received an answer, a telepathic voice grating and buzzing inside his mind.

  So be it, mammal , the alhoon said. Either way, I’ll have revenge on the wretch who condemned me to exile yet again.

  Even as he attended to Syrzan’s threat, Pharaun was murmuring an incantation and manipulating a little steel tube. A bright pellet of flame hurtled from the open end, expanding into a skull-sized orb as it flew. It smashed into one of the renegades on the dais, rebounded, and struck another. It bounced and slashed back and forth across the platform, sowing a zigzag trail of sparks and afterimage in its wake, striking everyone. Before it winked out of existence, it killed a good many of the rogues or turned them into reeling, flailing living torches, whom their own allies had to slay lest they ignite them as well. Syrzan, however, was unaffected.

  Below his feet, Pharaun glimpsed the clash of stabbing, cutting blades and spinning chains. As they flailed at their adversaries, the kytons, who resembled oozing, festering corpses within their coiled armor of chains, altered their features. The devils had the capacity to take on the appearance of a deceased intimate from an enemy’s past. Supposedly svirfneblin and their ilk found this deeply distressing, but it was only slightly discomfiting to representatives of a race that did not love.

  Ryld was at the forefront of the fighting, sweeping Splitter about with all his accustomed strength and skill. Pharaun was glad to see that his friend was only striking at the demons.

  Mouth tentacles writhing, bulbous eyes glaring, Syrzan lifted its three-fingered hands to conjure. Around it, many of the rogues who still survived jumped off the dais. Evidently they’d rather fight the Freth warriors on the floor than stand near the alhoon while Pharaun threw spells at it.

  The Master of Sorcere was surprised that so few of the traitors simply tried to run away. Certainly loyalty—that alien conceit— didn’t hold them there. They must have known that with their schemes thwarted, their conspiracy revealed, they were outlaws, outcast from all they coveted and cherished. Perhaps their plight filled them with such rage that they prized vengeance above survival.

  As Syrzan wove magic, its dark elf counterpart was hastily doing the same. The lich finished first. A blaze of lightning, kin to those still twisting and forking through the open air outside, leaped from its parched, scaling hand, crackled entirely through Pharaun’s torso, and burned a black spot on the ceiling.

  Pharaun’s muscles clenched, and his hair lifted away from his head, but his protections averted any real harm. Indeed, the attack didn’t even disrupt his own conjuring. On the final word, he thrust out his hand, releasing a wave of cold, fluttering shadows like ghostly bats.

  Screeching and chattering, the phantoms swooped and whirled about the alhoon, slashing at it with their claws. The mind flayer growled a word in some infernal tongue, and a jagged crack snaked up one of the walls. Pharaun’s illusory minions vanished.

  The Mizzrym extracted five glass marbles from one of his pockets, rolled them dexterously in his palm, and rattled off a brief tercet. A quintet of luminous spheres appeared in the air and shot toward Syrzan, attacking it with fire, sound, cold, acid, and lightning simultaneously. Surely at least one of those forces would pierce its defenses.

  Syrzan gave a rasping, clacking shriek and swept its hand through the air. In an instant, the orbs reversed their courses, streaking back at their source as fast as they’d sped away.

  Caught by surprise, Pharaun nonetheless attempted to dodge in the only manner possible. He restored his weight and dropped toward the floor like a stone. Two of the radiant projectiles streaked past him to explode against the ceiling. Two more simply vanished when they came into contact with his piwafwi. The fifth ghosted into his chest.

  The loudest scream he’d ever heard shook his bones, jabbed agony through his ears, and smashed his thoughts to pieces. Stunned, he kept plummeting until he smashed down in the midst of the melee.

  For a moment he simply lay amidst scores of shifting, stamping feet, then his mind focused, and he realized he needed to get off the floor before somebody trampled him. He started to scramble up, and a swinging length of chain struck him on the temple.

  It was just a glancing blow, but it knocked him back down. A kyton loomed over him, whirling its flexible weapons around for another attack. The spirit had Sabal’s face.

  Pharaun pointed his finger and rattled off a spell, realizing partway through that he couldn’t hear himself—or anything else. Moments before, the battle had been a hammering cacophony, but it had fallen silent.

  Luckily he didn’t need to hear his voice to recite a spell. Power blazed from his fingertip into the devil’s body. In a heartbeat, the kyton’s flesh shriveled within its wrapping of chain. The links sliding and flopping around it, the fiend collapsed.

  A hand gripped Pharaun’s shoulder and hauled him up. He turned and saw Welverin. The officer’s mouth moved, but the wizard had no idea what he was saying. He shook his head and pointed to his ears, which, though useless, were far from numb. They throbbed and bled. His insides hurt as well, and the pain made him want to destroy Syrzan all the more.

  Pharaun levitated, only to find himself mere feet from something the illithilich must have conjured while its fellow mage was floundering about below. It was a huge, phosphorescent, disembodied illithid head, with mouth tentacles longer than the drow was tall. The members writhing, the squidlike construct flew forward. Up close, it smelled fishy.

  Pharaun snatched a white leather glove and a chip of clear crystal from his cloak and commenced a spell. A tapered tentacle tip whipped around his forearm, tugged, and nearly spoiled the final manipulation, but he pulled free and completed the pass successfully.

  An immense hand made of ice appeared beside the mind flayer’s head. It wrapped its fingers around it, dug its talons in, and held the thing immobile.

  The only problem was that the phantom illithid head was still blocking Pharaun’s view. He simultaneously wove a spell and bobbed lower until he saw Syrzan.

  On the final word of the incantation, white fire erupted from the alhoon’s desiccated flesh . . . fire that died a heartbeat later. The magic should have transformed the undead wizard into an inanimate corpse, but the only effect had been to singe its shabby robe a little. Pharaun reflected that despite several attempts, he had yet to injure or even jostle his adversary. If the dark elf hadn’t known better, he might have wondered if Syrzan was not in fact the better arcanist.

  Much as the Mizzrym disliked hand-to-hand combat, perhaps a change of tactics was in order. He snatched a delicate little bone, dissected from a petty demon he’d killed in a classroom demonstration, and started to conjure.

  Syrzan swung its arm and hurled a dozen flaming arrows. They missed, bumped off course by their target’s protective enchantments. Pharaun completed his incantation and so inflicted a hundred stabbing pains upon himself.

  His body grew as large as an ogre’s, and his hide thickened into scaly armor. His teeth lengthened into tusks, and his nails into talons, while long, curved horns erupted from his brow. A hairless tail sprouted from the base of his spine, and a whip appeared in his hand.

  The transformation only took a moment, and the discomfort was gone. With a beat of his leathery new wings, Pharaun hurled himself at his foe.

  The wiz
ard raised his monstrous arms high and bellowed an incantation. Pharaun felt a surge of churning vertigo. The scene before him seemed to spin and twist, and despite himself, he veered off course. He smashed down on the dais, and time skipped. When he came to his senses, he’d reverted to his natural form and felt as weak and sick as Smylla Nathos.

  The lich was staring down at him.

  “What an idiot you were to return,” Syrzan said. “You knew you were no match for me.”

  Pharaun realized he could hear again, albeit through a jangling in his ears. He wouldn’t die deaf, for whatever that was worth.

  “Stop preening,” said the Master of Sorcere. “You look ridiculous. This isn’t your pathetic dream world. This is reality, where I’m a prince of a great city and you’re just a sort of mollusk, and a dead, putrid one at that.”

  As he taunted the creature, he groped for the strength to cast a final spell. No doubt the attack would fail like all the others.

  So why, he thought, bother to attack? Try something else instead. Shaking with effort, he cast a spell off the side of the platform. Blue scintilla of power glittered briefly in the air.

  “You call me pathetic?” Syrzan sneered. “What was that supposed to be?”

  If you were wearing the ring you stole, Pharaun thought, you’d know, but I doubt it would fit on your bloated fingers.

  The alhoon hoisted him off the ground, then wrapped dry, flaking tentacles around his head.

  You’re still going to serve me, Syrzan said directly into the mage’s mind, holding up one gnarled finger to reveal the silver ring. When I devour your brain, I’ll learn all your secrets.

  “Perhaps the infusion would even cure your stupidity,” Pharaun wheezed, “but I fear we’ll never know. Look around.”

  The lich turned, and he felt it jerk with surprise.

  The lens of illusion he’d formed in front of the dais made Syrzan look exactly like a certain witty Master of Sorcere, and Pharaun himself resemble yet another humble orc. Once the Mizzrym created it, he’d willed the hand of ice to release the illithid’s head, and there came the construct, swooping straight at its originator.