Nauzhror’s eyes widened and he asked, “Is it as bad as that?”
“If we move swiftly,” Andzrel answered, “we will bring a good portion of our soldiers off the field yet. Once we’ve got the
important Houses out of the fray, we can make a fighting retreat all the way to Menzoberranzan if we have to. There is no time to lose, if we want to save Xorlarrin and Tuin’Tarl. Fey-Branche is all but gone, I haven’t the faintest idea what happened to Barrison Del’Armgo, and Duskryn and Kenafin were swept away by the tanarukks. Menzoberranzan can’t lose any more drow here.”
“Your retreat will only delay the inevitable,” Nimor said. “You can’t stop it now.”
Andzrel leaned on his two-bladed sword and threw a dark look at Nimor.
“On second thought,” the weapons master said, “I’ll detail a few lads to wait for this sphere to fade. I see no reason to let him live a moment longer than I have to.” He met Nimor’s eyes with a cold expression. “Your House will rue the day you betrayed our city, traitor.”
Nimor tried the force globe again, to no avail. Andzrel, Zal’therra, and the Baenre wizard turned away and followed their soldiers into the renewed battle, while several Baenre guards trotted back and took up stations surrounding the sphere of force.
“I’ll see you in Menzoberranzan,” Nimor promised the Baenre.
The Anointed Blade invoked the power of his ring, and disappeared from the force globe into the welcoming shadows.
chapter
eighteen
Four hours later, the company stood again beneath the bronze mask of Vhaeraun in the chapel of Minauthkeep. Battered, filthy mail had been laboriously cleaned, broken links mended, arming coats laundered. Those who had lost their packs, bedrolls, or other gear carried replacements purchased from Jaelre merchants. For the first time since leaving Gracklstugh Halisstra felt clean, rested, and reasonably well prepared for the next step in her journey. She sorely missed the mail she’d worn as First Daughter of House Melarn, and the thundering mace her mother had given her a century past, but she still had her lyre, and Seyll Auzkovyn’s mail and sword were not entirely useless substitutes.
The sword in particular seemed a fine piece of work. It carried a potent virtue of holiness that made it tingle unpleasantly in the dark elf ’s grip, but Halisstra suspected its blade would be unbearable to any fell creature who felt its bite. Considering the fact that she intended to descend into the Abyss itself, where such creatures would likely set upon the company in numbers, she was willing to endure the sword’s distasteful enchantment for a time.
Tzirik had donned a suit of black mithral plate armor decorated with grotesque demonic figures and chased with gold filigree. A wickedly spiked mace hung at his belt, and he wore a great masked helm in the shape of a demon’s skull. He radiated confidence and energy, as if he’d waited a long time for the opportunity to serve his god with worthwhile stakes at hand.
“As you know,” said the priest, “there is more than one way to leave this plane of existence and venture into the dimensions beyond. I have examined the issue at length, and I have decided that we shall travel in astral form. Now, if—”
“That would require us to leave our bodies comatose while our spirits journeyed to the Abyss,” Quenthel interrupted. “Why would you even hope I might consent to that?”
“Betrayal,” Jeggred rumbled. “He intends to have his comrades slit our throats while our bodies lie uninhabited.”
The draegloth took a step forward, baring his fangs at the Vhaeraunite priest.
“I choose to travel in astral form for two reasons, Mistress Baenre,” Tzirik replied, ignoring Jeggred. “First, it is marginally safer, in that if someone’s roving spirit happened to be killed while visiting the Demonweb Pits, that person would not truly be dead—he would awaken here, unharmed. A spirit is a difficult thing to destroy, after all. Second, as far as I can tell, we have no real alternative. I have already attempted to plane shift bodily to the Demonweb Pits, and the spell failed outright. I believe the barrier or seal of which the Masked Lord spoke prevented the direct transference of a physical body into Lolth’s demesnes.”
“Yet you believe you’ll be able to carry our astral forms there, when the realm is still sealed?” Halisstra asked.
“I know of only two ways to take you to the Demonweb Pits, and if one doesn’t work, the other must,” Tzirik said with a shrug. “The Masked Lord himself has instructed me to take you there, so there must be a way. Still, if you happen to know of any permanent gates or portals connecting our world with the Abyss, or the Demonweb Pits itself, I suppose you could make use of such a device.”
“Show me that physical travel will not work,” Quenthel said.
“Step close,” Tzirik said from behind his mask, his voice carrying a certain dry amusement, “and join hands with me.”
The drow shuffled close and joined hands in a circle with Tzirik, who took a place between Quenthel and Danifae, laying his left hand over their joined hands and leaving his right free to make the gestures necessary for the spell. He collected himself, then chanted out a rolling, powerful prayer whose unholy words filled the air with a nearly tangible darkness.
Halisstra watched carefully to make certain that the priest cast the spell correctly, and as far as she could tell, he did. For a moment she thought it would work, as the Jaelre chapel grew misty and faint around them, and her body seemed to somehow drop away from the world without moving an inch—but then she sensed through some preternatural perception an impediment, a barrier that prevented the company from materializing again in a new place and seemed to almost jolt them back to Minauthkeep. She reeled drunkenly as her senses whirled.
“That happened the last time I tried it,” Tzirik said.
Thunder gathered in Quenthel’s brow, but she managed to keep her calm as she detached her hand from Danifae’s and steadied herself against Jeggred.
“Pharaun,” the high priestess said, “what did you observe?”
The wizard raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised to be consulted by the Baenre, and said, “It seems plausible enough. If we travel by projecting our spirits into the Astral Plane, we won’t be going directly from this plane of existence to the Abyss. We’d actually traverse the astral sea and approach Lolth’s domain as spirits. It may be that the mysterious barrier we encountered does not bar such an approach.” The wizard smoothed his robes, considering. “And that might explain why our conjured demons couldn’t manage the trick either. They do not travel between planes by astral projection, as they have no souls.”
Quenthel muttered something to herself, folded her arms, and turned back to Tzirik.
“Fine,” she said. “You have convinced me. Where do you intend to leave our bodies?”
Tzirik walked over to one wall of the chapel and depressed a hidden stud, revealing a secret chamber behind the bronze mask of Vhaeraun. It was not large, but eight elegant old divans—furnishings that might have dated back to the castle’s days as a home to the surface elves of Cormanthyr—were arranged in a tight circle in the room, heads together, feet outward.
“Only a handful of my people know of this room’s existence,” said the priest, “and I have instructed them to make no intrusion for as long as may prove necessary. You need not fear any harm here.”
Ryld, who stood a little behind Jeggred, turned away from Tzirik and gestured subtly to Pharaun and Halisstra, So if our spirits are defeated while we are astral, we return to our bodies. What happens to our spirits if someone sticks a knife in our bodies?
Death, the wizard replied. A cautious fellow would make sure his body was someplace safe and guarded by trustworthy sorts before sending his spirit off to some other plane.
Ryld grimaced, but made no other reply.
The company followed Tzirik into the small room. Halisstra stared with some trepidation at the old couch in front of her, knowing that she was doing so but unable to look away. She wasn’t the only member of the company regarding
the divans like a collection of coffins; Quenthel must have been having the same thoughts.
She looked up from the couch to Tzirik and said, “We will leave behind a guard. Someone I trust will be here to watch over our bodies until I return, just as someone you trust will be watching over you.”
“Ah,” Tzirik said. “You are a dark elf indeed. Do as you will.”
“He might mean to have this whole castle descend upon whomever we leave behind,” Jeggred snarled. “Best leave two, maybe three.”
“Our sentry’s only duty will be to cut Tzirik’s throat before he’s overwhelmed,” Pharaun said. “The question is, who stays?”
Quenthel glanced at Ryld, then her eyes slid toward Halisstra. For a moment Halisstra feared that Quenthel meant to leave her behind in order to deny her the audience she sought with Lolth, but even as her heart thudded in apprehension she realized that the last thing the Baenre would want—if she truly viewed Halisstra as a threat, anyway—would be a Melarn conscious and alone with her own helpless body. Quenthel’s eyes narrowed as she weighed the same considerations, and she turned to Jeggred.
“You must stay here,” she said to the draegloth.
Jeggred contorted himself in a spasm of anger.
“I am not going to sit here staring at your living corpses while you face the perils of the goddess’s realm! Mother told me to guard you. How can I do that when you leave me behind?”
“You will be guarding me,” Quenthel said. “No harm can come to me in astral form. It is here that I will be vulnerable, and I trust no one else with the task. It must be you, Jeggred.”
The draegloth waved all four arms in protest and said, “You of all people know what awaits you in the Demonweb Pits, Mistress. You will need my strength there.”
“Cease this at once,” the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith commanded. Her eyes flashed, and her whip rippled and spat. “It is not for you to question me, nephew. You will discharge your obligation in the manner I direct.”
Jeggred subsided into a sulking silence. In disgust he turned away and threw himself down on the stone floor, shucking his pack and bandoleer. Quenthel glanced at the others, and nodded at the couches.
“Come,” she said. “The goddess awaits.”
Tzirik waited while the Menzoberranyr chose divans and stretched out. He moved to the last one and sat down, then glanced over at Jeggred.
“If you will be staying here, half-demon, you should know that some of my kinfolk will be accompanying you on your vigil. Do not cause them any trouble, and I think you will find that they will be happy to leave you alone.”
Jeggred sneered in answer, and Tzirik laid himself down awkwardly in his plate armor, arranging his mace so that it lay at his side.
Halisstra found that she was lying between Ryld and Danifae. She glanced over at the weapons master. Ryld’s expression was taut and nervous. Clearly, astral travel was something beyond his experience too.
If our spirits are doing the traveling, why do we need all our weapons? he motioned to her.
They’re part of you, she replied. Your consciousness includes your belongings in your definition of yourself. Therefore, when your soul roams free from your body, your mind will imagine for you an astral copy of anything you have close at hand.
“Reach out and take each other’s hands,” Tzirik said. “Make sure you have a good grasp. I do not want to leave anyone behind.”
The priest started to chant again in his melodious voice. Halisstra stared at the ceiling and reached out to grasp Danifae with her right hand, and Ryld with her left.
Perhaps I should imagine for myself some good strong drink, Ryld observed.
He reached out and caught Halisstra’s hand in his strong grip before she could reply.
Behind her, unseen on the other side of the circle, Tzirik continued his spell, speaking the harsh words of the magic with confidence and ease. Halisstra felt an electric jolt race through her body from hand to hand as the magic began to take life, joining her to Ryld and Danifae with a strange, tingling sensation. A sense of detachment swept through her, as if she’d all at once become weightless. She seemed to be floating up and out of herself, drawn by some irresistible force tugging on her in a direction she could not relate to up or down, left or right. The stone ceiling wavered and grew dim, pulling away from her faster and faster.
And she was gone.
Triel Baenre stalked gracefully past the ranks of her battered soldiers, her face held rigidly expressionless by nothing more than sheer iron determination. The exhausted troops stood at attention for her as best they could in the narrow tunnel. She’d had Nauzhror transport her immediately to the scene of the retreat to view with her own eyes the scope of Menzoberranzan’s defeat, and she found that she did not like what she had seen. She did not like it all.
The passage was the better part of ten miles long, one of the main thoroughfares leading from the way-meeting at the Pillars of Woe to the shell of twisting passages and wild caverns known as Menzoberranzan’s Dominion. It seemed that every second or third soldier she passed carried some obvious injury—a bandaged torso here, an arm in a sling there, a fellow using a broken spear shaft as a crutch against the other wall. The wounded did not bother her, though. What Triel found truly disconcerting was the fatigue and moroseness of the soldiers. She’d expected to find them tired, of course—Andzrel had marched the army for a day without halting to salvage something from the disaster of the Pillars of Woe—but she hadn’t expected to find her soldiers so . . . defeated. They’d been beaten, and they knew it.
Andzrel trailed a respectful step behind the matron mother, not presuming to speak until addressed.
“How bad were the losses?” she finally asked, not looking at her weapons master.
“For the whole army, somewhere around a quarter to a third of our strength, Matron Mother. Some Houses fared much better or much worse than that, depending on the fortunes of battle.”
“And House Baenre’s contingent?”
“Ninety dead, forty-four seriously wounded,” Andzrel replied. “About a quarter of our strength.”
“We were fortunate to save that much, Matron Mother,” Zal’therra added. “Some of the minor Houses were slaughtered to a male in—”
“I did not address you,” Triel said.
She folded her arms and tried not to let the sick horror in her stomach show.
It will be a miracle if the Council doesn’t rise in open revolt against me, the matron mother thought. Thank the goddess that Mez’Barris is lost somewhere, and Fey-Branche so badly weakened. Byrtyn Fey must guard her response with half her House army destroyed, and I will have some time to consider what must be done before I have to confront Mez’Barris, Lolth willing.
Then again, she thought, what was left of the Council, anyway? Faen Tlabbar, the Third House, was in the hands of an untried girl, and Yasraena Dyrr was not likely to present herself at the next meeting, was she? She and all her filthy House were barricaded in their castle, awaiting the arrival of their duergar allies, and apparently quite prepared to stand a siege.
That left Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin, Miz’ri Mizzrym, and Prid’eesoth Tuin as the only matron mothers she need concern herself with.
To distract herself from the unpleasant prospect ahead, Triel turned to face Andzrel and Zal’therra. More than anything, she longed to punish the weapons master and her cousin Zal’therra for leading her army into a disastrous ambush, but as far as she could tell, Andzrel’s skill and Zal’therra’s decisiveness had most likely extricated the Army of the Black Spider from a dreadful mauling. Menzoberranzan’s army was battered, but intact.
“Where are the duergar now?” she asked.
“About three miles south of us,” replied Andzrel. “House Mizzrym currently serves as rear guard, though I’ve sent almost a hundred of our own soldiers to stiffen the defense.” Triel understood what Andzrel really meant—he’d put Baenre soldiers beside the Mizzrym to make sure that another betrayal of the sort A
grach Dyrr had engineered didn’t take place. “The Scoured Legion advances through another passage to our east, circling around us. We don’t dare try to make a stand in this tunnel, or the tanarukks will get by us.”
“It would only take a hundred soldiers to hold this tunnel against almost any force, wouldn’t it?” Triel asked.
“Yes, but the duergar have enough war wizards in their ranks, and siege engines in their train, that they wouldn’t be halted for long by a rearguard action.”
“Try it anyway,” Triel grated. “Use slave troops, and leave enough officers behind to make sure they don’t break and run. We need time, Weapons Master, and that’s what rear guards are for.”
Andzrel didn’t argue the point, and Triel paced away to gather her thoughts. Drow rebels, slave revolts, duergar armies, dark treachery, a missing archmage, and tanarukk hordes—it was hard to see how matters could get much worse. Where could she even start to address any of these problems? Assault Agrach Dyrr, without the magical might of the city’s assembled priestesses? Pick another spot to meet the duergar, and allow the tanarukks to sweep past?
“How did this happen?” she muttered aloud.
“Agrach Dyrr was in league with our city’s enemies,” Zal’therra replied. “They contrived to make up the vanguard of our army, and instead of holding the Pillars of Woe against the gray dwarves, they led us into a trap. They must be obliterated for their treachery.”
“I was not speaking to you,” Triel growled, and this time she could not restrain herself.
Though she knew Zal’therra was not to blame for the disastrous battle, she had to strike out at something. She slapped the girl, hard, rocking her to her heels despite the fact that Zal’therra towered almost a foot taller than her, and outweighed her by thirty pounds.
“You must come to expect treachery, you simpleminded fool!” Triel snarled. “Why were there no Baenre officers among our scouts? Why did you take no steps to verify the reports the Agrach Dyrr fed to you? If you had exercised even the most minimal amount of caution, our army would not be in tatters.”
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 108