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

by Lisa Smedman; Phillip Athans; Paul S. Kemp

  Drawing Splitter, Ryld crept forward, studying the ground. The hole sloped down into the earth at a gentle angle. Scuffs in the snow showed where Halisstra had placed her feet on the slope, but the droplets ended at the hole’s edge. Whatever had led her to the hole hadn’t gone inside.

  Squatting at the edge of the hole, the weapons master used the point of his sword to prod the debris that had been thrown up around it. The soil was frozen solid. The pit had been created some time ago.

  Cocking an ear to the hole, Ryld listened, but if Halisstra was moving around down in the black depths it was impossible to hear her above the moan of the wind. Snow had started to fall again. The flakes landed feather-light upon his head, then melted, sending trickles of icy water down his neck. His breastplate was cold even through the padded tunic he wore and his vambraces creaked each time he moved his arms. At least the tunnel would provide shelter from the wind and snow.

  Clambering over the lip of the hole, Ryld cautiously descended the slope. Frost on the floor of the tunnel made the footing tricky for the first dozen paces or so, but after that it widened out, and the floor was clear. As his eyesight adjusted to the darkness inside, he saw that the tunnel forked. One path led off to the left, another straight down.

  Knowing that Halisstra’s only means of levitating had been her brooch, Ryld chose the left fork. He was relieved to see, after a pace or two, six pebbles that had been set on the ground to form a triangle, pointing out of the tunnel. Halisstra had indeed gone that way—and she’d left a marker to guide herself back out.

  Ryld walked briskly for some time, following a more or less horizontal course for some distance but not in a straight line. Instead the tube snaked back and forth in a series of wide, gentle turns, often doubling back over itself again. At each of those junctions Ryld paused and searched carefully and found a triangle of pebbles. Thanks to Halisstra’s marks he was able to make good time.

  Eventually the cave veered off in a fairly straight line for nearly a thousand paces, only to abruptly bend downward at a steep angle. There, Ryld paused. He’d been trying to decide what would have created such a sinuously curved tunnel. He’d once seen Pharaun use a spell to bore a path through stone, but the end result had been lance-straight and oval, with walls whose stone looked highly polished. The tunnel he’d followed Halisstra into was round, and rougher, with occasional jaggededged niches that looked like something had taken a bite out of the wall, and its floor was littered with patches of loose stone. Bending to examine one of those, Ryld saw that the stones were rounded, like river stones, but pitted. Mixed in with them were fragments of metal—scraps of armor from the battlefield above—that looked as if they had been tumbled in a stone-polishing drum filled with acid instead of water. The edges of the metal were smooth, yet the metal itself was deeply pitted and crumbled when Ryld stepped on it.

  Ryld stood again and tightened his grip on Splitter. The cave hadn’t been created by magic; it had been bored through the rock by a living creature.

  He’d been praying that it was an ancient pathway, and not freshly made, but the lingering smell of acid in the air told him otherwise. The fact that the odor was getting stronger the farther along he went didn’t bode well. And if he was right in his guess about what kind of creature had made the tunnel, Halisstra shouldn’t have been facing it alone.

  Cautiously, Ryld picked his way down the slope ahead. He moved slowly at first, aware that any tiny avalanche of stone caused by a misstep could alert the creature below to his presence, but halfway down his ears caught a faint noise: the sound of a woman singing. His heartbeat quickened as he recognized the voice as Halisstra’s. She was casting one of her bardic spells—but why? Was it merely in preparation for what was to come, or was she already under attack? Grimly, he hurried forward, not caring that his feet were skidding on the ever-steepening slope.

  Ahead, the bottom of the tunnel opened into a larger space, a cavern that looked as though it had been formed by the tunnel coiling back upon itself several times in succession as the creature created a nest for itself. The patch of floor that Ryld could see was dotted with puddles, and the acid smell was strong.

  Moments later, he neared the bottom of the slope and saw that his guess had been correct. At the far end of the cavern was an enormous purple worm, larger even than Ryld had expected—perhaps thirty paces long. It was coiled like a snake, its head lifted and mouth gaping wide, acid dripping between teeth the size of daggers. Halisstra stood just in front of it with her back to Ryld, songsword in hand, staring the monster down. The charm spell she was singing seemed to be working. The worm swayed in time with the tune, its tiny eyes fixed and staring. Ryld felt a fierce admiration. Halisstra was the epitome of a drow female: strong and fearless, capable of handling any threat.

  Wary of disturbing her magic, Ryld halted at the bottom of the slope. He managed to do so without making any noise, but when he stepped forward into the room his ankle twisted as an acid-weakened stone crumbled underfoot. His foot slipped into a puddle of fresh acid—fortunately, his boot leather protected him—but the slight splash alerted Halisstra to the fact that she was no longer alone in the cavern. Her head jerked quickly around—just long enough to see who it was—and a startled look passed across her face. All the while she continued to sing without pause, but the momentary loss of eye contact with the purple worm broke the spell. Whipping its head from side to side, sending acidic spittle flying in all directions, it shook off the effects of the charm spell. Then it struck.

  Lunging downward, mouth gaping wide, the worm descended on Halisstra. She barely had time to lift her sword and thrust upward with it as her head and shoulders disappeared into the worm’s mouth.

  Ryld leaped forward, shouting to draw the creature’s attention. He saw the broken point of the songsword thrust jaggedly out at an angle through the worm’s cheek, just below one eye, but the creature seemed unaffected by the wound. Even though Ryld ran forward with all the speed his magical boots were capable of, the worm was quicker. Like a curtain falling the mouth continued to descend upon Halisstra, engulfing her to the chest, waist, and knees. Then the terrible purple-black jaws struck the ground on either side of Halisstra’s boots—and clamped shut.

  Ryld closed with the creature a heartbeat later. He swung Splitter with all of the strength his sinewy arms could muster, intending to cut off the monster’s head, but in that instant he heard Halisstra’s muffled scream from inside the worm’s gullet and saw a bulge moving down its throat. Worried that he would slice Halisstra in two as well, he twisted the sword aside in mid-swing. The blade struck a coil of the worm, cutting deeply into its purple hide and exposing the pinker flesh beneath.

  The worm writhed in agony, uncoiling with such swiftness that it crashed into Ryld, hurling him backward. Anyone other than a master of Melee-Magthere would have been knocked flat, but Ryld had been trained to keep his footing. One of the first things he’d learned as a novice was how to roll his body with a blow and use feet, knees, and elbows to spring upright again.

  As the worm continued to thrash he rolled nimbly back, then leaped forward again to strike a second blow in another portion of the worm’s body. As the monster’s head whipped around in an attempt to bite him, Ryld did the unexpected. He leaped backward, and levitated.

  The worm’s mouth crashed down into the spot where Ryld had been standing, teeth splintering on the stone floor. An instant later the head reared up again, mouth gaping as it lunged upward. Instantly negating his levitation magic, Ryld plummeted to the ground, landing lightly on bent legs and bounding aside. That brief glimpse into the worm’s mouth and throat—which were empty—told him that his fears had been realized.

  The monster had swallowed Halisstra whole.

  Rage seized him then, stronger and fiercer than any battle had ever provoked before. He found himself howling in an anguished voice, eyes hot with tears.

  “Halisstra!” he cried.

  Rushing forward, he slashed at the worm�
�s throat. If only he could kill it quickly, there might still be time to cut Halisstra free before the worm’s digestive acids killed her—she would be disfigured, but she would live. And that was all that mattered.

  Howling with each sword stroke, Ryld slashed deep rents in the worm’s body. The creature had enough intelligence— instinct at least—to jerk its head and neck back, keeping them out of range of the sword, but with each fresh wound to its side it slowed. Encouraged, Ryld pressed his attack home, aware that each passing moment was lessening Halisstra’s chances. Stupidly, the worm lowered its head, giving Ryld a clear swing at its throat. Moving forward, he obliged it—then realized a heartbeat later that it had been a clever feint.

  Even as Ryld leaped in to attack, the worm whipped its tail forward, revealing a stinger in its tail that Ryld hadn’t seen before. The stinger glanced off the bottom of Ryld’s breastplate and plunged into his stomach with the force of a knife blow, burying itself in his gut. Nearly blinded by the sudden rush of pain, he flailed backward, pulling himself free of the deadly barb. For two or three staggering steps he managed to hang onto Splitter, but with the pain of the wound came a rush of agony that felt like fire, sweeping in an instant from his wounded gut to the tips of his fingers and toes. In that terrible moment, Ryld knew that he had been poisoned. Suddenly too weak to hold his greatsword, he let it fall.

  He heard the clank of metal striking stone dimly, through ears filled with the sound of a labored, pounding heart. The pain was as intense as if someone had filled his gut with boiling water. He crashed to the ground, barely managing to break his fall with one outstretched arm. Clenching his stomach with his other hand he slowly forced his head up, intending to look the worm in the eye before it swallowed him whole.

  At least, he thought as the poison pounded in his temples, he would pay with his own life for having caused Halisstra to lose hers. He would die beside her—a slow, painful death was exactly what he deserved.

  To his surprise, he saw that the worm was not pressing its attack but had drawn back against the far wall. He must have wounded it more grievously than he’d thought. Then, to his horror, he saw a bulge form in the worm’s side—and disappear. A bulge that could only have been made by a creature moving inside it.

  Halisstra! She was still alive!

  He saw that the tip of the songsword was still protruding from the worm’s cheek and he realized she had nothing to save herself with.

  Ryld tried to rise, tried feebly to reach for Splitter, but found that his body no longer obeyed his will. Each breath

  only increased the roiling agony in his gut, and the air around him seemed to have become tinged with gray. The arm he was using to support himself collapsed, and the floor rushed up to strike his face. The stone, he noticed dully, felt cool against his burning cheek.

  chapter

  thirty one

  Pharaun peered in the direction Valas was pointing and at last saw what had prompted the mercenary’s warning. Far across the Lake of Shadows, a storm was churning the surface. The water twisted in an enormous circle, as if flowing down a drain. Above the whirlpool was a waterspout that must have been a hundred paces high. The top of it bobbed up and down against the ceiling, scattering clouds of bats with each touch.

  The storm was still some distance away but was approaching rapidly. Pharaun measured its progress as it passed through one of the beams of sunlight, and estimated its advance at the speed of a riding lizard running full out. Already he could hear the low rush of spinning water. That the storm was magical he had no doubt. Had it always been there—or had something triggered it? Their use of the portal, perhaps?

  The others had spotted it as well. Quenthel stared at the storm with a clenched jaw, the serpents at her hip softly swaying. Jeggred turned his head from side to side, sniffing the humid air. Danifae took one look at the storm, then glanced out of the corner of her eye at Quenthel, Valas, and Jeggred in turn. Pharaun noted where those glances lingered: on the amulets each wore that would allow them to either levitate up through one of the holes in the cavern ceiling or—in Valas’s case—step through the dimensions to escape the storm.

  Catching her eye, Pharaun held his hand up in a reassuring gesture and signed, Wait.

  Then he turned to Valas and asked, “Did the rogue who told you about the portal mention anything about this?”

  Valas shook his head. “He didn’t linger here. As soon as he reached the cavern he levitated straight up and out.” As he spoke he glanced up at the nearest of the sunlight-limned holes in the ceiling as if measuring the distance to it. Then he gave a resigned sigh and stared grimly at the approaching storm.

  Quenthel, meanwhile, had turned her attention to the wand Danifae had recovered from the treasure vault and was experimenting with different command words. Jeggred, crouching beside her, pawed at her sleeve and muttered something—and received a backhanded slap for disturbing his mistress. The draegloth prostrated himself at her feet, whimpering his apologies. Quenthel ignored him and continued to try to find the wand’s command word.

  Pharaun rolled his eyes. At the moment, the storm was a more pressing problem than trying to find the ship of chaos, but Quenthel’s muttering was getting on his nerves.

  “It’s probably a word in the duergar tongue,” he told her. “Try ‘treasure,’ or ‘seek’ or something like that. And turn the wand around—you have to hold the forked end for it to work.”

  Quenthel’s serpents hissed with irritation, but she did as he suggested, turning the wand and switching to the guttural tongue of the duergar. Meanwhile, the storm whirled ever closer. The sound of it had grown loud enough that they had to raise their voices slightly, and its breeze stirred Pharaun’s hair.

  Danifae shifted nervously.

  “If we’re still here when the storm hits, we’ll be smashed against the rocks,” she said.

  “Or drowned,” Valas muttered, glancing below at the waves that were already starting to lap against the bottom of the cliff.

  “You’re forgetting my teleport spell,” he told them. “One quick incantation, and we’ll be back in the World Above. The only question is, where to go?”

  Valas squinted against the swirl of mist that was starting to strike the ledge.

  “In a few moments,” the scout said, “anywhere is going to be better than here.”

  Beside him, Quenthel gave a gasp of satisfaction as the wand came to life in her hands. The end of it trembled and jerked back and forth like the head of a lizard that smelled blood, and a loud whine filled the air. As Quenthel moved the wand in a wide, horizontal arc the whining noise rose, then fell—then rose again as she swung the wand so that it pointed at the waterspout.

  As the storm grew nearer, filling the air with a spray of water and an even louder roar, she shouted exultantly, “There! The ship of chaos is inside the whirlpool!”

  Pharaun squinted at the storm.

  “Yes,” he told Quenthel. “I can see it now.”

  And there really was something there—a dim, dark shape at the eye of the storm. For once, the high priestess seemed to have gotten something right. Belshazu had told them the ship was lost in a “terrible storm” and they were looking at just that—a storm that had raged for centuries.

  The ship of chaos might have been whole when the surviving demon swam away from it, but after centuries of being buffeted by wind and water it seemed unlikely that it would still be intact. The storm had yet to hit them fully, but already the wind of it was tearing at Pharaun’s piwafwi and pelting him with spray. Just being at the outer edge of the storm was like being struck, repeatedly, by water thrown from a bucket. Pharaun pulled his piwafwi tighter around him, making sure it covered the backpack in which his spellbooks were stored.

  “We’ve got to get a look inside that whirlpool,” Quenthel shouted, oblivious to the drops of water striking her face.

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Pharaun asked. “Dig our claws into the rock and hang on, as Jeggred’s doin
g, then dive into the eye of the storm?”

  To his surprise, Quenthel nodded vigorously.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Valas can do it.”

  The mercenary’s eyes widened.

  “Dispel your polymorph spell,” Quenthel shouted back. “Valas can swim into the whirlpool and take a look.”

  Valas’s eyebrows rose even higher.

  “Swim?” he protested, staring at the violently spiraling water. “Through that?”

  He folded his arms across his chest, ignoring the angry twitching of Quenthel’s serpents as she drew her whip. His eyes—which for once he did not lower under her glare—said it all. He’d rather die by her lash than embark on such a suicidal mission.

  Danifae, meanwhile, gripped Pharaun’s arm.

  “We’re wasting time,” she whispered. “Leave these fools behind. Cast your teleportation spell.”

  Pharaun plucked her hand free—earning a wrathful glare from the battle-captive—and he reached into a pocket of his piwafwi. Pulling out his last pinch of seeds, he held them tightly between thumb and forefinger, wary lest the storm pluck them away. Squeezing past the others, he walked to one end of the narrow ledge to a spot he judged to be well beyond the portal.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he told them all.

  Releasing the seeds, he barked out the words of his spell and stabbed a finger toward the rock. A tunnel opened in the wall—at an angle, running in the direction the wind had carried his seeds. Stepping inside it, he motioned for the others to join him.

  They needed no urging. The storm was upon them, whipping their hair and piwafwis and soaking them with sheets of water. Stumbling along the slippery ledge, they hurried inside, Quenthel and Jeggred shoving their way past Danifae and causing her to slip on the bat guano that had been soaked by the storm. Pharaun reached out to steady her, but Valas was quicker. Grabbing Danifae’s arm, he shoved her forward into the tunnel.