R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection

by Lisa Smedman; Phillip Athans; Paul S. Kemp

  Of course it was your idea, Hsiv soothed.

  We are but your servants, added Yngoth.

  You are a priestess of the great Spider Queen, and we bow to your wisdom in all things, Zinda said.

  Quenthel nodded and absently stroked the largest viper’s head.

  K’Sothra twisted around to look at Hsiv and said, But she—

  Silence, the elder viper interrupted.

  Yes, silence, Quenthel snapped, her irritation rising to the surface once more. I can barely hear myself think, with all of you talking at once.

  She squeezed the rest of the way into the cavern, Jeggred following close behind.

  “I did discover the location of the ship of chaos,” she told Pharaun and the others. “It went down in the Lake of Shadows.” She turned to Valas and asked, “I assume you’ve heard of this lake?”

  The Bregan D’aerthe scout chewed a moment—annoying Quenthel, who was used to more prompt answers. Her hand fell to the handle of her whip, and she was just about to draw it and threaten to flog an answer out of him when he stood, wiping the last crumbs of fungus loaf from his mouth. Why couldn’t he be like Danifae who, she was pleased to see, had scurried back a pace or two? The lesser priestess was suitably cowed by the vipers, which were nearly spitting in anticipation of tasting flesh once more.

  “It’s a large lake,” the scout continued, obviously sensing the high priestess’s impatience, “about the same size as Lake Thoroot. The two are connected by an underground river.”

  “Flowing in which direction?” Quenthel asked.

  “Toward Lake Thoroot, from the northwest.”

  “How far?” asked Pharaun.

  “About the same distance away as the Fireflow,” Valas said, and Pharaun’s eyes lit with recognition. “By surface and tunnel, that’s about a tenday’s march from here. The river might be longer, especially moving upstream.”

  Quenthel nodded, pleased to see they were getting somewhere at last.

  Turning to Pharaun, she said, “We’ll set out for the Lake of Shadows at once. Prepare your water-breathing spells.”

  Pharaun’s eyebrows rose and he asked, “You intend that we swim there?”

  “Of course,” Quenthel said.

  “That won’t work.”

  Quenthel squeezed her whip handle so tightly the serpents spat venom.

  “Why not?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “For one thing, if we use an underwater route, the aboleth will follow us,” Pharaun said. “We’re too tasty a treat to let go, and we’d end up fighting them all the way. For another, as our able scout mentioned, if the connecting river flows from the Lake of Shadows to Lake Thoroot, we’ll be swimming against the current. That could make the journey much longer than a tenday, and there will be no place for me to stop and re-study my spell along the way. When its magic runs out, we’ll all drown.”

  Quenthel was furious—but even through her rage, she could see that the mage was right.

  Why didn’t you think of this? she thought furiously at her whip vipers.

  A hissing match ensued, in which each of the vipers berated the other four for not realizing something so obvious.

  At last, Hsiv answered. Our apologies, Mistress. It will not happen again.

  Valas cleared his throat and said, “There is more than one approach to the Lake of Shadows. Chosing the wrong one, farther from the ship, could cost us days . . . even tendays. Did Oothoon mention anything else about the ship of chaos, Mistress? Anything that might help me to find it in such a large body of water?”

  Quenthel, still glaring at Pharaun, started to shake her head. Then she remembered a passing comment the aboleth matriarch had made.

  “Only one thing,” she said, “that the air above the lake was thick with bats. That’s what gave the lake its name . . . the shadows they make against the cavern ceiling.”

  “That’s not the only reason, Mistress. There are . . . oddities there,” Valas said. “It’s said to be a gateway of sorts to the Plane of Shadow. Anyway, I know where the Lake of Shadows is, and I know of two different ways to reach it that are reasonably safe.”

  Finally, Quenthel thought then asked, “What are they?”

  “The lake is connected to the surface by natural chimneys in the rock—that part of the Surface Realms that lies just above it is known for the bats that fly out of the holes in a cloud every night. We could descend through one of the chimneys—but that would mean climbing up to the World Above again and traveling through the forest.”

  Quenthel considered that—briefly. She wasn’t about to subject herself to a cold, snowy trudge through bright sunlight again.

  “We’re not going back to the surface,” she decided.

  That’s wise, Hsiv’s voice breathed in her ear. House Jaelre’s warriors will still be looking for us.

  “We want to avoid House Jaelre’s warriors,” Quenthel explained to Valas. “They either killed or captured Ryld Argith, the best warrior we had. We don’t want to lose anyone else.”

  Valas’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Quenthel wondered if he was silently questioning her order. To remind him of his place, she drew her whip—but held it by her side.

  Ha! K’Sothra chortled. That pricked his pride.

  Valas glanced at the vipers.

  “As you command, Mistress,” he acquiesced. “We’ll keep to the Underdark. But that leaves only one other means of reaching the Lake of Shadows—and it’s a dangerous one.”

  “Go on,” Quenthel prompted.

  “There is an ancient portal that gives access to a lake. It’s a march of about four cycles from here, northward through a series of connecting tunnels and caverns. The portal was constructed centuries ago, but I have heard from a reliable source that its magic is still active. Reaching it, however, might prove difficult.”

  Quenthel nodded, unperturbed by Valas’s grim tone. Everything in life was difficult—only those who rose above difficulties were worthy of Lolth’s favors.

  “We’ll make for the portal,” she told the mercenary. “Pack your things, everyone. We’ll set out at once.”

  “This portal,” Pharaun said slowly. “What makes it so difficult to reach?”

  “It lies directly under the ruins of Myth Drannor.” Valas said nothing more, as if that was explanation enough.

  “Myth Drannor?” Pharaun groaned. “Not again. I have no desire to stare down a beholder a second time.”

  “We wouldn’t be facing a beholder, this time,” Valas said. “Which is probably just as well, since we don’t have our ‘best warrior’ here to dispatch it, like he did the last one.”

  “What would we be facing?” Pharaun asked.

  Valas muttered something too low for Quenthel to hear, but Pharaun’s reply was loud enough for her ears to catch.

  “Too bad our spiders have lost their venom,” he said, glancing at Quenthel and Danifae.

  Valas nodded gravely.

  Furious at the deliberate slight, Quenthel drew her whip. She snapped it, and the serpents hissed loudly, splattering venom on a stone floor that had been hastily vacated by Danifae.

  “You will address your answers to me,” she told Valas. “House Baenre has paid for your services, mercenary, not Sorcere.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mistress,” he said, bowing deeply and addressing her in a suitably chastised voice. “Ah . . . what was your question?”

  Pharaun turned abruptly away, suddenly interested in placing his spellbooks back into his pack.

  What creatures might we face? Hsiv prompted.

  Quiet! Quenthel thought back. I can ask my own questions. Then, out loud, she added, “What will we have to fight, this time?”

  Rising from his bow, Valas met her eye.

  “Wraiths,” he said. “Dozens of them.”

  That made Quenthel pause. Wraiths were dangerous creatures; shadowy, incorporeal. Their slightest touch could drain a living creature’s vitality in an instant, and even magical healing would not res
tore it. Those drained entirely by wraiths became undead themselves, rising as twisted caricatures of their former selves to feed on their own kind. Few ordinary drow had seen a wraith—let alone several dozen of the shadowy creatures—and survived to speak of it.

  And that was what Quenthel had been reduced to after all, an ordinary drow. Had Lolth not been silent, Quenthel could have used her magic to drive the creatures back from her, blowing them away like rags in a wind, but without it, she was as powerless against them as any other drow. The thought of facing several of the creatures without being able to turn them made her shiver.

  Then she reminded herself that the fate of the drow race hung in the balance. She had to find the ship of chaos—it offered her the only chance she had to reach the Abyss and find out what had happened to Lolth. And that meant reaching the Lake of Shadows. Then, once Lolth restored her magic to the drow, Quenthel could return to Menzoberranzan in triumph. She might, perhaps, even depose Triel and claim the throne of the most powerful House in the city.

  Yes, Hsiv thought. You were meant to rule. You must succeed.

  Ignoring him, Quenthel returned her attention to Valas.

  “Tell me more about the portal,” she ordered. “How do you know of it?”

  With a slight bow, Valas answered, “I heard about it from a rogue—an odd little fellow who hailed from Gracklstugh. He learned of a vault under Myth Drannor that supposedly had treasure the surface elves left behind during their Retreat. He found a way to get there through the Underdark, but the vault was empty—except for the wraiths. They killed his four companions and nearly killed him too, but he escaped by leaping into a portal. It led to a narrow ledge overlooking the Lake of Shadows. Fortunately, he wore a ring that allowed him to levitate out of the cavern—otherwise he’d be there still.”

  Quenthel listened, nodding.

  “Did any of the wraiths follow him through the portal?” she asked.

  “No. According to the rogue, it would admit only living creatures.”

  Quenthel thought a moment then asked, “Did he see anything that might have been the ship of chaos?”

  Valas shook his head and replied, “Nothing that he mentioned to me. But the Lake of Shadows is wide—as large across as Lake Thoroot—and deep. If the ship sank, there’d be nothing to see.”

  “This rogue told you there were ‘dozens’ of wraiths?” she asked.

  Valas nodded and said, “Those were his very words.”

  “An exaggeration, no doubt. What race was he?”

  Valas frowned.

  “The rogue?” he asked. “He claimed to be human, even though he was no taller than a duergar.”

  “Humans,” Quenthel snorted. “A cowardly race. There were probably less than half a dozen wraiths, all told. With Pharaun’s spells—and our magical weapons—we’ll easily be able to fight our way through.”

  Valas opened his mouth—perhaps to protest that even half a dozen wraiths were too many—but he closed it a moment later.

  Quenthel, meanwhile, took mental stock of the resources she had at hand. Valas, whose speed and stealth would allow him to get behind the wraiths and dispatch them with his magical daggers. Pharaun, with his arsenal of powerful protective spells. Jeggred, who would protect Quenthel at any cost, hurling himself headlong at the wraiths, if the need arose. And Danifae . . .

  Quenthel paused, considering. What good was the battlecaptive, really? Oh, she groveled sweetly when threatened and gave pleasure readily enough, but Quenthel sometimes noticed a look in Danifae’s eyes that she didn’t like. Not at all.

  Still, Danifae was a competent enough fighter, when she had to be. The morningstar she carried was no mere boy’s weapon. If it came to it, Danifae could be abandoned to the wraiths, if the need arose to sacrifice someone. Truth be told, Quenthel would rather be rid of Pharaun—though she had to admit that his expertise with demons was going to come in handy, once the ship of chaos was finally located.

  No, she’d have to make sure that Pharaun survived the encounter with the wraiths. Which meant making sure that if Danifae’s life was threatened, the mage didn’t try to defend her.

  “We’ll get by the wraiths,” Quenthel told the others. “We’ll reach the portal.” Then, silently, so only the serpents could hear, she added, Or at the very least, some of us will.

  chapter

  twenty four

  Gromph strode through one of the main corridors of Sorcere, followed closely by Kyorli, who scurried along behind him, and Prath, staggering under a load of spellbooks that Gromph had hastily assembled. Since the duergar had been driven back from Tier Breche, and the tunnel sealed, most of the students were heeding the call of their respective Houses. Apprentice mages ran this way and that down the corridor, arms laden with spellbooks and magical devices, bleating like a milling herd of rothé as walking chests scuttled along on spider legs behind them.

  As he hurried along, Gromph held a circle of copper wire close to his lips.

  “Wizards of House Baenre,” he called, speaking through the enchanted wire. “Attend me at once in the scrying chamber.”

  The wire hummed, sending a tingle through Gromph’s fingertips. Then it glowed a dull red and crumbled. Flicking flakes of copper from his fingers, Gromph pushed open the heavy double doors of the scrying chamber and stepped inside.

  Like the rest of Sorcere, the walls of the large, circular chamber were lined with lead sheeting and plastered with a stucco made from gorgon’s blood and spellstone dust. Runes had been embossed upon the surface and limned in gold to further prevent against unwanted intrusion or observation. No spellcaster, no matter how powerful, could teleport past them or probe the minds of the students and masters inside.

  It was possible, however, to see out from there, thanks to an enormous crystal ball that floated at the center of the room. Into the sphere had been magically bound one eye of the eagle that resided in a gilded cage just below the crystal sphere. As Gromph and Prath entered the room, the eagle flapped its wings and gave a screee of excitement, blinking its one remaining eye. The sphere above it turned, rotating to face the two drow. The eagle’s second eye, which filled the crystal ball from side to side, fixed them with a hungry stare.

  Or rather, it fixed upon Kyorli. Snapping its beak, the eagle screeed a second time and hurled itself against the bars of its cage. The rat, taunting it, sat back on her haunches no more than a pace from the cage and groomed her whiskers, ignoring the frenzied wing flapping of the eagle.

  Kyorli, stop it, Gromph ordered. Come here.

  Obeying the telepathic command, Kyorli dropped to all fours and scurried back to her master. Climbing swiftly up Gromph’s piwafwi, she settled herself on his shoulder, tickling his ear with her whiskers. Prath, meanwhile, stooped to place the spellbooks he’d been carrying on the floor.

  “The eagle is hungry,” Gromph told Prath. “Find it some raw meat—but don’t go slicing off any more fingertips. You’re going to need them.”

  Prath grinned.

  “I thought you might need more, Archmage” he said, reaching into one of the bags that was slung over his shoulder. “So I stopped by the kitchen on the way back from the components storeroom. The cook gave me this.”

  Pulling out a waxed rag, he unwrapped a fist-sized chunk of meat. At Gromph’s approving nod he held it up against the bars of the cage. The eagle tore into it greedily, ripping off bloody chunks with its hooked beak and eventually wrenching a large piece inside. It settled upon that portion, content, and soon reduced it to no more than a smear of blood on the bottom of the cage.

  Gromph, meanwhile, greeted the House Baenre wizards who straggled into the room, directing them to the circle of chairs that surrounded the cage and the crystal ball. He was pleased to see Julani, a Master of Evocation. His fellow instructor bowed, touching long, supple fingers against his chest. The next two to arrive were a pair of tenth-year students. Grendan was a handsome male with a natural flair for illusion. Gromph wondered how much of his good l
ooks were natural and how much had been augmented by magic—especially since the smell of singed hair still clung to him. Judging by the burns in the hood of his piwafwi, the student must have been splattered by one of the duergar’s incendiary missiles.

  His companion, Noori, was equally beautiful—naturally so—with arched eyebrows and white hair that cascaded past her shoulders in soft waves. She was high-born, a cousin to Gromph and Triel, but she had eschewed the worship of Lolth to enter Sorcere and study divination magic instead. Remembering that, Gromph wondered whether or not Noori might have had a premonition, so many years before, of Lolth’s demise. She certainly seemed to have been able to keep out of the way of any harm during the recent fighting. There wasn’t a mark on her—not even a soot smudge.

  The final mage to enter the room was Zoran, an irritating, second-year student who was continually making poor choices in class, using magic in frivolous, inappropriate ways. Gromph winced, seeing him—especially when he noted the wand of wonder in the boy’s belt. Zoran was tiny, even for a male, and had a receding chin, made more pronounced by the fact that his hair was pulled into a topknot at the crown of his head. He must have been injured in the recent battle. Gromph didn’t remember him walking with a limp before.

  As the four mages settled themselves into chairs, waiting quietly for his instruction, Gromph opened one of the scrying chamber doors and peered each way down the corridor. Seeing no one else, he slowly closed them.

  “Is this all?” he asked Julani. “Is there no one else from our House?”

  The Master of Evocation shook his head.

  “Only Nauzhror,” he said, “who sends his regrets. He was . . . too busy to attend. The rest are dead—or badly injured and removed to Arach-Tinilith for healing.”

  A slight tightening of Julani’s eyes told Gromph that he too knew how little “healing” there was left to go around.

  Gromph sighed. So few House Baenre mages left—and only one of them a master. Gromph cast a lock spell upon the doors, motioned Prath to also take a seat, then seated himself in the thronelike chair that controlled the crystal ball.