Triel pursed her lips, saying nothing. The temple might be the target, but an attack on it was not the enemy’s chief aim. There was little a single jade spider—or even a dozen of them for that matter—could do to harm the building itself. Triel was sure that the incursion was intended to be a demonstration, made where all could see it, that Lolth had turned her face away from her chosen people. The spider would have to be stopped—but anyone doing so outside the doors of a building consecrated to Lolth would incur the goddess’s wrath.
In ordinary times, at least.
Triel longed to cry out to Lolth, to plead for the goddess to tell her what to do, but she knew what the answer would be: silence. The Matron Mother of the First House was on her own—and if the jade spider wasn’t stopped, Menzoberranzan’s weakness would be plain for all to see. The males of House Baenre, fighting so valiantly to force the enemy back into the tunnels, might falter. If they became convinced that Triel and the other ranking females had lost Lolth’s favor for some fault of their own or that the goddess had turned away from all drow forever, they might even turn against their matron mothers.
That could not be.
“The enemy knows our weakness,” Triel said in a tense voice. “They must believe that Lolth has fallen silent forever and hope to make it plain for all to see.”
Beside her, Wilara stiffened. Then amazingly, she contradicted her matron mother.
“No,” the priestess said, shaking her head and causing the long braid that hung down her back to ripple like a snake. “The goddess will answer. She must.”
The vipers in Triel’s whip hissed their annoyance, but Triel ignored them. Under the circumstances, she could allow Wilara’s outspokenness.
“Lolth may awaken yet,” she said, speaking as much to steady herself as for the lesser priestess’s benefit. “My sister Quenthel has not yet given up, so neither should we. But in the meantime, we have to rely upon ourselves. And upon other forms of magic.”
She turned to Nauzhror and asked, “Do you know the spell that will transform stone to flesh?”
“I do, Matron Mother,” he answered, “but if we transform it to flesh, the statue will become a living spider. The problem remains. We just can’t . . . kill it.”
“Quite so,” Triel said. As she spoke, she unfastened one of the wand cases hanging from her belt. “But by the time we’re finished, it won’t be a spider.” She drew out a slender iron wand, tipped with a chunk of amber whose depths held the remains of a desiccated moth. “As soon as you cast your spell, I’ll polymorph it into something else—something large and dangerous enough to have torn a hole through our ranks. Something our troops won’t have any problem attacking.”
Nauzhror smiled and said, “A deceitful plan, Matron Mother. One worthy of Lolth herself.”
Glancing down, Triel saw that the spider had nearly reached the temple.
“Quit fawning,” she ordered. “Teleport us down there at once.”
Nauzhror spoke the words of his spell, and an instant later the balcony seemed to lurch sideways as he and Triel squeezed between the dimensions. In the blink of an eye they were standing in front of the doors to the great temple. Two dozen House guards who had been milling about uncertainly a moment before gasped as their matron mother suddenly appeared before them. Some bowed, and others glanced between Triel and the jade spider that was rapidly approaching, its stone legs clickclicking as it scurried across the cavern floor.
Nauzhror, his face paling to gray as the enormous stone spider rapidly closed the gap, began chanting a spell. He pointed a finger, from which an intense, narrow beam of red light sprang, but the trembling of his hand made the beam waver, causing it to miss the spider by several paces.
Triel grabbed Nauzhror’s hand, steadying it. The beam connected—and jade became flesh. Triel activated her wand.
The spider shifted into the form she held in her mind: a two-legged creature with powerful muscles, enormous claws and mandibles, and a rounded, insectoid head. Its body was covered in chitinous plates, and feelers sprouted from cracks near its head where the sections met. Startled by its sudden transformation, the creature stumbled to a halt, feelers waving frantically as its mandibles clacked shut.
“Matron Mother,” Nauzhror gasped. “An umber hulk?”
“Convincing, isn’t it?” Triel said with a wry smile. She turned to the dozen or so soldiers who stood gaping nearby and ordered, “Soldiers of House Baenre, you have been fooled by an illusion. Defend me!”
To a man, the soldiers leaped forward, swords in hand. The transformed statue fought back, its mandibles tearing one soldier in half and neatly scissoring the head off another. Then a lieutenant of the House guard—a small male with white hair plaited in two braids that were tucked behind his pointed ears—leaped directly into the path of the umber hulk. He wore no armor, and his only weapon was a small crossbow strapped to his left wrist. He aimed deliberately as the umber hulk staggered toward him—still uncertain of its footing with only two legs, instead of eight—and he fired.
The bolt struck the umber hulk in the throat, in a spot where two of its armor plates met. It buried itself to the fletching in soft flesh—then exploded with magical energy. Sparks raced in brilliant streaks across the umber hulk’s body, then shot up its feelers, sizzling them like burned hair. The umber hulk faltered, then fell.
The lieutenant—whom Triel belatedly recognized as one of her nephews, a male named Vrellin—dropped to one knee in front of her.
“Matron Mother,” he said, never once lifting his eyes. “I failed to recognize the threat. My life is yours.”
Closing his eyes, he raised his head, baring his exposed neck.
Triel laughed.
The noise startled Vrellin. Uncertain, he looked up—but not quite into Triel’s eyes. Vrellin was a male who knew his place.
“Matron Mother, do you mock me?” he asked in a strained voice. “Is my life worth so little you deem it not worth taking?”
Triel spread her fingers and brushed them across the lieutenant’s head—a touch as light as a spiderweb.
“For what you have done, lieutenant, the goddess will reward you—in this life, or the next.”
As she spoke, she wondered if that was true. Then something caught her eye in the distance, on the opposite side of the great cavern: streaks of dull red light, arcing up into the air and down again. They seemed to be coming from the rear of the Tier Breche cavern, from somewhere between and behind Sorcere and Arach-Tinilith.
She swore softly as she realized their point of origin— the tunnel that gave access to Tier Breche from outside Menzoberranzan—and what the source of the light must have been: pots of magical fire, capable of burning even stone, like those that had destroyed Ched Nasad.
Stonefire bombs.
Menzoberranzan was under attack on a second front. And, judging by the pinpoints of fire blossoming on the buildings in the distant cavern, the stonefire bombs were being used to good effect against Menzoberranzan’s three most cherished institutions: Sorcere, Melee-Magthere—and Arach-Tinilith, the most holy of the temples to Lolth.
Tearing her eyes away, Triel glanced down at the base of the Qu’ellarz’orl plateau. The drow had finally beaten the tanarukks back into the tunnels All that was visible of the conflict were a few scattered corpses.
“Abyss take them,” Triel swore under her breath. “It was just a feint.”
Aliisza lounged on one of the plush carpets that had been thrown down on the floor of the cavern and sipped her glass of lacefungus wine. Kaanyr had been pacing back and forth across the cavern that served as his quarters in the field. He paused next to his “throne”—an enormous chair that had been lashed together from the bones of his enemies, a hideous piece of furniture he’d insisted on carrying with him on campaign. Snarling, he kicked over the enormous brazier that stood next to it.
“Abyss take Nimor!” he shouted, his skin blazing with radiant heat. “He promised the drow would be in disarray, unable
to mount a coherent defense. Now my army sits stalled and impotent, while the duergar claim all the glory.”
Glowing red coals scattered across the rugs, which began smoldering. Aliisza picked up one of the coals and juggled it back and forth across her palm. Its heat tickled her skin.
“So why not march your troops north and join the duergar attack?” she suggested, her black wings framing the question with a shrug.
“And give the drow an opportunity to attack us from the rear, and in territory they know well?” Vhok shook his head and added, “Your grasp of tactics—or lack thereof—astounds me. Sometimes I wonder just whose side you’re on, Aliisza.”
Setting her glass aside, Aliisza rose to her feet. She stood on tiptoe and locked her hands behind Kaanyr Vhok’s head. Drawing his mouth down to hers, she kissed him.
“I’m on your side, darling Kaanyr,” she murmured. The half-demon broke off the kiss.
“This Nimor begins to annoy me,” he grumbled. “He promised us the spoils of the noble Houses—an empty promise. Even without Lolth, Menzoberranzan is proving to be, as Horgar so aptly noted, a tough stone to crack. And if Lolth suddenly returns . . .”
He paused, lost in thought as he stared at one of the small fires that had erupted in the carpet at his feet.
“That group of drow you were spying on, back in Ched Nasad . . .” he said.
Aliisza was busy nuzzling the cambion’s coal-hot neck.
“Mmm?” she purred.
“What were they doing?”
Aliisza pouted but asked, “Does it matter?”
“It might,” Vhok said. “Which is why I have another little job for you. I want you to find them—and, more importantly, learn what they’re up to. If I’m right, we may need to rethink our alliance.”
Aliisza cocked her head and smiled—not at the treachery Kaanyr Vhok was hinting at, but at the thought of seeing Pharaun again.
He certainly was delicious.
chapter
fourteen
Gromph felt the blood drain from his face as he stared, horrified, at the illithid. Were he not trapped in the gods-cursed sphere, he could have dealt with the creature in a summary fashion, casually flicking a death-dealing spell in its direction, but instead he was at its mercy. Every fleeting thought that passed through Gromph’s mind would be heard by the illithid as if spoken aloud. None of Gromph’s secrets—or the secrets of Sorcere—were safe, unless he could deliberately not think of them. That effort would only cause them to come bubbling to the surface of his mind. The only good thing about his situation was that the mind flayer’s gently waving tentacles were on the other side of the glass. The illithid could no more reach in and attack Gromph than Gromph could send his magic out to blast the illithid.
The mind flayer’s telepathic speech was another matter. It penetrated the sphere with ease.
Sorcere? Which building is it?
A fleeting image formed in Gromph’s mind: Sorcere’s sculpted stalagmite tower, standing proudly beside the other two edifices of the Academy: the pyramid of Melee-Magthere, and the eight-legged temple of Arach-Tinilith.
Gromph cursed, and quickly fixed his mind on something else, but it was too late. The illithid swam up until its head broke the surface of the lake. It glanced to its right, toward the northern end of the city, blank white eyes searching for the raised grotto that opened off the main cavern of Menzoberranzan. Its tentacles lifted slightly, and its mouth began to move.
A bright sparkle of magical energy enveloped the illithid, and the view of the lake and shore disappeared. With a sinking heart, Gromph realized that things were even worse than he’d thought. His captor was no ordinary illithid but one capable of sorcery.
Gromph immediately recognized the spot that the illithid’s spell had carried them to. They were in the wide cavern that led from the Dark Dominions into Tier Breche. Exhausted duergar sprawled on the cavern floor, many of them wounded. Others, carrying enormous axes and battle-chewed shields, hurried through the tunnel, their officers urging them toward Tier Breche, which was filled with the flashes of exploding spells.
Still other gray dwarves busied themselves just inside the mouth of the tunnel, hurriedly assembling siege engines and shelters. The duergar labored without ceasing, even though an occasional ball of fire or ice or crackling electricity arced over and smashed into the ground near the siege walls they had set up just inside Tier Breche. Glowing pits of molten rock or ice-shattered stone attested to the force of those blasts.
Gromph could see everything but could not hear the shouts of the duergar—who nodded to the newly arrived illithid—nor could he smell the sulfurous explosions. The sphere enclosed him in a world filled only with his own breathing—which became rapid as he realized that Gracklstugh’s army had not only reached Menzoberranzan but had established a foothold inside Tier Breche itself. The duergar were attacking the three buildings that were the most heavily fortified in the city, aside from the noble Houses themselves.
Hands pressed to the curved wall of his prison, Gromph strained his eyes, looking for the jade spiders that should have been guarding the tunnel. They were nowhere to be seen.
They serve a different master, now, the illithid said with a smirk. As will the drow, soon enough. The army is already inside Menzoberranzan.
Whose army? Gromph wondered. Not an army of illithids, surely, or the one who carried him would have said “our army.” Had the duergar of Gracklstugh reached Menzoberranzan on their own?
The answer came swiftly.
Yes. And tanarukks march with them. The drow cannot stand against their combined might.
Gromph had no way of knowing whether or not that was true. If only he could get free of the sphere he could use his magic to drive the enemy back. But in order to free himself he needed to find a wizard who knew the precise spell required. And he needed to get inside Sorcere—specifically, to his quarters, where the lichdrow had cast his imprisonment spell. Unfortunately, both those things were on the other side of the duergar siege wall.
Gromph glanced up at the illithid and thought, Or . . . are they?
Deliberately, Gromph let his mind dwell upon that thought.
The reply was tinged with arrogance.
Of course I know that spell, but why should I use it to set you free? All of your secrets will be mine, in time. I will flay your mind, layer by layer, like the skin of a—
The illithid broke off in mid-sentence, suddenly glancing at someone who was approaching. Long, purple fingers closed tightly around the sphere. The illithid held it in both hands, hiding what it contained. It rubbed its fingers deliberately against the glass, smearing its surface with the slime that coated its palms. Gromph tumbled to his hands and knees as the illithid dropped the hand holding the sphere to its side. He scrambled forward to look out through the only clear spot that remained on the surface of the glass.
One of the duergar stood in front of the illithid, his face level with the sphere. Like the others of his race, the dwarf had pale gray skin, a snub nose that looked as if it had been flattened by a mace, and a bald head. He was dressed in mottled gray-andblack clothing the color of stone but wore a bronze breastplate so untarnished and free of dents that Gromph was willing to bet it was magical. He carried a greataxe whose double-bladed head swirled with ghostly patterns—likely the trapped souls of those it had slain, or so Gromph guessed.
The gray dwarf didn’t have his head tilted up to speak to the illithid but kept his eyes level with the mind flayer’s waist. The gray dwarf ’s gaze occasionally creeped down to the sphere, and he gestured repeatedly at Tier Breche.
Glancing up, Gromph could see the illithid’s tentacles ripple as it shook its head. The gray dwarf, who obviously thought he was addressing another duergar, pointed at the sphere.
With a suddenness that surprised Gromph, the illithid bent over the dwarf. Its four tentacles lashed out, wrapping themselves around the duergar’s face. The dwarf flailed with his axe, but the illithid had a
nticipated that move and countered it with magic. The dwarf ’s body went suddenly rigid, the axe poised above his head. Tentacles flexed, and the duergar’s head split open like a ripe fungus ball. One of the tentacles relaxed, and, while the remaining three held the head in a vicelike grip, it began scooping pinkish gobs of brain into the illithid’s mouth. Gromph, sickened by the sight, turned his face away from the glass.
The other duergar turned, shocked looks on their faces. One or two reached for their weapons, took a look at the illithid’s blank white eyes, then all of them suddenly relaxed. Gromph could only imagine how easy it was for the illithid to cloud the simple minds of a gang of duergar soldiers. He wondered what the duergar saw when they looked at the illithid—one of their own, most likely—and they were compelled not to think about their dead officer, his broken skull, or his half-eaten brain. One by one, the magic-addled gray dwarves simply went back to what they had been doing.
Finished with its meal, the illithid plucked the axe from the dwarf ’s hand, then let the body drop.
Now, it said, you will tell me how to enter Sorcere.
Gromph eyed the greataxe. It was obvious that the illithid cared less about the war than it did about personal gain.
You want magic, Gromph sent to the illithid.
Yes, the mind flayer replied.
You want to get inside Sorcere before the duergar do.
The illithid’s next thought was more tentative, as if it was admitting a guilty secret.
Yes, it said.
Gromph smiled and replied, You want to know if there’s a back door into Sorcere, but if you try to get that information from me by force, it will take too long. By the time you find it, the duergar will be inside. You’ll be left with whatever scraps they don’t destroy or loot for themselves. But I can offer another alternative. Help me to get free of this sphere, and I’ll reward you well. I’ll willingly give you the magic you crave.
What magic?
In my centuries of experimentation, I have developed powerful spells that other mages and wizards have yet to even imagine.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 13