He’d surfaced near the northeastern tip of the island that lay at the center of the lake. Herds of rothé milled aimlessly on its banks. Behind the island, Gromph could make out the glowing spire of Narbondel. Someone had been casting magical fire into the enormous, natural rock pillar in Gromph’s absence to mark the start of Menzoberranzan’s “day,” but for how long? Had he been gone for a month, a year?
As the sphere drifted closer to the island, Gromph once again tried to contact Kyorli but without success. Had the rat simply not had enough time yet to reach the city? Or was something else delaying her? When the lichdrow had imprisoned Gromph, an army of duergar, augmented by tanarukks, had been marching toward the city. Did Gracklstugh’s forces block the approaches to Menzoberranzan? Even if they did, surely a rat could slip through their lines.
Gromph tried again.
Kyorli! Are you there?
From somewhere close at hand came a faint tickle of thought—Kyorli, swimming in the lake? Gromph reached out to it, but it was gone.
Something nudged the sphere, rocking it gently.
Kyorli?
Gromph opened his eyes in time to see a hand break the surface of the lake beside him. Enormous purplish fingers wrapped around the sphere, then pulled it underwater. The fingers, coated in a thin layer of slime, smudged the outer surface of the sphere, but through the streaks, Gromph could see a bulbous face with four writhing tentacles where a nose and mouth should be. The illithid’s eyes were white and devoid of pupils, but Gromph could sense that it was staring at him as it sculled gently with its free hand, maintaining a position just below the surface of the lake.
Its voice forced itself into Gromph’s mind, probing like an infestation of roots through soft, unresisting soil.
A mage, it observed. How delicious!
chapter
nine
Halisstra’s first impulse, as the priestess blew her horn, was to thrust her sword into the woman, but something made her hesitate.
Ryld, however, was quicker to act. He leaped to the still sizzling body of the troll, yanked his short sword from it, and sprinted toward the priestess.
The stranger was quicker, however. Dropping the horn, she sang out a single note and brought her hands together. As her fingers interlocked, branches whipped into place in front of her, weaving themselves together. Ryld crashed headlong into the barrier and was hurled back by it, at the last moment turning his fall into a controlled roll.
As Ryld sprang to his feet, Halisstra heard another woman’s voice sing out from the forest behind her. She spun to face the new threat and saw someone moving through the forest. In that
same instant dozens of crescent-shaped blades appeared from out of nowhere and began flashing in a tight circle around her and Ryld. The chest-high wall of spinning steel reminded her of the whir of the stirges’ wings, overlaid by wet thwacks and snaps as rain-soaked branches and leaves were scythed down, leaving a ring of bare ground no more than four paces from where she and Ryld stood.
Ryld touched his brooch and sprang into the air, but his ankles were immediately caught by the bushes around him, animated by the first priestess’s spell. He slashed at them with his sword but the enchanted bush was growing, sprouting new branches faster than he could sever them. For every branch he slashed through, three more sprang up to take its place.
At the same time, the barrier of spinning blades closed in. Halisstra tried to force a way through it using Seyll’s shield, but two of the blades struck the shield at once, nearly ripping it from her arm. A third jarred into her elbow, grating against her chain mail sleeve. She yanked her arm back and shook numbed fingers.
Through the barrier of blades Halisstra caught glimpses of the priestess who had slain the troll—and the two others who had rushed to join her. Each was nearly naked, like the first, and held a sword in her hand. One of them—the one who was sustaining the barrier of blades—was small for a drow female and had dark brown hair. It took Halisstra a moment to recognize the woman under the black dye she’d rubbed onto her skin—dye that had started to run in the rain—but when she did, she cursed her ill luck. There would be no way that Halisstra could convince the priestesses she was an innocent who had “found” Seyll’s armor.
Feliane, a moon elf, had seen Seyll die. Thanks to the magical charm Halisstra had placed upon her, she had readily believed Halisstra’s story that she’d stabbed Seyll by accident, after slipping on a wet rock. But once that charm had worn off, Feliane would have realized the truth.
Ryld gave up slashing at the bush that held his feet and stared longingly at his greatsword, which lay just outside the barrier of whirling blades. He glanced at Halisstra and winced.
“If I had Splitter . . .”
He didn’t have to finish; Halisstra knew exactly what he meant. Had he been able to reach the greatsword, he could have used it to dispel the priestess’s magic.
It was up to Halisstra, then.
“I am the one who killed Seyll!” she shouted at the priestesses over the whir of the spinning blades. “But you’re making a mistake in killing me.”
She laid Seyll’s sword and crossbow on the ground, then yanked the chain mail tunic up and over her head. Tossing it beside the weapons, she removed the final thing she’d taken from Seyll’s body: the priestess’s magic ring.
Avoiding the advancing barrier of blades, she placed the ring on the ground as well and addressed herself to Feliane.
“As Seyll lay dying, she said she had hope for me still. She knew that guilt would force me to redeem myself for the treachery I had committed. That’s why I came back, instead of returning to the Under dark, to beg Eilistraee’s forgiveness for what I’ve done.”
The whirling blades had passed over Seyll’s weapons and chain mail without harming them and had come close enough to force Halisstra back into Ryld, whose legs were completely entangled in the bush that had grown up around him. He twisted at the waist and gave Halisstra a sharp look. She must have sounded very convincing.
Halisstra ignored him, concentrating instead on Feliane. Could she use her voice to overcome the priestess’s resistance a second time?
The whirling blades paused in their advance. They were so close Halisstra could feel the wind of them passing; one step forward and she would be cut to pieces.
“Prove yourself,” Feliane said. “Swear to come up into the light, to serve Eilistraee and forsake Lolth. Swear it—by the sword.”
Halisstra considered—but only briefly, one eye on the barrier of blades.
What harm could it do? she thought. Lolth is dead—or so close to death that it makes little difference.
Even if she did rise again, the Queen of Spiders appreciated and rewarded treachery—especially if it was directed against the goddess who was her chief rival. Halisstra could always turn her back on Eilistraee and be welcomed back into the fold.
Halisstra held out a hand to Ryld and said, “Loan me your sword.”
Ryld gave her a quick, searching look, then complied.
Halisstra took the short sword from him and thrust its point into the ground. Then, as she had seen Eilistraee’s followers do, she circled it, holding the hilt with her left hand. The barrier of blades didn’t leave her much room, and so keen was Ryld’s blade that when Halisstra brushed against it, the steel nicked her knee. She ignored the tiny wound and completed the circle.
“I so swear,” she told Feliane.
Off in the distance, she heard the sound of a hunting horn. Another priestess, belatedly coming to join the others? The priestesses, also having heard it, exchanged nods.
The barrier of blades disappeared. In the abrupt silence that followed, Halisstra heard the snap of a branch. The first priestess negated her spell, loosening the branches that entwined Ryld. Angrily yanking himself free, he pulled his short sword out of the ground and assumed a ready stance as the priestesses approached.
What now? he asked in sign language.
I surrender to them, Halisstr
a replied.
That’s suicide, Ryld signed. I can’t let you do that.
Halisstra felt a flush of warmth and affection that, until recently, she would have described as weakness. To hide it, she let her expression grow ice cold.
“Let me?” she asked aloud. “You . . . a mere male? You’ve not only overstepped your place, you’ve just proven you’re of no further use to me.” She jerked her chin at the spot where his greatsword lay. “Go fetch your sword, Ryld, and go back to where you belong. Go back to the Underdark.”
Ryld stared at her, a stricken expression on his face. For a moment, the rain he was blinking out of his eyes made him look as though he was crying—though of course, Halisstra knew that was something the hardened warrior would never do. Then Ryld walked over to where Splitter lay, his shoulders tensing as he passed the priestesses.
“You may go,” Feliane told him as he picked up the sword. “Leave, and do not follow us, or you will invoke the goddess’s wrath.”
Ryld grunted and shoved the greatsword into the sheath on his back. Then, without a single glance back at Halisstra, he turned and strode away into the forest.
Halisstra, seeing that the priestesses were watching Ryld, briefly considered making a bolt for freedom, then she decided against it. Instead she stared at the spot in the forest that Ryld had disappeared into as the priestesses gathered up Seyll’s weapons and armor.
Ryld will be better off in the Underdark, she told herself. He wouldn’t have been happy up here.
Surrendering had been the only way to ensure his safety.
Feliane unfastened the silver chain at her waist and motioned for Halisstra to hold out her hands. Halisstra did, and the chain came alive, wrapping itself tightly around her wrists. Her strength seeped from her body and flowed out into the links of metal, leaving her as weak as sun-rotted adamantine. She staggered, fighting down the panic that was threatening to rise within her. What had she just done? She told herself to stay calm, and that she still had one weapon left. The time would come, when Ryld was far away and safe, that she could use the magic of the bae’qeshel.
Staring at Feliane’s youthful, guileless face further reassured Halisstra. In Feliane she saw softness—a weakness she could turn to her advantage. Despite the way Halisstra had used her once before, Feliane actually believed Halisstra’s pledge—that she had come back to redeem herself. All it would take was a friendly smile and a few words. Halisstra parted her lips— but the priestess who had slain the troll strode up to her and grabbed her chin, turning her head to the side. Belatedly, Halisstra noticed the priestess was humming. Halisstra tried to speak but found herself unable to make even the slightest noise.
“I will take this one back to the temple myself,” the priestess said. “Eilistraee will decide her fate: the song . . . or the sword.”
Ryld fumed as he strode away into the forest, wet ferns squelching under his boots. He had done what Halisstra had wanted, he’d walked away. Why then did he feel so impotent, so angry?
Because he’d saved himself and left her to die.
As a priestess of Lolth had ordered, he reminded himself.
And he, a good male, always obeyed.
A former priestess of Lolth, he corrected himself. Perhaps that was why she was so willing to die, to join the goddess who had gone before her.
Shaking his head bitterly, he curled his fingers into the blasphemous gesture Halisstra had used.
“Go ahead and let them kill you then, Halisstra, if that’s what you . . .”
Was that what she wanted? Halisstra’s face had been as frozen and expressionless as the black stone face that sealed the temple—or was it the tomb?—of Lolth. But Ryld had been able to sense the powerful emotions just beneath that cold surface. She’d proven that she cared for him, earlier, when they were fighting the troll. If all she’d been doing was using him, all that time, she could have saved her own life simply by fleeing, leaving him to die . . .
Just as Pharaun had done.
A thought occurred to Ryld then—a notion that was almost inconceivable, so foreign was it to the drow creed. Had Halisstra deliberately sacrificed herself so that he might live?
No, that couldn’t be possible. She must have one final trick in her pocket—some hidden weapon or scroll that would allow her to escape, to rejoin him. But if so, why hadn’t she given him some clue as to where to meet her again?
Because she was worried that the priestesses would hear it? Or was it because she expected Ryld to come to her? To help her escape.
Ryld, who had been slowing his pace all along, at last stopped. He stood, listening to the rain pattering down on the branches overhead, wondering if any of the priestesses had followed him. With all the noise the rain was making, he couldn’t be certain they hadn’t.
He hated the constant dribble of water from the sky. It trickled down his face, making him squint. It had turned his piwafwi into a heavy, wet blanket that clung to his shoulders and stuck to his thighs as he walked. It was making his armor squeak and would eventually cause his swords to rust. The rain was like a waterfall he couldn’t step out of. He was trapped in it—just as he was trapped in the invisible webs Halisstra had woven around him with her smiles and kisses and sighs.
Pulling his wet piwafwi closer around him, he enveloped himself in its magic, becoming just another shadow in the overcast and dripping forest. He made his way back to the spot where they’d fought the troll.
Ryld circled the area, searching the rapidly melting slush for footprints to see which way Halisstra and the priestesses had gone, but found none. Cautiously he crept closer to the spot, expecting to hear their voices at any moment.
He saw the swath of chopped vegetation the barrier of blades had cleared and the blackened patch of ground where the troll had died, but no sign of the priestesses. He drew Splitter and spoke the words that would activate its magic, assuring himself that the priestesses weren’t using an illusion or invisibility to cloak themselves.
Satisfied that he was alone, he strode into the clearing. Squatting, he studied the footprints left in the slush.
Halisstra stood here, he thought, and one of the priestesses there. The other two had stood there, and there . . .
And that was where the footsteps stopped. The priestesses hadn’t left on foot, they’d used magic to spirit themselves away—and Halisstra with them.
She was gone, and there was no trail to follow.
Unless . . .
Yes, it’s just possible, he thought as his eye fell on a footprint in the slush.
It was the track of the gray animal that had been fleeing through the forest. The beasts had been communicating with each other, at least, and might just communicate with him.
Ryld sheathed his sword, and began to follow the trail.
chapter
ten
Valas peered down at the expanse of dark water below him. Lake Thoroot was even larger than he’d been told—so wide that the far side of it was lost in darkness. It reminded him of the wide, flat expanse of Anauroch, the desert they’d recently visited. The difference, however, was that the lake had steep cliffs hemming it in on every side, a waterfall that thundered into it from the cavern where Valas perched, and a high, domed ceiling overhead. Enormous stalactites hung from that ceiling. Some had points that touched the water; others were broken off like jagged teeth, making the cavern look like an enormous, fanged mouth. Valas shivered, hoping it wasn’t an omen of what was to come.
A hand touched his shoulder. Turning, he saw Pharaun. Danifae was right behind him.
“What’s wrong?” the mage asked.
“Nothing,” Valas answered. “It’s just the spray from the waterfall. I’m chilled.”
Quenthel scrambled up behind Pharaun and Danifae—who backed away, one wary eye on the whip in Quenthel’s belt. Quenthel was crouching to negotiate the low ceiling, her hands and feet spread wide to keep her balance on the slippery rocks. That and the hungry gleam in her eye made her look lik
e a dark spider. Jeggred was one pace behind her, as usual, moving nimbly across the uneven ledge, his second, smaller set of arms held out for balance.
Quenthel peered into the vast cavern beyond the waterfall and asked, “Have we reached Lake Thoroot?”
Her voice was barely audible over the roar of falling water.
“It’s just below,” Valas answered with a nod. “About fifty paces straight down.”
“Do you see any sign of the city—or the ship?”
Valas shook his head and replied, “Both are probably far beneath the surface.”
But which part of the surface? he wondered.
For all Valas knew, Zanhoriloch was on the far side of the lake, though he wasn’t about to admit that to Quenthel. They had entered through the only approach to the lake the scout was familiar with. The last thing he wanted was to exhibit any weakness or uncertainty, even after they found the ship and left the Underdark—and his expertise—behind.
One hand clutching the wet rock beside him, Valas leaned as far out as he dared, studying the wall below. The tunnel they’d been following was a wide one, with a natural ledge of rock on one side of the river. It had provided a welcome shortcut to the lake, an easy trek after their long, weary journey. But from there, things got tricky. The river burst out of the tunnel like a horizontal fountain, its spray soaking the rock for a great distance on either side. Through the mist, Valas could see faintly glowing streaks of green against the stone: patches of water-soaked, slippery fungi.
Valas felt someone looming behind him, and fetid breath told him who it was. Jeggred stared out at the lake, his monstrous body crowding Valas and nearly forcing him over the edge.
Elbowing Jeggred back, Valas shouted back to the others over the draegloth’s head, “I’d like to scout ahead before we go any farther. Pharaun, I’ll need magic to climb down, and that spell of yours that will allow me to breathe underwater.”
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 9