“Where have you been?” Quenthel asked.
“I was subjected to several days worth of effort to convert me to the worship of Eilistraee, if you can believe such a thing,” Halisstra answered. “Lolth granted me an opportunity to slay two of the Eilistraeen clerics and escape.”
Though her heart glowed with dark pride at her accomplishment, Halisstra found herself feeling a bit disappointed by the results of her treachery. She was no stranger to the traitor’s dark art, but it seemed as if she had only managed to do what was expected of her.
“Undoubtedly the surface folk set you free to see what you were up to,” Quenthel said. “It’s an old trick.”
“So we thought, too,” Tzirik said. “However, we investigated Mistress Melarn’s story and found it to be true. It’s almost comical, the naivete of our sisters in Eilistraee’s worship.” He paused and rubbed his hands together. “Be that as it may, Jezz informs me that you helped him recover the tome we needed.”
“We helped him?” Jeggred growled.
“His task was to bring back the book,” Tzirik replied, “not to battle the denizens of Myth Drannor.”
“You have your book,” Quenthel said. Ignoring Jeggred’s snarl, she folded her arms and fixed her eyes on Tzirik. “Are you ready to fulfill your end of the bargain?”
“I have already done so,” the priest replied. He glanced up at the bronze image high on the wall, and made a small genuflection. “Whether or not you returned alive, I intended to consult with the Masked Lord and find out for myself what takes Lolth from you. Your story made me quite curious.”
Quenthel virtually ground her teeth in frustration.
“What did you learn, then?” she managed.
Tzirik savored his knowledge, responding with a deliberate smirk as he paced away from the company and took a seat on a small dais that stood to one side of the chapel.
He steepled his fingers together and said, “In all essentials your story is true. Lolth does not grant her priestesses spells, nor does she reply to any entreaties.”
“We already knew as much,” Pharaun observed.
“But I did not,” the priest answered. “In any event, it seems that Lolth has, in some manner, barricaded herself within her infernal domain. She denies contact not only to her priestesses, but all other beings both mortal and divine, which would explain why the demons you conjured up to question about the Spider Queen’s doings were unable to assist you.”
The Menzoberranyr stood silent, considering Tzirik’s answer. Halisstra was puzzled, as well.
“Why would the goddess do this?” she wondered aloud.
“In the spirit of candor, I will admit that Vhaeraun either does not know or does not wish for me to know,” Tzirik said. He fixed his cold gaze on Halisstra. “For the moment, divine capriciousness seems as good an explanation as any.”
“Is she . . . alive?” Ryld asked quietly. Quenthel and the other priestesses turned angry glares on the weapons master, but he ignored them and went on. “What I mean to say is, would we know if she had been slain by another god, or sickened, or imprisoned against her will?”
“If only we were so lucky,” Tzirik said, laughing. “No, Lolth still lives, however you might define that for a goddess. As to whether she has sealed herself into the Demonweb Pits, or been sealed in by another power, Vhaeraun did not say.”
“When will this condition end?” Halisstra asked.
“Again, Vhaeraun either does not know or does not wish for me to know,” Tzirik said. “The better question might be, will it end? The answer to that is yes, it will end in time, but before you take too much comfort in that I must remind you that a goddess may have a very different sense of what we would consider to be a reasonable wait. The Masked Lord might have been referring to something that would happen tomorrow, next month, next year, or perhaps a hundred years from now.”
“We can’t wait that long,” Quenthel murmured. Her expression was distant, fixed on events in faraway Menzoberranzan. “A resolution must be reached soon.”
“Take up the worship of a more caring deity, then,” Tzirik replied. “If you’re interested, I would be happy to discourse at length on the virtues of the Masked Lord.”
Quenthel bristled, but held her tongue—a feat of remarkable self-control for the Baenre priestess.
“I decline,” she said. “Does the Masked Lord have any other advice for us, priest?”
“In fact, he does,” Tzirik replied. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward to convey his point to Quenthel. “These were the exact words he spoke to me, so take note of them. ‘The children of the Spider Queen should seek her for answers.’ ”
“But we have,” Halisstra cried. “All of us, but she does not hear us.”
“I don’t think that’s what he meant,” Danifae said. “I think Vhaeraun is suggesting that we won’t learn anything more unless we go to the Demonweb Pits ourselves, and beseech the goddess in person.”
Tzirik remained silent and watched the Menzoberranyr. Quenthel paced in a small circle, considering the idea.
“The Spider Queen requires a certain amount of initiative and self-reliance in her priestesses,” the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith said, “but she also demands obedience. To go before her in her divine abode in the expectation of answers . . . Lolth does not smile on such effrontery.”
Halisstra fell silent, thinking furiously over what Tzirik suggested. Ventures into other planes of existence were not unknown, of course. Pharaun’s spell had carried the company across the Plane of Shadow, after all, and there were many more universes that mortals armed with the right magic could reach, a multitude of heavens and hells, wonders and terrors beyond the confines of the physical world, but the notion of attempting such a journey without Lolth’s explicit invitation terrified Halisstra.
“The penalties for failing to understand the goddess’s will in this matter would be severe indeed,” Halisstra said.
“Have we not just heard the goddess’s will?” Danifae asked. “She led us to this place and this question through her silence, just as surely as if she had placed the commands directly in our hearts. She might be angered if we fail to do this.”
Halisstra was accustomed to a feeling of certainty when it came to interpreting the Spider Queen’s wishes. Before the divine silence had fallen over the priestesses of Lolth, she’d known the rare touch of the goddess’s whispers in her mind. It didn’t happen often, of course—she was only one priestess, and Lolth was served by uncounted thousands—but she knew what it felt like to understand to the depths of her soul what the Spider Queen wished, and how she could accomplish it. Halisstra felt nothing. Lolth’s will, evidently, was that she should figure it out for herself.
Halisstra glanced up, where the bronze mask of Vhaeraun hung over a black altar. The foreignness of the place seemed palpable, a tangible expression of everything she had lost. Instead of standing before the ancient altar in the proud temple of House Melarn, Lolth’s divine certitude thrumming in her very soul as she performed the rites of sacrifice and abasement the Spider Queen demanded, she stood alone, lost, an interloper in the temple of a pretender god, groping blindly for a hint of Lolth’s intentions for her.
She imagined standing before Lolth, her soul naked to her goddess, her eyes blasted by the sight of Lolth’s dark glory, her ears scoured by the sound of the Spider Queen’s sibilant voice. Perhaps it was effrontery to think that Lolth would erase her doubts, supply answers for her questions and a balm for her wounded heart, but Halisstra discovered that she did not care. If Lolth chose to discard her, to punish her, then she would, but then why had she destroyed Ched Nasad and House Melarn if not to bring Halisstra before her and receive her plea?
“I agree with Danifae,” she said at last. “I cannot see what the point of this has been, other than to summon us before the goddess’s throne. We will find our answers in her presence.”
Quenthel nodded slowly and said, “I read her will in the same way, sisters. We must
go to the Demonweb Pits.”
Ryld and Valas exchanged worried looks.
“A sojourn to the sixty-sixth layer of the Abyss,” Pharaun observed. “Well, I have dreamed of the place. It would be interesting to see if the reality matches my dream from years ago, though I have to say, I do not relish the thought of meeting Lolth in person. She minced my soul to pieces when I had that vision. It took me months to recover.”
“Perhaps we should return to Menzoberranzan and report what we have learned before we consider anything rash?” Ryld asked, clearly alarmed by the prospect of descending into the infernal realms.
“Now that I understand the goddess’s will, I do not wish to delay in obeying it,” Quenthel said. “Pharaun can use his sending spell to apprise Gromph of our intentions.”
“More to the point,” Valas said, “how exactly does one get to the Demonweb Pits?”
“Worship Lolth all your life,” Quenthel replied, a dark look clouding her eyes, “then die.”
Halisstra glanced at the high priestess, then looked at the scout and said, “Were the goddess granting us our spells, we could do it easily enough. Without them, it is not so easy. Pharaun?”
The wizard wrung his hands.
“I will learn the proper spells at the first opportunity,” he said. “I suppose I will have to locate a wizard of some accomplishment who happens to know the right spells, and persuade him to share one with me.”
“That will not be necessary, Master Pharaun,” Tzirik said. He stood up from his seat and descended the dais, powerful and confident. “As it so happens, my god has not seen fit to deprive me of my spells. I have an interest in seeing for myself what transpires in Lolth’s domain. We can leave as soon as tonight, if you like.”
Company by company, the Army of the Black Spider marched proudly into the open cavern behind the Pillars of Woe. It was nothing compared to the vast cavern of Menzoberranzan, or the incomprehensible gulf of the Darklake, but the plain at the head of the gorge was still impressive, an asymmetrical space perhaps half a mile across, its ceiling rising a couple of hundred feet overhead. Innumerable columns supported its roof, and shelflike side caverns twisted away on all sides like highways beckoning in the dark.
Nimor surveyed the place from astride his war-lizard, watching as the great Houses of Menzoberranzan filed into the cavern, forming up in glittering squares beneath a dozen different banners. He’d had more than two days to reconnoiter the various crevices, caves, and passages leading to the open spot. The strategic value of the Pillars of Woe was obvious. Only one road lead south through a torturous canyon, yet several tunnels met where he’d led the drow, each leading into Menzoberranzan’s Dark Dominion.
“A good place for a battle,” he said, nodding to himself with satisfaction.
His mount, vicious and stupid beast that it was, still seemed to dully sense the impending conflict. It hissed and pawed at the pebble-strewn floor, its tail twitching in agitation.
Nimor waited near the center of the scout line holding the gap between the Pillars, at the head of a force of almost a hundred Agrach Dyrr riders. Those among his scout force who had any other House allegiance lay sprawled among the rocks and crevices of the gorge below, where Nimor and his men had slaughtered them soon after reaching the Pillars of Woe.
Nimor ached to go riding up to greet Mez’Barris Armgo, Andzrel Baenre, and the rest of the army’s priestesses and commanders. He could see their pavilion, already rising in the center of the cavern.
The difficulty with a betrayal spanning a whole battlefield, he thought, is that one simply can’t be everywhere at once to savor the moment in its entirety.
He noted a lean runner-lizard pelting from the command pavilion toward where his company waited.
“It seems I am wanted, lads,” he called to the Agrach Dyrr soldiers waiting behind him. “You know what to do. Wait for the signal. When it comes, hold nothing back.”
Nimor kicked his war-lizard into motion and rode back a short distance to meet the messenger. The rider was a young fellow in the livery of House Baenre—no doubt a favored nephew or cousin, given a relatively safe task in order to gain a blooding without too much risk. He wore no helmet, allowing his hair to stream out behind him like a mane. A bright red banner fluttered from a harness secured to his saddle.
“You are Captain Zhayemd?” he called, slowing his lizard to greet Nimor.
“I am.”
“Your presence is requested at the command pavilion immediately, sir. Matron Del’Armgo wants to know where the gray dwarves are, and how best to dispose the troops.”
“I see,” Nimor replied. “Well, ride on back and tell her I’ll be along presently.”
“With respect, sir, I am to—”
Three great horn blasts, two short followed by one long, bellowed up from the space between the Pillars of Woe, echoing so loudly it seemed the rock itself had given voice to the cry. The messenger broke off and twisted his mount around, padding past Nimor to peer back toward the Pillars.
“Lolth’s wrath, what was that?” he said.
“That,” said Nimor, “would be the signal for the duergar attack.”
From the depths of the gorge beneath the Pillars of Woe came the ground-shaking rumble of an army on the move. Below Nimor’s line of scouts, hundreds of duergar lizard riders suddenly rose from beneath carefully arranged blankets of camouflage and pelted up and into the gap Nimor’s scouts were supposed to hold. Behind the duergar cavalry, rank upon rank of duergar infantry ran forward, shouting their uncouth war cries, hammers and axes raised high. The Agrach Dyrr riders scrambled to their saddles, taking position to bottle up the charge between the mammoth columns of rock—and, as arranged, they wheeled in unison and dashed to one side, leaving the line unguarded.
“The Agrach Dyrr! They betray us!” the messenger shouted, horror and shock on his face.
He wrenched his mount around, but Nimor leaned out from his saddle and ran the boy through. The young Baenre clutched at his wound, swaying, and toppled from the saddle. Nimor slapped his sword against the lizard’s rump and sent the beast bolting off back into the main cavern, the dead messenger dragging behind it with his feet tangled in the stirrups.
Nimor spurred his mount up onto an uneven shelf of rock about fifteen feet above the cavern floor, overlooking the Pillars. From that vantage he could see most of the cavern.
“A good view of the fray, my prince!” he called. “What a magnificent day for your triumph, eh?”
“I’ll tell you in a quarter-hour if we have a victory or not.”
From the shadows at the back of the ledge, Horgar Steelshadow emerged. He and his personal guards were warded by a well-crafted illusion, invisible to anyone below, unless one knew precisely where to find them.
“Do not come closer, Nimor,” the crown prince said. “I do not wish someone below to notice you disappearing into a wall, and become overly curious about what might be up here.”
“Surely you mean to join the battle, Prince Horgar? I know you are a dwarf of no small valor.”
“I will venture into the fray when I’m certain I will not need to issue any more orders, Nimor. In another few moments you won’t be able to hear a fellow shouting in your ear.”
Nimor turned his attention back to the battle. The Agrach Dyrr riders, well clear of the Pillars, charged madly in a circle, skirting the perimeter of the cave and avoiding the main mass of the Menzoberranyr army. Their task was to get to the rear and aid the Agrach Dyrr infantry in sealing the tunnel through which the Army of the Black Spider had just come.
Duergar cavalry streamed up and through the gap, overrunning the positions that had been supposedly held against them and spilling out onto the cavern floor. Several of the House contingents in the van of the march milled about in evident disorder, surprised to find themselves suddenly faced with a thundering charge in an open field instead of siege-work and camp-building behind a stout line.
Other Houses responded to the sudden a
ssault with adroitness and valor. The huge Baenre contingent raised a fierce war cry of their own, and dashed forward to seize the pass before any more duergar could flood through it.
“A bold move, Andzrel,” Nimor said, not without admiration. “Unfortunately, I think it’s too late to put the cork back in that bottle.”
Nimor flicked his war-lizard’s reins and positioned himself for a better view of the cavern center. He’d expected the mad rush of motion, the sight of armored ranks surging forward to crash and retreat like the bloody surf of an iron sea, but the sound of the battle was intolerable. Caught by rock above, below, and to all sides, the roars, screams, and clang of weapons on shields became completely indistinguishable, growing into a single great thundering sound that continued to build and build as more and more warriors became embroiled in the fighting.
“The noise will stand to our advantage,” he cried over his shoulder to Horgar, though he could not hear his own words. “The commanders of the Army of the Black Spider must decide how to respond, and give the appropriate orders.”
“Aye,” the gray dwarf monarch answered. Nimor had to strain to understand him. “The middle of a fight is hardly the best time to draw up your plan of battle!”
A brilliant lightning bolt tore into the duergar ranks, followed by a thunderclap audible even over the din of the battle. Exploding balls of fire and scathing sheets of flame streaked across the battlefield, as wizards on each side began to make their presence felt.
Nimor frowned. A handful of powerful wizards could decide the issue, even in the teeth of the ferocious duergar assault and the duplicity of his allies in Agrach Dyrr, but there were wizards among the duergar troops, too, many of them disguised as common riders and infantrymen. As the drow mages struck at the attacking gray dwarves, they gave away their own positions. Duergar wizards answered each bolt of lightning, each blast of fire, in kind, and in moments the cavern was filled with flashes of painful light and ruddy fire, the air hot and acrid with the mighty magic thrown heedlessly from one side to the other.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 106