Nimor surveyed the commanders, noting the insignias of six out of eight great Houses, and another half dozen of the largest and strongest minor Houses. His eye fell on a male wearing the insignia of House Baenre, as the fellow held up his hands and raised his voice to capture the attention of the other officers.
“Go back to your companies and look to your supply trains,” Andzrel Baenre, Weapons Master of House Baenre, said. “I want a list from each of you of the number of pack beasts and wagons in your train, and a general inventory of your stores. Return within the hour. Our female relations will doubtless debate many issues of high strategy, but it will fall to us to work out the details of supply trains and battle signals, and we still have much to discuss.”
Andzrel was a tall, slender fellow who wore armor of blacked mithral plate and a dark cloak. His tabard proudly displayed the emblem of House Baenre, and his eyes held iron discipline, an expression of directness and purpose that was unusual in a drow of high birth, whether male or female.
The commanders broke up and strode from the tent, heading back to their detachments. Nimor allowed them to pass by. As he moved up to speak with the Baenre weapons master, the assassin muttered a spell.
“Master Baenre,” Nimor asked, covering the last syllables of the enchantment.
“Yes,” the weapons master said, blinking at Nimor. “I . . . uh . . .”
Nimor smiled, seeing the effect the enchantment had on the drow, and knowing that for quite some time, Andzrel Baenre and he would be very close friends.
“You are familiar to me, but I do not believe I know you,” said Andzrel. “You wear the arms of Agrach Dyrr.”
“I am Zhayemd Dyrr, and I command my House’s company,” Nimor replied. “Do you have any idea when the priestesses will deign to join us, or at least allow us to start on our way?”
“I believe the matron mothers are still deciding which of them will lead the expedition,” Andzrel replied, seemingly recovered. “None of them trusts any of the others enough to voluntarily leave the city now, but they all think it’s clear that someone had better be put in charge of the males.”
Nimor laughed at that.
“You have a talent for plain speaking, sir.” Nimor glanced around at the other captains and officers in the pavilion and added, “I assume you’ve tallied which Houses are here, and how many troops—and of what type—each has brought? The priestesses will want to know that, and it will be helpful for us all to have an idea of who’s marching next to whom.”
He could think of other uses for the information, of course, but there was no need to mention that, was there?
“Of course,” Andzrel replied. He pointed at a table in the outer portion of the tent, where several Baenre officers studied maps and reports. “I’ll need you to give those fellows the strength of your complement, the number of infantry and cavalry, and some information on your supply train, as well. After which I would like to ask you some questions about the route of our march and the place we expect to meet the duergar army. I understand you’re familiar with the region, as well as the composition and tactics of the duergar force.”
Nimor straightened his cuirass and nodded earnestly.
“Certainly,” he said. “I know them well.”
Halisstra was roused from her dreams by the sound of her cell door opening. She glanced up, wondering if perhaps the time had come when the surface folk would simply put her to the blade.
“I have no more to say to your lord,” she said, though the thought crossed her mind that selling out her comrades was preferable to death by torture, especially if she could gain her freedom in the exchange.
“Fine,” a woman’s voice replied. “I hope then that you will consent to speak with me.”
A slender figure slipped through the open door, which was closed and locked behind her. Veiled in a long, dark cloak, the visitor paused to study Halisstra then she reached up with hands as black as coal and slipped back her hood to reveal a face of gleaming ebony, and eyes as red as blood.
“I am Seyll Auzkovyn,” the drow said, “and I have come to give you my lady’s message: ‘A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow.’ ”
“A priestess of Eilistraee,” Halisstra murmured. She had heard of the cult before, of course. The Spider Queen held nothing but scorn for the weak, idealistic faith of the Dark Maiden, whose worshipers dreamed of redemption and acceptance in the World Above. “Well, I did come in peace, and I do seem to have found my rightful place in this tidy little cell. I expect wonderful flowers bloom just beyond the bars of my window, and I am more than a little thankful that the thrice-cursed sun shines no deeper into my prison.” She laughed bitterly. “Somehow the holy message of your silly little dancing goddess rings a little false today. Now go away, and let me get back to the important business of preparing myself for the inevitable tortures that await me when the so-called lord of this fetid dungheap of a village loses his patience with my intransigent ways.”
“You sound like me, when I first heard Eilistraee’s message,” Seyll replied. She moved closer and sat on the floor beside Halisstra. “Like yourself, I was a priestess of the Spider Queen who found herself a captive of the surface folk. Though I’ve lived here for several years now, I still find the light of the sun overly harsh.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, apostate,” snarled Halisstra. “I’m nothing like you.”
“You might be surprised,” Seyll continued calmly, her placid demeanor unchanged. “Have the Spider Queen’s punishments ever struck you as needless or wasteful? Have you ever failed to nurture a friendship because you feared betrayal? Have you ever, perhaps, watched a child of your own body, your own heart, destroyed because she failed at a senseless test, only to tell yourself that she was too weak to live? Did you ever wonder if there was a point to the deliberate and calculated cruelty that poisons our entire race?”
“Of course there’s a point,” Halisstra replied. “We’re surrounded on all sides by vicious enemies. If we didn’t take steps to hone our people to their finest edge, we would become slaves—no, worse yet, we would become rothé.”
“And have Lolth’s judgments in fact made you stronger?”
“Of course.”
“Prove it, then. Offer an example.” Seyll watched her, then leaned forward and said, “You remember countless tests and battles, naturally, but you can’t prove that you were made stronger by them. You don’t know what might have happened if you hadn’t been subjected to those tortures.”
“Simple semantics. Naturally I can’t prove that things are other than they are.”
Halisstra glared at the heretic, profoundly annoyed. She would have found the conversation irritating and irrelevant under the best of circumstances, but with her hands and feet chained together, slumped against the cold, hard wall of a stone cell with a painful shaft of sunlight slanting in, it was positively infuriating. Still, she had very little to occupy her mind otherwise, and there was a small chance that a display of enthusiasm for Seyll’s faith might win her a parole of sorts. Lolth was completely intolerant of apostates, but to feign acceptance of another faith in order to win the freedom to betray the trust of one’s captors . . . that was the sort of cleverness the Spider Queen admired. The trick, of course, was not to appear too eager, yet just uncertain enough that Seyll and her friends might come to hope for a true change in Halisstra’s heart.
“You are annoying me,” she said to Seyll. “Leave me alone.”
“As you wish,” Seyll said. She stood gracefully, and offered Halisstra a smile. “Consider what I’ve said, and ask yourself if there might be some truth to it. If your faith in Lolth is as strong as you think, surely it can withstand a little examination. May Eilistraee bless you and warm your heart.”
She pulled her hood back over her head, and silently withdrew. Halisstra turned her own face away so Seyll couldn’t see the cruel smile
that twisted her features.
Rear guard, mused Ryld, seems to be the spot Quenthel saves for the person she deems least useful at the moment.
He paused to listen to the forest around him, seeking for any sound that might indicate an approaching enemy. He heard nothing but the steady patter of cold rain. Pharaun’s fire-spiders had managed to set a smoky blaze in the woods behind them, but the rain had likely prevented the fires from burning too much of the forest. The weapons master glanced up into the sky, allowing the cold drops to splash on his face and noting the sullen silver glow behind the clouds.
At least the rain is washing out our trail, he thought.
After a hard march the previous night and lying low in a thick tangle of brush through a long, sunny day, they had resumed their hike in the evening only to meet a deluge soon after setting out. The forest floor was nothing but mud and slush.
Taking a moment to adjust his hood, Ryld set out again, trying hard not to hurry his steps too much. He would not be much of a rear guard if he closed up right behind the others, but on the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was fall so far behind that he missed an innocent turn of the trail and wandered off alone into the endless woods. If Halisstra wasn’t worth going back for, he was under no delusions as to what would happen if he managed to become separated from the rest of the company. He tramped on for quite some time, pausing every few dozen yards to listen and scan the forest.
Soon he became aware of the louder, more insistent sound of water in motion—a swift forest stream, dark and wide, that sluiced through muddy banks covered in thorns and bracken. A large log had been felled to cross the stream, its upper surface sawn flat to form a reasonably secure bridge. Quenthel and the others waited there, silently watching their surroundings. Ryld noted the crossbows pointed in his direction, and the acute attentiveness of his companions. Clearly the running battle with the surface folk had taught his comrades to be wary of the woods.
“Hold your fire,” he called softly. “It’s Ryld.”
“Master Argith,” Quenthel said. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost the trail.”
Ryld bowed to Quenthel and joined the others. He took a moment to sit on the stump of the log, fishing in the pockets of his cloak for a small flask of duergar brandy. Normally he wouldn’t risk diluting his senses with alcohol, but hours of marching in cold rain had soaked his clothing and left him chilled to the bone. The liquor brought a hot glow to the middle of his body with one good mouthful.
“Is this your stream?” he asked Pharaun.
“Yes,” the wizard said without hesitation. “Here, we cross and turn to the south, following the river upstream. House Jaelre is not more than a couple of miles away.”
He pointed at Ryld with one finger and muttered a magical syllable. The flask rose up from the weapons master’s hand and bobbed through the air to the wizard, who promptly helped himself to a healthy swallow.
“My thanks,” said Pharaun. “The gray dwarves may be odious churls, but they distill a good brandy.”
“Don’t drink too much,” Quenthel said. “The Jaelre are as likely to shoot us as look at us. I need you alert and sharp-witted, wizard. Master Argith, keep up close with the rest of us from this point on. I’m more worried about what lies before us now than behind.”
“As you wish, Mistress,” Ryld said.
He held out his hand to Pharaun, who took one more small swallow and tossed the flask back to Ryld. The weapons master stood, shouldered his pack, and led the way across the bridge. The surface of the log was slick and uneven, and doubtless would have been trouble for a clumsy dwarf or awkward human, but the dark elves negotiated the crossing with ease.
On the other side, they found the overgrown remnants of an old stone road, cracked and broken by the twisting roots of countless trees and hundreds of years of frosts and thaws. Smooth white stone, expertly joined, marked it as the work of the ancient surface elves who once inhabited the forest. Ryld was not so poorly educated that he had not heard of Cormanthor, the great forest empire of the surface elves, or the fallen glory of its legendary capital city of Myth Drannor. Other than the names, though, he knew very little of who the builders of the forest empire had been and what had befallen them.
Moving slowly and carefully, the company advanced in an open skirmish line, prepared to defend themselves against any attack. They followed the old road for more than a mile, just as Pharaun had said they would, and they came upon the wreckage of old walls and battlements ringing some ancient stronghold. Green vines wreathed the walls, thriving despite the winter season, but the wall was cracked and holed in a dozen places. A rusted iron gate lay across the road where it pierced the walls, a barrier that had long since fallen into uselessness. Beyond the walls, a small stony tor rose from the forest floor, crowned by a large pentagonal keep of white stone. At first Ryld thought the place was whole and intact, but as he studied it, he realized that the tower-tops were holed and that more than one of the flying buttresses linking the outlying towers to the main body of the keep had collapsed with the years. Green vines knotted their roots in the riven stone, covering the ruins in a living blanket.
“Ruins,” Jeggred growled in disgust. “Your insipid spells have failed you, wizard—or you have deliberately led us astray. Are you in league with our treacherous scout, perhaps?”
“My spells do not fail,” Pharaun replied. “This is the place. The Jaelre are here.”
“Then where are they?” the draegloth snarled. “If you—”
“Silence, both of you!” Valas snapped. He moved a few steps away from the gate, his footfalls as soft as those of a stalking leopard, an arrow lying across his bow. “This place is not as abandoned as it looks.”
Ryld moved over to take shelter by a tottering old column of masonry, setting one hand on Splitter’s hilt. Danifae and Pharaun did the same on the other side of the road, staring hard at the ruined keep. Quenthel, however, chose not to move at all.
Instead she stood confidently in the center of the path and called out, “You of House Jaelre! We wish to speak with your leaders at once!”
From a dozen places of concealment, stealthy shapes in dark cloaks that deceived the eye by mimicking the wearer’s surroundings slowly stood, bows and wands pointed at the Menzoberranyr. One of the figures, a female carrying a double-ended sword, pushed back her hood and eyed the company with cold contempt.
“You are miserable spider-kissers,” she hissed. “What do you have that the lords of House Jaelre could possibly want, other than your corpses feathered with our arrows?”
Quenthel bridled and allowed one hand to fall to her whip. The weapon writhed slowly, the serpent heads snapping their fangs in agitation.
“I am Quenthel Baenre, Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and I do not bicker on doorsteps with common gate guards. Announce our arrival to your masters, so that we can get in out of this damnable rain.”
The Jaelre captain narrowed her eyes and motioned to her soldiers, who shifted position and made ready to fire. Valas shook his head and lowered his bow, stepping forward quickly with one hand in the air.
“Wait,” he said. “If Tzirik the priest is still among you, tell him that Valas Hune is here. We have a proposition for him.”
“I doubt our high priest will have much use for any proposal of yours,” the guard captain said.
“If nothing else, he’ll find out why we came a thousand miles from Menzoberranzan to speak to him,” Valas replied.
The captain glared at Quenthel, then said, “Lower your weapons and wait there. Do not move, or my soldiers will fire, and there are more of us than you think.”
Valas nodded once, and set his bow down on the ground. He glanced at the others, and took a seat on the edge of a crumbling old fountain. The rest followed suit, though Quenthel didn’t demean herself by taking a seat. Instead she folded her arms and waited with imperious displeasure. Ryld glanced around the courtyard full of hostile warriors, and rubbed his head with a sigh.
Quenthel knows how to make an impression, eh? Pharaun gestured discretely.
Females, Ryld replied, just as discretely.
He carefully reached into his cloak and withdrew the brandy flask again.
chapter
fourteen
The most doleful torment of incarceration, reflected Halisstra, was boredom, pure and simple. Like most of her extraordinarily long-lived kind, the priestess hardly noticed the passing of hours, days, even tendays when her mind was engaged. Yet, despite the wisdom and patience of her more than two hundred years, a few hours’ confinement in a featureless stone cell seemed more onerous than months of the harsh discipline she endured in her youth.
The endless hours of the day crept by, a day in which her body longed to rest despite the painful glare of sunlight streaming in through that one cursed window. Meanwhile her thoughts veered wildly from praying for her comrades to return and rescue her to fomenting the most hideous and agonizing tortures she could imagine for each one for abandoning her to capture.
Eventually, she fell into Reverie, her mind empty of new schemes or old memories, and her awareness so dim and distant that she might have been sleeping in truth. Exhaustion had finally caught up with her, not just the sheer physical exhaustion of the long tendays of travel and peril through desert, shadow, Underdark, and forest, but a kind of mental fatigue rooted deeply in the grief she still carried for the loss of the House she was to one day rule. Halisstra might not have permitted herself to shed a tear for Ched Nasad, but the malignant truth of her plight had an odd way of surfacing in her thoughts, poisoning them with a cold, hopeless disbelief that was difficult to set aside. Long hours of imprisonment offered her the opportunity to exhume the hateful situation in its entirety and contemplate her loss of station, wealth, and security until her horrible fascination was in some way sated.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 98