The Darklake was a strange and terrible place. A blackness greater than any Halisstra had ever known enveloped her and her companions, a space so vast that its unseen recesses gnawed at the mind. The great caverns of the drow were often miles across, tremendous places harboring cities of many thousands, but—if Coalhewer did not exaggerate—the Darklake occupied a cavern well over one hundred miles from side to side, and thousands of feet in height. Great island columns the size of mountains held up the mighty roof, creating fanglike archipelagos in the darkness. The waters of the lake virtually filled the immense space. As they sailed across its surface the ceiling was often less than a spearcast above them, leaving many hundreds, or even thousands of feet of black mystery below their feet. It was an unsettling sensation.
Coalhewer’s boat was less than comforting itself. It was an asymmetrical vessel made mostly of planks sawn from the woody stems of a particular type of gigantic Underdark mushroom, and treated with lacquers for strength and rigidity. The zurkhwood formed a broad platform, which floated on a cluster of soft air bladders taken from some aquatic species of giant fungus. The whole thing was riveted together with the excellent metalwork of the gray dwarves.
Four hulking skeletons—ogres in life, perhaps, or maybe trolls—crouched in a well-like area in the boat’s center, endlessly turning two large cranks that drove a pair of zurkhwood waterwheels. The mindless undead never tired, never complained, never even slowed their pace unless Coalhewer ordered them to, driving the boat onward with no sound but the soft rush of water over the wheels and the faint clicking and scraping of their bones in motion. The gray dwarf stood near the stern on a small, elevated bridge, high enough to see over the waterwheels. He peered ahead into the darkness, arms folded across his thick chest, keeping his thoughts to himself.
The passengers crouched on the cold, uncomfortable deck or paced back and forth, staying a little ways back from the railless edge of the platform. The journey from Mantol-Derith was not extremely swift, as the vessel was not quick, and Coalhewer had to carefully thread his way around places where the cavern roof dropped so low there wasn’t enough room for the boat.
Valas spent most of his time standing on the bridge beside the dwarf, keeping a careful eye on the course he steered. Pharaun sat cross-legged at the base of the structure, deep in Reverie, while Ryld and Jeggred kept a sharp watch on the port and starboard sides respectively, making sure that none of the lake’s denizens approached undetected. The priestesses kept to themselves, wrapped in Reveries of their own or staring out over the lightless waters, lost in thought.
They passed almost two full days in that manner, pausing only briefly for austere meals or to let the duergar captain rest. Coalhewer was extraordinarily cautious about showing any kind of light and made them build their cookfires in a small, secluded fire-box that shielded the flames from view.
“There’s too many things as are drawn by the light,” he muttered. “Even this much may be dangerous.”
After their third such meal, late on their second day of travel, Halisstra retired to the bow of the boat so that she could look out over the waters and not find herself staring at one or another of her companions. In the furious battle to escape Hlaungadath, and the walk through the Plane of Shadow, she had had little time to embrace and understand her new circumstances. Empty hours of listening to the soft murmur of water and the insectlike clicking and scraping of the boat’s skeletal engine had unfortunately failed to immerse her in activity, leaving her with the opportunity to replay the fall of Ched Nasad over and over again in her head.
What became of my House? she wondered. Did any of our servants and soldiers survive by escaping Ched Nasad? Are they together, and who leads them? Or did they all die amid the flame and ruin?
Matron Mother Melarn’s death left Halisstra as the head of the House—presuming that none of her younger cousins had managed to claim leadership. If one of them had, Halisstra was certain she could wrest it away from her kinswoman. She had always been the most favored of the Melarn daughters, the oldest, the strongest, and she knew her cousins could not deny her her birthright.
But it seemed very likely indeed that her birthright was nothing more than ash and rubble at the floor of Ched Nasad’s great chasm. Even if some part of her household had escaped, would she want to seek them out and join them in a miserable, squalid, and dangerous exile in the Underdark?
This was not how it was supposed to be, she thought. I was to ascend to my mother’s place in time, and wield the power that had been hers and her mother’s before her. The thousand strands of Ched Nasad would have met at my feet. My least desire I might have fulfilled with a word, a look, a simple frown. Instead, I am a rootless wanderer.
Why, Lolth? she cried out in her mind. Why? What offense did we give you? What weakness did we show?
Once Halisstra had heard the dark whispers of the Spider Queen in her heart, but that place was empty. Lolth chose not to answer. She did not even choose to punish Halisstra for the temerity of demanding an answer.
If Lolth had truly abandoned her, what would become of her if she followed her House down into death? All of her life, Halisstra had believed that her faithful service as a priestess and a bae’qeshel to the Queen of the Demonweb Pits would earn her a high place in Lolth’s domain after her death, but what would become of her now? Would her rootless spirit be interred with the other unfortunate souls no god claimed in the afterlife, fated to dissipate and die the real and eternal death in the gray voids reserved for the faithless? Halisstra shivered in horror. Lolth’s faith was hard, and weaklings had no place in it, but a priestess could expect that she would be rewarded in death for her service in life. If that was no longer true . . .
Danifae approached with sinuous grace and knelt beside her. She looked into Halisstra’s face boldly, and did not lower her eyes.
“Grief is a sweet wine, Mistress Melarn. If you drink but a little, you are tempted to drink more, and things are never improved by overindulging in either.”
Halisstra looked away to compose herself. She did not care to share her secret horror with Danifae.
“Grief is not enough of a word for what is in my heart,” she said. “I have thought of little else since we began this interminable voyage. Ched Nasad was more than a city, Danifae. It was a dream, a dark and glorious dream of the Spider Queen. Graceful castles, soaring webs, Houses full of wealth and pride and ambition, all burned to ashes in a few short hours. The city, its matrons and daughters, the beautiful web-spun palaces, all lost now, and for what reason?” She closed her eyes and battled the hot ache in the hollow of her breast. “The dwarves did not destroy us. We destroyed ourselves.”
“I will not mourn the passing of Ched Nasad,” Danifae said. Halisstra looked up sharply, cut more by the girl’s dispassionate tone than her words. “It was a city full of enemies, most of whom are dead, while others flee as paupers into the wilds of the Underdark. No, I will not mourn Ched Nasad. Who, besides the few Ched Nasadans who survive, will?”
Halisstra did not choose to answer. No one would grieve for a city of drow, not even other dark elves. That was the way of the drow. The strong endured, and the weak fell by the wayside, as the Spider Queen demanded. Danifae waited for a long time before she spoke again.
“Have you given thought to what we will do next?”
Halisstra glanced at her and said, “Our lot is already cast with the Menzoberranyr, is it not?”
“For today, yes, but tomorrow will your purposes and theirs coincide? What will you do if Lolth’s favor returns tomorrow? Where would you go?”
“Does it matter?” Halisstra said. “Return to Ched Nasad, I suppose, and gather together what survivors I can. It will be a hard task, more than I likely could hope to accomplish even in a lifetime, but with the Spider Queen’s blessing House Melarn may yet rise again.”
“Do you think Quenthel would permit such a thing?”
“Why should she care what I do with the rest of my life? E
specially if I spend it raising a wretched fragment of a House over the smoking ruins of my city?” Halisstra said bitterly.
Danifae merely spread her hands. Halisstra understood. What reason would a Baenre need to do anything at all, really? The Menzoberranyr might have been their saviors from the wreck of Ched Nasad, but at a word from Quenthel they might become their captors, or their killers. The girl glanced back to where the others meditated or stood their watches, and changed to signs, carefully hidden from the rest of the company.
Perhaps it might be wise to consider exactly how we can make ourselves indispensable to the Menzoberranyr, she motioned. The hour will come when we will no longer wish to rely on Quenthel Baenre’s benevolence, such as it is.
“Careful,” Halisstra cautioned.
She sat up straight and deliberately controlled her own impulse to look over her shoulder. Danifae had an uncanny instinct for manipulation, but if Quenthel suspected that Halisstra and Danifae planned to undermine her authority—or even impose limits on her freedom of action—Halisstra didn’t doubt that the Baenre would take quick and drastic steps to remove a perceived challenge.
It is a dangerous thing you suggest, Danifae. Quenthel would not hesitate to kill a challenger, and if I were killed—
I would not survive, Danifae finished for her. I understand the conditions of my captivity quite well, Mistress Melarn. Still, inaction in the face of our danger is every bit as risky as what I am about to propose. Hear me out, and you can decide what you wish me to do.
Halisstra measured the girl, studying her perfect features, her alluring figure. She thought of the conversation between Quenthel and Danifae she had overheard in the catacombs of Hlaungadath. She could put a halt to Danifae’s scheming with a word, of course. She could even compel it through the magic of the locket—but then she wouldn’t know what Danifae plotted, would she?
“Very well,” she said. Tell me what you have in mind.
chapter
six
Gracklstugh, like Menzoberranzan, was a cavern city. Unlike the realm of the dark elves, the stalagmites harbored great stinking smelters and foundries, not the elegant castles of noble families. The air had an acrid reek, and the clamor of industry rang endlessly throughout the cavern—the roaring of fires, the metallic ringing of iron on iron, and the rush of polluted streams carrying away the wastes of the duergar forges. Unlike Menzoberranzan, lightless except for the delicate faerie fire applied to decorate drow palaces, Gracklstugh glowed with reflected firelight and the occasional harsh glare of white-hot metal splashing into molds. It was a singularly unlovely place, an affront to any highborn drow. Halisstra thought the place seemed like nothing less than the Hells’ own foundry.
At its eastern end, the great cavern of the city sloped down sharply to join the immense gulf of the Darklake, so that Gracklstugh was a subterranean port—though few among the Underdark races used waterways such as the Darklake in their commerce. Consequently
the wharves and lakeside warehouses of the duergar city constituted one of its poorest and most dangerous districts. Coalhewer moored his macabre vessel at the end of a crumbling stone quay occupied by a handful of ships of the same general design.
“Get yer things and step lively,” the dwarf snapped. “The less ye’re seen t’be about the streets, the better. Spider-kissers in the City of Blades be well-advised to step soft and quick, if ye take my meaning.”
Valas shot the others a quick look and signed, No killing! It will not be tolerated here.
The scout shouldered his pack and followed the dwarf down the quay, wrapping his piwafwi around him to conceal the swords at his hip.
Pharaun glanced up at Jeggred and said, “You won’t like it here, half-demon. How will you pass the time without something helpless to dismember?”
“I will simply while away the hours considering how I might kill you, wizard,” the draegloth rumbled.
Still, Jeggred blew out his breath and drew his own long cloak over his white mane, doing the best he could to hunch over and make himself inconspicuous. The rest of the party followed after, threading their way through the dilapidated streets of the city’s dock quarter to a fortresslike inn a few blocks from the wharves. A sign lettered in both Dwarvish and Undercommon named the place as the Cold Foundry. The building itself consisted of an encircling stone wall, guarding a number of small, free-standing blockhouses. The company halted just outside the inn’s front gate, which stood beside a pen holding huge, foul-smelling pack lizards.
“Hardly an appealing prospect,” muttered Pharaun. “Still, I suppose it’s better than a rock on a cavern floor.”
Valas conferred briefly with Coalhewer, then turned to the rest of the dark elves and said quietly, “Coalhewer and I will arrange safe passage out of the city and look into provisioning. It’ll likely involve some bribes to obtain proper licenses and such, which will take time. We should plan on staying here for at least a full day, perhaps two.”
“Can we spare the time?” Ryld asked.
“That would be up to Mistress Quenthel,” Valas said, “but we may be many days on the next leg of our journey. We accomplish nothing by starving to death after a tenday or two in the wilds of the Underdark.”
Quenthel studied the cheerless duergar inn, and made her decision.
“We will stay two nights, and leave early on the day after tomorrow,” she said. “I would stay longer, but I am hesitant to trust our fortunes to the continued hospitality of the duergar. Events are moving too quickly for us to tarry long.”
She looked at the scout, and at Coalhewer, who stood a short distance off, watching the street with arms folded and pointedly not listening in on the dark elves’ conversation.
Is this place safe? she signed. Will the dwarf betray us?
Safe enough, the scout replied. Keep Jeggred out of sight. The rest of you should be fine, as long as you avoid confrontations. He flicked his eyes at Coalhewer and added, The dwarf understands that we will pay well for his services, but if he should come to believe that we might kill him rather than pay him, he will undoubtedly find a way to have us all arrested. He knows we’re something more than merchants, but he doesn’t care what errand brings us here as long as he’s paid.
A loose end to be tied up? Ryld asked.
Too dangerous now, Valas signed. I will keep a close eye on him as long as we’re here.
“Take Ryld with you, just in case,” Quenthel said.
Ryld nodded and tugged at his pack, adjusting it to ride better between his shoulder blades.
“Ready when you are,” he said.
“I can’t say I won’t welcome the company, if trouble comes,” Valas replied. “Well, let’s not keep Master Coalhewer waiting. If you don’t hear back from us by midday tomorrow, presume the worst and get out of the city by the quickest means at hand.”
The scout hurried off with Ryld striding along a step behind him. They collected Coalhewer and made their way deeper into the city.
“It’s that boundless good cheer we find endearing in you, Valas,” Pharaun remarked to the scout’s back. “Well, I too have errands to run. I must find what passes for a dealer in arcane reagents in this grim place, and replenish my spell components.”
“Don’t take too long,” Quenthel said. She glanced over at Halisstra and Danifae. “Well, aren’t you coming?”
“Not yet,” Halisstra said. “As long as we’re here, I think I will see to providing Danifae with weapons and armor. We’ll be back when she is suitably equipped.”
“I thought you didn’t care to allow your battle captive to fight for you,” Quenthel said, her eyes narrowing in calculation.
“I have decided that Danifae is something of a liability as long as she’s unarmed and unarmored. I don’t want my property damaged for no good reason.”
Halisstra could almost feel the depth of Quenthel’s suspicion, and the Baenre silently stroked the hilt of her whip as she studied the Ched Nasadan and her handmaid thoughtfully.
“Don’t wander far or get yourselves into trouble,” Quenthel said. “I won’t hesitate to set out without either of you if the circumstances so dictate.”
She motioned to Jeggred and marched into the Cold Foundry, apparently dismissing both the Ched Nasadan and the Eryndlyrr from her thoughts.
Halisstra couldn’t repress a smile of satisfaction as Quenthel disappeared from view, Jeggred slinking behind her. She exchanged looks with Danifae, and the two set off into the duergar city.
Though Coalhewer had insisted that the city was open to folk of all races, provided they brought gold, Halisstra could not convince herself that a pair of dark elves were truly safe in Gracklstugh. The short, stocky gray dwarves crowding the streets went about their business with a sullen purposefulness that Halisstra didn’t like at all. They didn’t laugh, or primp and preen, or even trade veiled threats with one another. Instead, they glared angrily at passersby of any race, including their own, and stomped along beneath heavy shirts of mail, fists gripped tightly on the hafts of axes and hammers thrust through their broad belts. Only after Halisstra and Danifae had passed half a dozen folk of other races in the streets did she begin to relax.
Halisstra paused in a spot between two towering smelters and looked around.
“There. I know little Dwarvish, but I think those signs advertise weaponsmiths.”
They turned down the street, which was little more than a winding footpath rounding the castle-like stalagmites. Past the great stone pillars, they came to something resembling a town square of sorts, an open place surrounded by low, fortlike buildings of mortared stone. Here they found a large storefront displaying dozens of weapons and suits of armor beneath a merchant’s sign.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 84