With that, she began to sing. Her song was a strange keening threnody, something dark and eerie that tugged at the drow admiration for beauty, ambition, and black deeds skillfully done. Halisstra molded the shape of her voice and the ancient words of the song, summoning the magic of her lament as she set her hand on the quarrel and drew it from the wound.
Ryld started, his eyes wide and staring, and blood spurted over Halisstra’s hands—but the wound closed into a puckered scar, and the weapons master coughed himself awake.
“What happened?” he groaned.
“What happened, indeed?” Quenthel replied. She eyed Halisstra suspiciously. “Was that what I thought it was?”
Halisstra nodded and stood, wiping blood from her hands.
“It is a tradition in my House that those females who are suited for it may study the arts of the bae’qeshel, the dark minstrels. As you can see, there is power in song, something that few of our kind care to study. I have been trained in the minstrel’s lore.”
Ryld sat up, looking down at his breastplate and the bloody quarrel lying in the dust. He looked up at Halisstra.
“You healed me?” he asked.
Halisstra offered her hand and pulled him to his feet.
“As your friend Pharaun observed, we need you too much to allow you to inconvenience us with your death.”
Ryld met her eyes, obviously considering some reply. Gratitude was not an emotion many drow bothered to act upon. The weapons master perhaps wondered what Halisstra might choose to do with his. She spared him any more serious reflections by turning her attention to Pharaun, and handing the iron wand back to him.
“Here,” she said. “You dropped this.”
Pharaun inclined his head and replied, “I admit I was surprised to see you wield it, but I heard you sing in Ched Nasad. Shame on me for not adding two and two.”
“Let me see your arm,” Halisstra said.
She sang the song of healing again, and repaired Pharaun’s injury.
She would have examined the others and aided them if she could, but Quenthel interrupted her.
“No one else is dying,” the high priestess said. “We must move now or our enemies will surely descend on us again. Valas, you lead the way. Head toward the outer walls so that we may make for the open desert if we decide to flee.”
“Very well, Mistress Baenre,” the scout acquiesced. “It will be as you say.”
chapter
three
Kaanyr Vhok, the half-demon prince known as the Sceptered One, stood on a high balcony over the old dwarven foundry and watched his armorers at work. The great smelter had once been the heart of the fallen realm of Ammarindar. The cavern was immense, and its roof rested upon dozens of towering pillars carved into the shapes of dragons, glowing red with angry firelight and the lurid radiance of molten metal. The clanging of hammers and roar of kilns at work filled the air. Dozens of hulking tanarukks, bestial fiends bred from orcs and demons, toiled on the foundry floor. They might have lacked the skill and enchantments of the dwarves who once worked there, but Kaanyr Vhok’s soldiers possessed a cunning instinct for the making of deadly weapons infused with dark lore.
Kaanyr himself fit the infernal scene well. Tall and powerful, he had the stature of a strong-thewed human warrior and the strength of a stone giant. His skin was red and hot to the touch, and his
flesh was hard enough to turn a blade. He was strikingly handsome, though his eyes danced with malice and his teeth were as black as coal. He wore a golden breastplate and carried a pair of wicked short swords made from some demonic black iron in rune-chased scabbards at his belt. He grinned fiercely with delight as he looked out over the gathering storm of his army.
“I now lead nearly two thousand tanarukk warriors,” he said over his shoulder, “and I have just as many orcs, ogres, trolls, and giants at my command. I think the time has come to try my strength, my love.”
Aliisza allowed herself a smile and moved closer, pressing herself to the demon prince’s side. Like Kaanyr Vhok, she too possessed demonic blood. In her case, she was an alu-fiend, the spawn of a succubus and some mortal sorcerer. Wings as smooth as black leather sprouted from her shoulder blades, but other than that she was dusky and seductive, voluptuous and inviting, a half-demoness whose allure few mortal men could resist. She was also clever, capricious, and very skilled in magic, and therefore well-suited to be the consort of a demonspawned warlord such as Kaanyr.
“Menzoberranzan?” she purred, tracing the filigree of his armor with one fingertip.
“Of course. There seems to be nothing worth the taking in Ched Nasad, after all.” Kaanyr frowned, and his gaze grew distant. “If the dark elves are without the protection of their spider goddess, and unable to govern their interminable feuds, I may have an opportunity to seize the greatness I have always coveted. Having mastered the ruins of Ammarindar, I find that I hunger for something more. Subjugating a city of drow appeals to me.”
“Others have had that thought,” Aliisza pointed out. “The Menzoberranyr I spoke with in Ched Nasad suggested that his own city had suffered a significant slave uprising, sponsored by some outside agency. I think the duergar mercenaries who fought in Ched Nasad would not have left the city to whatever House hired them, once they’d managed to take it. If the duergar firebombs hadn’t worked so well, I suspect Clan Xornbane would rule Ched Nasad now.”
“Or I would,” Kaanyr said. He narrowed his eyes. “If you had reported the situation to me in a more timely manner, I might have been able to bring my army against Ched Nasad when the drow and duergar were exhausted from fighting each other.”
Aliisza licked her lips.
“You would have lost whatever forces you brought into the city,” she replied. “Your tanarukks could have endured the fires, of course, but the collapse of the city streets destroyed everything in the cavern. Trust me, you missed no opportunities in Ched Nasad.”
Kaanyr did not reply. Instead, he disentangled himself from Aliisza and vaulted lightly over the balcony rail, descending to the foundry floor. The warlord had no wings, but his demonic heritage conferred the ability to fly through effort of will. Aliisza frowned, and followed behind him, spreading her black pinions wide to catch the blazing updrafts of the room. Kaanyr was still sore about Ched Nasad, and that was not good, she reflected. If the warlord ever tired of her, he was certainly capable of having her killed in some grisly manner, past intimacies notwithstanding. There was nothing of which he was not capable, if his temper got the better of him.
The half-demon alighted beside a sand mold filling with molten iron. A pair of tanarukks stood by, carefully watching over the pour. Kaanyr squatted down by the white-hot metal and absently stirred his fingers in it. It was hot enough to cause him discomfort, and after a moment he shook the molten iron from his fingers and brushed them against his thigh.
“Good iron,” he said to the tanarukks. “Carry on, lads.”
He straightened and continued on his way. Aliisza fluttered to the stone floor and fell into step behind him.
“The thing that troubles me is this,” Kaanyr mused. “Why did the Xornbane duergar betray the House that employed them by burning the whole city? Was it simply a dispute over pay? Or did they intend from the start to bring ruin to Ched Nasad? If so, was Horgar Steelshadow behind it? Did the prince of Gracklstugh send his mercenaries to Ched Nasad to destroy the city, or did Clan Xornbane do that for someone else?”
“Does it matter?” Aliisza asked, sidling up beside him again. “The city was destroyed, regardless of anyone’s intentions. The great Houses of Ched Nasad are dead, and there aren’t many Xornbane dwarves remaining, for that matter.”
“It matters because I find myself wondering whether the duergar of Gracklstugh plan to attack Menzoberranzan next,” Kaanyr said. “I have amassed no small strength here, but I do not believe I can take Menzoberranzan unless the dark elves are reduced to utter chaos and helplessness. If the duergar mean to march on the city too, my
opportunities are limitless.”
“Ah,” Aliisza breathed. “You could sell your services to the dark elves, the gray dwarves, both, or neither. Hmm, that is interesting.”
“And the price I command will increase with the number of warriors I bring, and my proximity to Menzoberranzan, but it depends on the intentions of the gray dwarves.” The half-demon let out a bark of hard laughter. “I would not care to find myself on Menzoberranzan’s doorstep, facing a strong and united dark elf city with no allies at hand.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re about to send me away again?” Aliisza pouted. She stretched her wings languorously around Kaanyr, halting him as she reached up to turn him toward her. “I’ve only just come back, you know.”
“Clever girl,” Vhok said with a smile. “Yes, I mean to dispatch you on another mission. This time, though, you won’t have to creep about and stay out of sight. You will call on Horgar Steelshadow, the Crown Prince of Gracklstugh, as my personal envoy—a diplomat, if you like. Find out if the gray dwarves intend to attack Menzoberranzan. If they do, let them know that I would like to join them. If they don’t . . . well, see if you can’t persuade them that it’s in their best interest to destroy Menzoberranzan while the dark elves are weak.”
“The dwarves are not likely to confide in me.”
“Of course they won’t want to confide in you. However, if they do intend to attack, they will see the advantage of gaining me as an ally. If they don’t plan on attacking, the fact that I am willing to ally with them may decide the issue for them. They wish Menzoberranzan no good, so you need not worry that they’ll stand up for the drow.”
“Envoy. . . .” Aliisza murmured. “It sounds better than spy, doesn’t it? I suppose I can carry your message for you, my sweet, fierce Kaanyr, but maybe you should provide me with some special incentive to hurry home, hmm?”
Kaanyr Vhok circled her with his powerful arms and nuzzled the hollow of her neck.
“Very well, my pet,” he rumbled. “Though I sometimes wonder if you are utterly insatiable.”
A desperate hour of flight from ruin to ruin saw the battered company to a hard-won refuge from the monsters who ruled Hlaungadath. Beneath the hulking shell of a square tower they found a sand-choked stair descending into cool, lightless catacombs beneath the city. Buoyed by their find, the dark elves slipped through a maze of buried shrines, subterranean wells, and echoing colonnades of brown stone, finally holing up in a deep, disused gallery that showed no signs of recent use. It was a cheerless and desolate spot, but it was free of blinding sunlight and mindcontrolling monsters, and that was all they needed.
“Pharaun, prepare your spells quickly,” Quenthel commanded after sizing up the chamber. “Halisstra, you and Ryld will stand watch here. Jeggred, you and Valas keep watch on the far archway, over there.”
“Unfortunately, you must keep your watch for some time,” the wizard said. He made a rueful gesture. “I was ready to study my spellbook earlier, when I’d had some time to rest in the courtyard of the palace above, but the poor hospitality of our lamia hosts has left me somewhat fatigued. I must rest for some time before I will be able to ready my spells.”
“We’re all tired,” Quenthel snarled. “We have no time for you to rest. Prepare your spells at once!”
The snakes of her whip coiled and hissed in agitation. “The exercise would be pointless, dear Quenthel. You must keep our enemies away from me until I have recovered from my exertions.”
“If he is so powerless,” Jeggred rumbled, “now would be as good a time as any to punish him for his disrespectful attitude and many transgressions.”
“Stupid creature,” Pharaun snorted. “Slay me, and all of you will die in these light-blasted wastelands within a day. Or perhaps you have suddenly acquired a knack for the arcane arts?”
Jeggred bristled, but Quenthel silenced him with nothing more than a look. The draegloth stalked off to take up his watch at the far end of the long, dusty chamber, crouching in a jumble of fallen stones near the opposite entrance. Valas sighed and trotted off to join him.
“Ready your spells as fast as you can, wizard,” the priestess said, deadly anger tightly contained in her voice. “I have little patience left for your wit. Give Halisstra your lightning wand in case we need spells of that sort to repel another attack.”
It was a measure of his true exhaustion that Pharaun didn’t even bother to seek the last word. He turned to Halisstra and dropped the black iron wand into her hand with a sour smile.
“I suppose you know how to use this already. I’ll want it back, of course, so please try not to exhaust it completely. They’re hard to make.”
“I won’t use it unless I have to,” Halisstra said.
She watched as the wizard found a shadowed spot beside a large column and sat down cross-legged, leaning against the cold stone, and she tucked the wand into her belt. Quenthel composed herself against the opposite wall, watching Pharaun as if to make sure he was not feigning his need for rest. Ryld Argith pushed himself erect and set out for the passage leading back toward the monsterhaunted surface, leaning on his massive greatsword as he did so.
Halisstra started to follow, but Danifae said, “Shall I keep watch here, Mistress Melarn?”
The girl knelt on the dusty floor between the wizard and the priestess, the dagger thrust through her belt. She looked up at Halisstra, her expression blank and perfect, the picture of an innocent question.
The Melarn priestess repressed a grimace. Arming a battle captive was tantamount to admitting one no longer had the strength to force her submission, and she suspected that Danifae would later exact a difficult price for continued compliance. Danifae watched serenely as her mistress considered the offer. Halisstra could feel Quenthel’s eyes on her too, and she steeled herself against glancing at the Baenre priestess to measure her approval.
“You may keep the dagger to defend yourself—for now,” Halisstra allowed. “Your vigilance is not required. Do not presume to suggest such a thing again.”
“Of course, Mistress Melarn,” Danifae replied.
The girl’s face was devoid of emotion, but Halisstra didn’t like the thoughtful look in Danifae’s eye as she composed herself to wait.
Will her binding hold? Halisstra mused.
In the heart of House Melarn, surrounded by the full strength of her enemies, Danifae would not have dared to throw off the magical compulsion that enslaved her, even if she could do such a thing. Things had changed, though. Danifae’s care in how she addressed her mistress in front of Quenthel did not escape Halisstra’s notice. Without her House, her city, to invest Halisstra with absolute dominion over what she called her own—her life, her loyalties, and possessions such as Danifae—any or all of those things might be wrested away from her. The thought left her feeling as hollow and as brittle as a rotten piece of bone.
What happens when Danifae decides to test the bounds of her captivity in earnest? she wondered. Would Quenthel permit Halisstra to retain her mastery over the girl, or would the Baenre intercede simply to spite Halisstra and strip her of one more shred of her status? For that matter, was Quenthel capable of freeing Danifae and claiming Halisstra herself as a battle captive?
The girl studied Halisstra from her lowered eyes, demure and beautiful. Patient.
“Are you coming?” Ryld asked. He stood in the mouth of the passage, waiting.
“Yes, of course,” Halisstra said, barely repressing a scowl. Deliberately turning her back on the servant, Halisstra followed Ryld back out to the tunnels leading to their refuge. For the moment, she was safe enough. Danifae could not remove the silver locket from her neck with all of her will, strength, and effort. The moment she touched it, the enchantment would lock her muscles into rigidity until she abandoned the attempt. Nor could she ask someone else to remove it for her, since the moment she tried to speak of the locket, her tongue would freeze in her mouth. As long as the locket encircled her neck, Danifae was compelled to serve Hali
sstra, even to the point of giving her own life to save her mistress. Danifae had borne her bondage well, but Halisstra had no intention of removing the locket in the presence of the Menzoberranyr—if, in fact, she ever did.
She and Ryld took up positions in a small rotunda a short ways down the tunnel, a dark and open space from which they could keep the approach to their refuge under careful observation without being seen themselves. Folded in their piwafwis, they were virtually indistinguishable from the dark stone around them. Despite the capricious chaos and gnawing ambition that burned in every drow heart, any drow of accomplishment was capable of patience and iron discipline in the performance of an important task, and so Halisstra and Ryld set themselves to watch and wait in vigilant silence.
Halisstra tried to empty her mind of all but the input of her senses, to better stand her watch, but she found that her head was filled with thoughts that did not care to be dismissed. It occurred to Halisstra that whatever became of her from this day forward, she would rise or fall based on nothing more than her own strength, cunning, and ruthlessness. The displeasure of House Melarn meant nothing. If she desired respect, she would have to make the displeasure of Halisstra Melarn something to be feared in its place. All because Lolth had decided to test those most faithful to her. By the caprice of the goddess House Melarn of Ched Nasad, whose leading females for centuries beyond counting had poured out blood and treasure upon the Spider Queen’s altars, had been cast down.
Why? Halisstra wondered. Why?
The answer was cold and empty, of course. Lolth’s machinations were not for her priestesses to understand, and her tests could be cruel indeed. Halisstra ground her teeth softly and tried to thrust her weak questions out of her heart. If Lolth chose to test Halisstra’s faith by stripping her of everything she held dear to see if the First Daughter of House Melarn could win it back, the Spider Queen would find her equal to the challenge.
Care to talk about it? Ryld’s fingers flashed discretely in the sophisticated sign language of the dark elves.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 78