Time to try something else, the scout thought.
Valas plucked another of his magical items from his shirt: a short mithral tube no longer than his finger. Sculling with his left hand—the webs had already grown up to the second knuckle—he tapped the tube against one of the bars of the cage. A bright, clear note carried through the water, but nothing happened. Whatever door there might be in the cage was not responding to the chime’s magic.
Slipping the chime back to a pocket, Valas reached for his last hope, a brooch set with a dull gray stone that was surrounded by a dozen tiny, uncut gems. Made by the deep gnomes, the brooch had the power to wrap its wearer in illusion, giving him whatever appearance he could imagine. It didn’t actually transform the wearer, nor did it have the power to manifest more complicated illusions—like making a drow appear to be an aboleth, for example—but it would allow Valas to create subtle changes in his appearance.
He twisted the gem in its facing, and felt a warm shiver run through his body. Looking down, he “saw” webbed hands and feet and a fluked tail. The brooch’s magic had worked, giving him the appearance of the drow-thing.
Everything depended on his guess: that the magic of the cage would be negated, once his transformation was complete. Kicking his legs, he propelled himself up toward the roof of the cage, praying that it would disappear.
His head struck bars with a crack that made sparks dance in front of his eyes. Grimacing, he drifted back toward the center of the cage.
That was it then. The brooch had been his final hope. Even the illusion magic of the deep gnomes was powerless against the cage that held him. He was trapped. All he could do was wait until his body caught up with the illusion he’d just created. Until he turned into a drow-thing himself.
I won’t let it happen, he thought. I deserve a good clean death. A soldier’s death. Not this.
He yanked out one of his kukris—the one that sent a jolt of magical energy through whatever it struck. The magic wouldn’t affect him if he was holding the dagger—a precaution against accidental wounds—but if he shoved the hilt into the ground, he would be able to impale himself on the upturned blade. Reaching down for one of the bars that made up the floor of the cage, he used the dagger to prod at the floor of the lake, but the ground was too hard. The cage had landed on a patch of stone. He’d have to move it somewhere else.
Sculling up to the top of the cage, he peered back toward the spot where the cage had rested a moment before, but saw only a gently waving expanse of kelp, not the flattened patch he’d expected. Had he somehow gotten turned around? No, he could see Zanhoriloch in the distance. His sense of direction hadn’t failed him. Yet he couldn’t see either the spot where the cage had just rested or the place where it had been when he first found himself inside it. That was strange; the weight of the cage should have crushed the kelp flat.
Ah . . . there.
He spotted a square patch of kelp about thirty paces away— which made no sense. He’d just been looking at that spot a moment ago. Had the slime spread over his eyes, blurring them?
No. He could still see as clearly as he ever could.
Suddenly, he realized the answer: the cage was an illusion. An incredibly powerful illusion—one that manifested in all of the senses. Not only were the bars of the cage visible, but they felt real. They’d even caused his chime to ring when he struck it against them—or so he’d thought. But by closing his eyes—by concentrating so hard it almost hurt—he could feel the rocky ground beneath his feet. Sculling to hold himself down against it, he slid a foot along the ground—and encountered no resistance. Instead of his foot striking a bar, it slid along rough, bare stone.
Still concentrating, he continued sliding his feet along the ground until they encountered resistance: a strand of kelp. Its
touch nearly broke his focus, so close was the feel to that of the tentacle that had left the slime of its foul touch on his face. Shuddering, he pressed on until he could feel kelp all around him, then he opened his eyes.
He’d done it. The illusionary cage had disappeared. He was free.
But for how long? He could no longer move his left hand properly. It had only two fingers, with a thick web of skin growing between them. His left ear felt strange, as did his left eye. It was starting to squint shut and the colors he saw through it were somehow wrong. Further confirmation of his fate came when he saw a clump of something lacy and white drifting away from him. It was the hair from the left side of his scalp.
He glanced back at Zanhoriloch and saw that the creatures of that city were still going about their business, swimming back and forth between their stalagmite towers, oblivious to his escape. No alarm seemed to have been raised, and none of the aboleth came swimming out to intercept him. A surge of joy filled him, but it was short-lived. With a sinking heart, he realized that his escape was only temporary. Soon he would be a drow-thing, transformed forever into a water-breathing creature. The entire lake would be his prison.
Even though he knew it was hopeless, since none of his companions had healing magic, and since they’d probably mistake him for a monster and kill him on the spot, Valas tied his kukri back into its sheath and began swimming against the current. He’d completed the first part of his duty as a mercenary: he’d escaped. Next he would carry back to his companions his report, even though it contained woefully little, save for a warning to avoid Zanhoriloch at all cost.
That report delivered, he would get one of the others to kill him. If they refused, he’d do the job himself.
chapter
thirteen
Andzrel Baenre, weapons master of House Baenre, stood in the cavern directing his troops. Runners continually came and went through the half-dozen tunnels that connected to the cavern, carrying news of the battle for the approaches to Menzoberranzan. Soldiers from House Baenre were holding the northern exit from Ablonshier’s Cave.
Faintly, from the connecting tunnel, Andzrel could hear the clash of steel on steel as drow sword met tanarukk battle-axe. A group of duergar had tried to force their way through a tunnel that circled past that exit, only to become tangled in the webs cast by the wizard attached to Andzrel’s company. The latest report indicated that the webs were on fire. The half-orc, half-demon tanarukks, apparently, were trying to burn their way through—at the expense of their gray dwarf allies caught in the sticky strands. The reek of burned hair and flesh drifted down the tunnel.
In the caves to the west of where Andzrel stood, Baenre troops had forced a group of duergar back into a faerzress and hurled light pellets in after them. The resulting pyrotechnic display had apparently been quite spectacular, according to the slingers who had triggered it—slingers who had been struck blind as a result. More House Baenre fighters, waiting in the wings around a bend of the tunnel, had rushed past the slingers to deliver the coup de grâce to the blinded duergar.
Andzrel itched to be a part of it. To be crawling the jagged twists and turns of the Dark Dominion’s narrow passageways, sword in hand, fighting his enemy face-to-face in the tight confines of the tunnels. Instead he was perched on a column of broken stalagmite, directing the troops that flowed past him into battle while he remained behind. He tried picturing himself as a spider at the center of the web—sensitive to the vibrations of battle coming from all directions and responding to them—but it didn’t help. He wanted an excuse to draw his sword, for Lolth’s sake, to engage the enemy in glorious battle as he had at the Pillars of Woe, when he’d snatched victory from the fangs of deceit.
But the defense of the tunnels was going too well. Alerted by Triel’s warning, the matron mothers had poured troops into the Dark Dominions southeast of the city, forcing the enemy advance to grind to a halt. The duergar seemed to have withdrawn, leaving only the tanarukks to fight. And while the Scoured Legion might have thousands of troops, forcing an army through those narrow tunnels was like trying to shove a melon through the neck of a bottle. Yet they continued to send troops forward. It was almost as if
they’d expected the tunnels to be undefended.
Sighing, Andzrel allowed his attention to wander. His eye settled on one of the wisps of smoke that had had been drifting in for some time from the tunnel to his left. It rose steadily upward, drawn by air currents that were surprisingly swift, toward a narrow crack that ran the length of the ceiling. Then it slipped inside the crack and was gone.
It was followed, a moment later, by another drift of smoke— one that was curiously shaped, with tendrils that looked like arms and legs. It, too, vanished into the crack. Then a third puff of smoke appeared, one with a bulge at the front of it that looked, for all the world, like a shaggy—
Suddenly realizing what he was seeing, Andzrel barked an order at the junior officer who stood beside him.
“Lieutenant! The smoke . . . shoot it!”
With a swiftness born of strict training and absolute obedience, the lieutenant whipped up his arm and fired his wrist crossbow in the direction indicated. A poisoned bolt whizzed through the air toward its target.
Instead of passing through the “smoke” and striking the stone behind it, the bolt sank into something soft, with a dull thud. An instant later, a tanarukk materialized out of thin air. It tumbled, arms and legs thrashing, toward the floor of the cavern, the battle-axe it had been carrying landing with a loud clang beside it. The tanarukk was dead even before it slammed into the stone floor, the virulent drow poison having done its work.
The lieutenant immediately fitted another bolt into the crossbow at his wrist and scanned the ceiling.
“Master Andzrel,” he croaked, “where did it come from?”
Andzrel peered down the corridor from which the twodimensional tanarukk had come. No more wisps of “smoke” appeared. The dead one seemed to have been bringing up the rear.
Short and stocky, with a prominent lower jaw and curving tusks, the tanarukk had a ridge of horn across its forehead that gave it a thick, unintelligent look. The trick it and its fellows had played on the drow, however, was anything but stupid.
“The more important question, lieutenant, is where the tanarukks were headed,” Andzrel said, “and how many have slipped past us already. If I remember my geography correctly, that crack leads to the main cavern.”
A runner emerged from a side tunnel.
“Good news, sir,” the man panted. “We’re not only holding them . . . they seem to be falling back. The enemy has all but disappeared.”
As Andzrel cursed—surprising the runner, who’d obviously expected elation on his commander’s part—the forefront of a company from House Barrison Del’ Armgo trotted into the room. They were reinforcements sent in at last by the Second House, only after House Baenre’s troops had secured the tunnels.
Leaping down from the broken stalagmite, Andzrel strode toward the captain who commanded them, a slender female in adamantine armor with white hair drawn up in a topknot.
“Captain!” he barked, foregoing the usual bow that was a ranking officer’s due—and the Barrison Del’Armgo captain, being female, certainly did outrank him. “Turn your company around. March back to the main cavern at once.”
The captain’s eyes blazed an even deeper red as her cheeks flushed with anger. She jerked to a halt, and the soldiers following her did the same.
“Who in the Nine Hells do you think you are?” she said, glaring down at him. “You may be weapons master of House Baenre, but you’re only a—”
“This isn’t the time for arguments,” Andzrel said in a tense voice, his intensity making up for his lack of height. “The enemy has slipped past us and are about to enter the city. House Barrison Del’ Armgo lies directly in their path. Is your pride really worth your House, captain?”
The other captain hesitated, sword gripped in her hand, then she spun on her heel.
“Turn about!” she barked. “Back to the main cavern. Double speed!”
The look she gave Andzrel over her shoulder as she sped away behind her company, however, was as sharp as a dagger point. When the fight with the tanarukks and duergar was over, win or lose, Andzrel knew he would have a second battle to face.
He spun to face the House Baenre lieutenant and said, “You’re in charge. Order half of our company to fall back to the main cavern, while the other half continue to hold the tunnels.”
The lieutenant’s white eyebrows lifted. “And you, sir?” he asked. “Where will you be?”
Then, realizing his impertinence, he dropped his gaze to the floor.
“I’ll be making sure that Barrison Del’ Armgo captain follows her orders,” he said with a grin. He drew his sword. “And hopefully, I’ll be giving the tanarukks a taste of this.”
Triel, flanked by her House wizard and the priestess currently serving as her personal attendant, stood on the balcony that encircled the Great Mound at the point where stalagmite and stalactite met. From far below, at the base of the Qu’ellarz’orl plateau, came the clash of troops in battle. A band of tanarukks had somehow slipped past the troops she’d ordered into the tunnels and had reached the mushroom forest. The wide caps of the mushrooms prevented Triel from seeing much, but every now and then one of the puffballs would explode as a sword or axe struck it, filling the air with a cloud of luminescent blue spores.
Among the combatants, Triel could pick out the silver uniforms of her own troops. The House Baenre company under Andzrel, together with a company from House Barrison Del’ Armgo, were fighting a containing action, preventing the tanarukks from advancing farther into the main cavern. As the foot soldiers repeatedly charged the tanarukks, trying to drive them back through the fence, two squadrons of House Baenre’s mounted troops made an assault on the enemy flanks, their lizards scurrying along the walls.
The enemy was gradually forced back against the wall of the great cavern. But just when Triel was certain they would either be shoved back into the tunnel like a cork into a bottle or smashed flat where they stood, the tanarukks closest to the tunnel mouth parted. Triel strained forward, expecting to see a tanarukk general stride through the gap in their ranks, but what emerged instead from the tunnel mouth made her chuckle.
It was a jade spider. Three times the height of a drow, the magical construct was one of those that guarded each of the entrances to Menzoberranzan. Made from magically treated jade, it moved with fluid grace. It was as captivating in its beauty as it was deadly.
“Now we’ll see some fun,” said the plump wizard standing next to Triel.
Triel acknowledged him with a curt nod. She didn’t much care for Nauzhror, her first cousin once removed. He had only been promoted to the position of Archmage of Menzoberranzan because Gromph was missing, but he wore the archmage’s robes with a stuck-up snobbishness, as if he’d earned them. Triel instead directed her comment to Wilara, the priestess who stood on her left.
“The spiders will put the fear of Lolth into them,” she chuckled.
Wilara laughed politely along with her mistress. Her laughter ended abruptly a moment later, however, when the jade spider, instead of attacking the tanarukks, strode through the gap they’d created in their ranks.
“What in the Spider Queen’s name . . . ?” the priestess whispered.
Wilara’s unfinished question was answered a moment later as the spider crashed headlong into the House Baenre soldiers. Plucking one of them from the ground with its mandibles, it scissored the soldier in half. Then, letting the pieces fall to either side, it continued to race forward, smashing its way through mushrooms and drow alike.
“Lolth help us,” Nauzhror said in a strangled voice. “They’ve managed to get control of one of the constructs.”
As the jade spider advanced, the drow fell back in confusion. One or two prostrated themselves before it—only to receive the same treatment as the first soldier.
The spider continued its relentless advance, and soon several drow lay in bloody heaps behind it. Within moments, the spider had carved a gap through both the mushroom forest and the troops—a gap the tanarukks were
quick to exploit.
“Attack, curse you!” Triel cried as the enemy surged forward.
The drow soldiers were too far away to have heard her, but thankfully one of their officers—probably Andzrel, judging by the black armor and cloak—rallied them. They fell upon the tanarukks from either side and quickly closed the gap the spider had opened. But even as the enemy was driven back once more toward the cavern wall, the jade spider continued to advance. Leaving the struggling foes and the mushroom forest behind, it scaled the slope that led from Qu’ellarz’orl up to the House Baenre compound. It moved swiftly and in a few moments more was at the barrier.
It hesitated just outside the high fence that enclosed the compound as if contemplating the magic that flowed through the barrier’s glowing silver strands, then it turned toward one of the stalagmites to which the fence was attached. As the House guard on the balconies above watched in confusion, the construct scaled the stone as easily as a living spider, climbing to a point just above the fence. It leaped down over the barrier, then began moving toward the center of the compound.
Triel’s eyes narrowed as she saw where it was headed. The jade spider was making its way to House Baenre’s central structure—the great domed temple of Lolth.
Wilara gasped as she, too, calculated the spider’s course.
“They dare attack our temple?” the priestess cried.
Nauzhror, with a sidelong look at Triel, exploded with appropriate rage.
“The insolence!” the interim archmage fumed. “May Lolth’s webs strangle them!”
His familiar—a fist-sized, hairy brown spider—scuttled from one of his shoulders to the other, disturbed by the mage’s violent motion.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 12