“The matron mothers,” Danifae replied. “They summoned a guardian spider. The fools.”
Quenthel sucked in her breath.
“Indeed,” the high priestess agreed. “We must flee.”
Pharaun wanted to ask the two females what in the Abyss a guardian spider was, but at that moment, the arachnid spotted them, though they had remained quite still. It leaned forward eagerly, coming after them.
As one, they turned and fled over the side.
As she reached the alley, following Ryld Argith, Halisstra turned to see who had caught up with her in the chaos of the swarming, fighting drow and duergar. Of the others, there was no sign.
“Come on!” Ryld shouted from up ahead, motioning frenetically for Halisstra to keep up with him.
Several duergar had followed them into the alley that ran alongside the temple and were closing in on her. She turned back for a moment, thinking to make a stand and drive them away, but a crossbow bolt snapped against the stone wall near the priestess, shattering and showering her with splinters. She turned again and ran, the gray dwarves pounding along after her.
As Halisstra caught up to Ryld, he fired his own crossbow once, to slow down the pursuit, and they sprinted along the alley together, weaving through the turns of the pathway, trying to lose their foes. The two of them turned one last corner and skidded to a stop. The alleyway ended at a solid wall, though one side was low, protecting some sort of covered porch.
“Damn,” Ryld muttered, slipping his greatsword free. He turned back to prepare to face the oncoming gray dwarves. “Get ready,” he told her, and Halisstra planted herself beside the warrior, her heavy mace feeling good in her hand.
“Why don’t we just float up there?” she asked, pointing to the roofline as the first two duergar appeared.
The first of the gray dwarves wielded a wicked-looking, doublebladed axe, while the second had a heavy hammer that was easily twice the size of Halisstra’s own mace. She readjusted the grip on her shield as the hammer-wielding dwarf advanced, hate gleaming in his eyes.
Ryld risked a quick glance upward before he stepped gracefully to the side, avoiding the first cut of the double-bladed axe and making a quick, neat cut of his own that the gray dwarf barely managed to parry.
“Only if we have to,” the warrior replied. “No sense making ourselves a target for their crossbows.”
Halisstra could see that though the duergar’s weapon was larger, the creature was forced to put a lot behind each swing, while Ryld was able to sidestep and redirect his own weapon far more easily. Then the priestess was too busy thwarting her own attacker’s strikes to watch the weapons master.
The first blow came low, aimed at her knees, and she dipped the shield down enough so that the hammer grazed it, scraping across as she spun back and out of the way to avoid taking the full brunt of the strike. The dwarf followed this with an uppercut swing, which Halisstra was forced to block with her weapon, again redirecting the hammer rather than trying to completely stop the swing. She brought her mace back around and waited, thinking to let her enemy tire himself by repeatedly over-swinging.
That was all good in theory, Halisstra realized, but when three more duergar appeared, she knew that she and Ryld had been cornered. This time, when the dwarf over-swung and she deflected the blow with her shield, she also kicked out, catching the gray dwarf with her boot in the side of his knee. The humanoid grunted and staggered backward a couple of steps, but another dwarf was there, ready to step into the fray. Halisstra moved to position herself next to Ryld again, working so that each of them could protect the other’s flank, preventing the gray dwarves from getting inside their position.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ryld, still battling with the gray dwarves. One of the humanoids lay dead at his feet, while another had a bloody gash across his thigh. Behind them, two more had appeared, and these had crossbows, which they brought to bear, waiting for openings to shoot at the two drow.
One of the duergar nudged his companion and pointed to the priestess. Together, they swung their crossbows around to put her in their sights, and Halisstra took refuge behind her shield. She felt one bolt strike her shield, but the other embedded itself in her shoulder. She grunted in pain and staggered backward, unable to keep her shield raised high enough for solid protection.
Another gray dwarf circled to Halisstra’s shield side, seeing that her defenses were down, and brought his axe high for a new strike. She did her best to spin and face the duergar without exposing Ryld’s flank, and she managed to parry the blow with her mace, but the crushing force of it made her stumble to one knee.
“Ryld! Help me!” she cried out, and as though sensing she was in trouble, the warrior was in front of her, battling all four of the foes at once.
The priestess risked a glance over at the gray dwarves who were reloading their crossbows. They were also pointing at her and grinning. Or rather, they were pointing over her head, Halisstra realized.
The priestess’s heart sank as she took a peek above. More of the gray dwarves had already taken the roof, and these had thrown nets across the opening while she and Ryld had been engaged in the battle. They were trapped inside the alley, unable to escape. The duergar on the roofs also had crossbows, and as one of them fired at her, Halisstra flinched. The crossbow bolt whisked across her face, grazing her cheek. She felt wetness.
“Ryld!” she cried out as she stumbled to her feet again. “They’re above us, too. We’re trapped.”
The warrior never acknowledged Halisstra’s cry, so busy was he fending off four duergar. Slowly, he was being forced back, bloody gashes across his body, having to retreat a little at a time to keep the gray dwarves from surrounding him.
Gritting her teeth, Halisstra tested the end of the crossbow bolt that protruded from her arm and almost wretched from the pain that doing so produced. Her shield arm useless, the priestess rose to her feet anyway, gripping her mace and moving next to the warrior once more. She tried to stay beside him, to guard his flank and enjoy a similar protection.
One of the four gray dwarves was dead, but Ryld was breathing heavily. A duergar slipped around to Halisstra’s side, trying to get inside her defenses. She swung her mace hard and caught the duergar closing in on her on the shoulder, feeling the satisfying crunch of metal on bone. The gray dwarf growled in anguish as he dropped his axe and fell back out of Ryld’s reach.
Two more stepped in to take the wounded one’s place, and Halisstra had to press in too closely to Ryld to avoid being struck down. Her movement hampered the weapons master’s ability to fight, and he took a cut across his forearm as a result.
“By the Dark Mother,” Ryld snarled, whipping Splitter around to cleave the offending gray dwarf ’s head completely off.
The body flopped to the ground as the head rolled away, past another duergar, who watched it pass him with a look of horror on his face.
Another crossbow bolt clacked against the stone of the street near Halisstra, and two more struck her armor, bouncing off. Ryld jerked as a bolt flew close to him, but he never turned his attention away from his adversaries, never deviated from his fluid motion and quick, precise strikes. Still, he and Halisstra were being backed into a corner, the priestess saw, and they would make easy prey for the snipers on the roof.
The first firepot exploded right behind Halisstra, making her jump and nearly get her head taken off by an axe. She scrambled away from the flames as she warded off another blow from the axe-wielding enemy in front of her with her mace, feeling the vibration of the blow all the way up her arm. Two more of the flaming contraptions smacked against the end of the street, the clay pots shattering and spilling fire everywhere. She risked a glance up and saw another one hurtling toward her. Somehow, her wounded shoulder screaming in agony, she managed to bring her shield up with both hands and deflected the pot so that it skipped off and hit the pavement between her and her opponent.
The gray dwarves fighting with them began backing up,
and Halisstra saw that the duergar on the roof were creating a fire screen to seal her and Ryld off, trap them between the flames and the wall. She knew that they intended to pin the two drow down, and pick them off at their leisure. There was nowhere for the dark elves to go. They were going to die.
chapter
sixteen
The second time he got no reply from the distant wizard, Gromph slammed his fists down atop his bone desk in frustration. Two sendings, and nothing. What had happened to Pharaun? Why wouldn’t he answer? The Archmage of Menzoberranzan rose up and began to pace.
Two different spies had already contacted him with reports of heavy fighting in Ched Nasad. The matron mothers were squabbling over something, it appeared, and like it or not, the team from Menzoberranzan appeared to be in the thick of it, but Gromph couldn’t get any confirmation from the team itself. He considered whether or not he should try one last time.
Realizing he couldn’t force the wizard to answer—Pharaun might be receiving the magical whispers and was simply unable to reply— Gromph decided against any further waste of magic. It was possible that Pharaun was unwilling to give himself away in the company of others who didn’t know the full extent of what he was up to.
Or he’s dead, Gromph thought.
It was a possibility, however unlikely that seemed. Pharaun Mizzrym had a knack for keeping himself out of the worst sorts of trouble, and coupled with Quenthel and the others, the archwizard had a difficult time imagining that they’d succumbed to whatever violence inundated the streets of the City of Shimmering Webs. Still, it wasn’t impossible.
If the team was dead Gromph felt no remorse.
Gromph sighed and reached into one of the drawers of his desk, extracting a scroll tube. Pulling the bundle of rolled parchment free of the tube, he found the page he was looking for and tucked the others away again. Spreading his selected sheet out on the desktop, the archwizard took a deep breath and scanned through the spell once before preparing to cast it. He was just about to begin the incantation to try once more to reach the wizard when a thought struck him.
Just because he’d been communicating exclusively with Pharaun didn’t mean he had to continue that way. Why not try some of the other members of the team? It was possible Pharaun was dead or incapacitated, but that didn’t necessarily mean that all of them were. Quenthel was the most likely choice, but he didn’t relish the thought of talking to her. Who would his next choice be? Ryld Argith.
Nodding to himself, Gromph read through the arcane words on the scroll, weaving the magic that would allow him to contact the warrior. He completed the phrases and felt the magic coalesce.
“Ryld, this is Gromph Baenre. No word from Pharaun. Give me an update on the situation. Whisper a reply at once.”
Gromph sat back and waited for a response. It was deathly quiet in his secret chamber. If Ryld Argith answered, the archwizard would undoubtedly hear it. The silence seemed to stretch on, and Gromph was just about to throw up his hands in frustration and despair when the reply came. When he heard it, his blood actually ran cold.
I’m separated from Pharaun and the others, don’t know where they are. Duergar are everywhere. The whole city is burning. We’re cut off, no way—
Gromph slumped in his chair, sighing long and loudly, shaking his head in displeasure.
Triel is going to spit rocks when she hears this, he thought. How long can I hold off telling her? On the other hand, maybe Quenthel is dead.
The archmage caught himself smiling as he rose from his desk to go find his sister.
As Pharaun ended his descent at the steps of the building, he could see a sizable force of duergar, waiting and watching. Without hesitating, he took a couple steps forward then crouched and smacked his hand against the stone, summoning a sphere of darkness. Quickly, he retreated back up the steps just as Jeggred settled to the ground next to him, with Quenthel on his other side. A couple crossbow bolts whizzed by, but he ignored the missiles, motioning the other three to move into the protection of the porch where he and Danifae had taken refuge before. It was a small space, especially with the draegloth in attendance, but they all fit and when crouched down were at least partially shielded from the duergar on the street below. More importantly, they were out of sight of the spider.
Danifae sank to the stone floor, and the wizard could see that she was bleeding steadily from the wound in her leg. The battle captive opened her own pack and pulled out a strip of cloth. Wrapping the makeshift bandage around her leg, she held it there as Pharaun assisted her by tying it off. Quenthel looked on impassively.
Pharaun stole a glance at Quenthel and signed, where Danifae could not see, If you heal her, we can move much faster.
Quenthel shrugged and replied, She is not a necessary part of this group. I will not waste the magic on her. There might not be any left later for you, if I did.
Pharaun pursed his lips, wondering what it would take to convince Quenthel that the battle captive was an asset they could not do without. He turned his attention back to Danifae. “Can you walk on it?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she answered. “I can keep up.”
“We will not wait for you, if you cannot,” Quenthel said sharply, “and I will not permit Jeggred to be slowed down by carrying you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Danifae said.
Pharaun saw that her eyes narrowed a bit. He gestured with his palms down where Quenthel could not see, indicating for Danifae to be patient. He was not about to abandon her, even if he knew full well that she was playing upon his desires just to save her own hide.
At that moment, a single massive spider leg settled on the stone between the alcove and the shield of magical darkness that the mage had summoned, and a portion of the arachnid’s body hove into view. It was the underside of the creature, Pharaun noted, holding his breath as he felt the tremor of it settling its weight on the web street. Beside him, the two females were wide-eyed, and Jeggred watched the scene warily, but none of them moved. As the spider glided down and away from their hiding place, the wizard sighed softly in relief. It had not noticed them.
Out beyond the protective blackness, Pharaun could hear the shouts of duergar—cries of terror—as the spider moved quickly away from the building where the mage and his companions were hiding. The vibrations of its steps grew ever softer as it departed.
Good, Pharaun thought. Chase them for a while.
“What in the Abyss is a guardian spider?” he asked aloud.
Danifae shrugged and said, “I don’t know as much about them as Halisstra. You’ll have to ask her if you want the details, but I can tell you that the matron mothers have, in the past, brought these creatures forth for various purposes. They must have conjured one today, maybe to turn the tide of the fighting.”
Quenthel sighed and shook her head.
“Madness,” she said quietly. “The matron mothers of this city pick the most foolish time to war with one another.”
“I wouldn’t limit the appellation of foolish solely to the matron mothers of this city,” Pharaun muttered under his breath.
Quenthel glanced at him, but he simply smiled, and she turned her attention back to the unseen ruckus beyond the sphere of darkness, apparently not having clearly heard his remarks.
“Dispel the darkness,” the high priestess ordered the wizard. “I want to see what’s happening.”
As I said, Pharaun thought, shaking his head.
Sighing, the mage gestured and the sphere of blackness vanished, revealing the street beyond. The spider was out of sight for the moment. In the street, nothing moved, though there were plenty of dead strewn about, duergar and drow alike.
“It seems to have wandered off,” Quenthel observed, rising to her feet. “We should be going, too, before it comes back.”
“Let’s give it another couple of moments,” Pharaun suggested, still unnerved at the appearance of the giant creature. “Just to make sure it’s completely gone.”
&nb
sp; Quenthel scowled at the wizard then turned to the draegloth and said, “Go see.”
Smiling, the fiend bounded out from their hiding place to peer in both directions.
At that moment the duergar chose to come out of hiding.
Scores of them poured out from around the corner and from the building across the street, as though they had been waiting for the drow to emerge from their hiding place.
“Get ’em!” one of the gray dwarves shouted.
The duergar formed up a semicircle, surrounding the dark elves’ position, and Jeggred leaped back into the alcove as the first volley of crossbow bolts peppered the walls around them.
Cursing, Pharaun ducked low, using the elevation of the porch as a screen. He pointed his finger toward the street and spoke the arcane phrase that would trigger one of his spells. At once, a cloud of roiling smoke, shot through with white-hot embers, formed beneath him and began to flow away from the building and across the street. The duergar, many of whom had their crossbows loaded again and were aiming at the small group, eyed the fiery haze warily as it appeared and began to churn toward them. As it reached those in the front ranks and engulfed them, they began to scream and flail, scorched by the embers.
Gray dwarves fell back before the cloud as it burned their kin where they stood. The smoke was thick and black. It moved away from the building, and the screams of the duergar intensified as more and more of them succumbed to the scorching heat.
Pharaun crept out a little way to watch his handiwork. Jeggred stood beside him, unafraid of a stray missile, eyeing the cloud with delight.
“Can any of them survive?” the fiend asked.
“Not if you go dance among them,” the Master of Sorcere replied. “The fire can’t hurt you, right?”
“That is correct,” the draegloth answered, and he bounded into the smoky fog.
The incendiary cloud had pushed across to the opposite side of the street. Bodies of duergar were scattered across its surface, charred and smoking. Several of them were openly burning. Jeggred emerged from within the roiling smoke, which Pharaun redirected to flow down the street, in the direction opposite they wished to go. It would continue of its own accord for some time before dissipating, ensuring that another horde of the enemy couldn’t come up behind them. The draegloth was dripping with blood but had a very satisfied look on his face. He had an amputated arm in his hand and was chewing on it as he trotted back to where the three drow were crouched.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 66