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

by Lisa Smedman; Phillip Athans; Paul S. Kemp

  Pharaun tried to convey his apologies in a glance, but Danifae ignored him. Sighing, he waved the others to the back of the tunnel, then pulled out his cone of glass. Pointing it at the open mouth of the tunnel, he hurriedly cast a second spell. A blast of bitterly cold air erupted from the glass cone, turning the water that was spraying into the tunnel into pellets of hail. A sheet of water crashed full-on into the ledge outside—and was instantly turned to solid ice, sealing the tunnel. Pharaun held the spell for a moment or two longer, until the ice wall had thickened sufficiently, then he lowered his hand.

  Turning to Quenthel, he bowed, then swept a hand in the direction of the plug of ice.

  “Won’t you step up to the viewing platform, Mistress?” he asked. “I’m sure the ship of chaos will be along directly.”

  Quenthel stared at him for a long moment as if trying to decide whether or not she was being mocked. Her whip vipers snapped at each other, then relaxed. Nose in the air, Quenthel strode past Pharaun and stared out through the ice, leaning this way and that as she tried to see beyond the water that crashed against the other side of it. The air inside the tunnel was bitterly cold, and her breath misted in the air. She shivered in her wet clothes. Even so, the high priestess peered with rapt attention—then stiffened.

  At that, the others crowded forward. Even Jeggred loped up to crouch and peer out past his mistress’s legs.

  “That figure,” Quenthel gasped. “What is it?”

  Pharaun leaned forward for a better look. The wall of ice he was staring through was half as thick as his forearm was long, and beyond it was the waterspout, several paces thick at that point and filled with whirling spray. Dimly, at the very eye of the storm, he could see a twisting shape. It was proportioned like a drow, with head, arms, and legs, but twice the height of the tallest female and with a whiplike tail. It appeared to be naked, its skin a pale gray. Pharaun thought it was flailing against the wind, raking the air around it with wide sweeps of its claws, but then he realized that it was spinning in place. The creature itself wasn’t moving—not a muscle. It looked as though it had been rendered immobile by magic, by a spell that must have been cast centuries before.

  Beside him, Danifae gasped.

  “The uridezu,” the battle-captive whispered.

  Pharaun nodded.

  “And the ship!” Valas exclaimed, standing on tiptoes to peer down over the lip of the ledge outside and pointing.

  Pharaun looked down at the point where the waterspout met the whirlpool. The ship was indeed there, its hull stuck fast in the water that formed the inner wall of the whirlpool and its masts angled in toward the eye of the storm. It was difficult to make out details through the wall of ice and the spray whipping horizontally past outside, but Pharaun could see enough to confirm that it must, indeed, be the ship of chaos.

  The hull was bone-white in color, as were the three masts, from which hung tattered sails.

  Quenthel laughed, shattering the tense silence.

  “I’ve done it!” she said. “The ship of chaos is mine.” Abruptly, she turned to Pharaun. “Prepare a binding spell.”

  “The demon already appears to be ‘bound,’ ” observed Pharaun, nodding at the scene outside the ice wall. “Albeit not in the conventional manner. My guess is that it was caught in a temporal stasis spell—a powerful one that I’ll have to break once I’ve imposed a binding of my own. And there’s the little problem of the storm.”

  Quenthel flicked wet hair out of her face, then glowered down the ship of chaos, still whipping around in circles in the whirlpool.

  “We’re not teleporting away,” she told him, a dangerous light in her eye. “Not now, when we’re so close.”

  “No,” Pharaun sighed. “I suppose not. But to be quite frank, I’m not sure what to do next. The storm’s obviously magical. If a spell created it, the incantation was powerful—and permanent. Even I couldn’t control that volume of water—which means any spell I cast won’t be powerful enough to dispel the storm.”

  Valas scratched his head, then said in a thoughtful voice, “Could we sail the ship out of the storm?”

  “Possibly,” Pharaun said, thinking aloud. “Or rather, the uridezu could. But assuming I’m able to dispel the magic that froze the demon in time there’s still the matter of binding it to my will.”

  “That’s easy,” Quenthel spat. “Just pull the demon out with one of your grasping-hand spells.”

  Pharaun sighed. The spell Quenthel had mentioned was unnecessary. The binding spell itself would draw the demon to the deck. The problem lay in the ship itself. Pharaun had pictured it wrecked on shore or perhaps resting quietly at the bottom of the lake—not half awash and buffeted by spray and wind. Drawing a pentagram on the deck of the ship would be an impossible task.

  There was an alternative to using a magic diagram, but it presented its own problems. He could render the demon’s image in miniature, either on vellum or in the form of a statuette. The latter could easily be done—he had wax and an opal in his enchanted pockets—but as soon as he placed the statuette on the deck, one sweep of a wave would wash it overboard. And how, in the name of the silent Spider Queen, was he going to come up with a length of chain?

  Then he remembered the amulet that had protected Valas from the wraiths. Its chain—having faded to the color of lead, a most suitable material indeed—still hung around his neck.

  Pharaun nodded at the amulet and said, “I believe I’m correct, Valas, in assuming your amulet is no longer functional?”

  Valas gave Pharaun a wary frown but nodded.

  “May I have the chain it’s hung on?” Pharaun asked, holding out a hand.

  Valas complied—taking care to keep the amulet hidden inside his tunic as he slid it off the chain. Pharaun could guess why. Judging by its sun shape, it had been created by surface elves. And not just any surface elves, but those who worshiped Labelas Enoreth, Lord of Longevity. If Quenthel saw the mercenary wearing it, her fury would be unbounded. She’d rather have lost a valuable ally to the wraiths than admit that an amulet created by “sunspit” was anything other than an abomination.

  As Valas handed Pharaun the chain, Danifae leaned closer to the wall of ice, her breath fogging in the chilled air.

  “Careful,” Pharaun cautioned. “Don’t touch the ice with your tongue.”

  She gave him a disdainful look, then indicated the storm outside with a jerk of her chin.

  “If you’re going to try to bind the demon, you’d better get started,” she told him. “The whirlpool is starting to move away.”

  Nodding, Pharaun squatted and began his preparations. From the pockets of his piwafwi he took a lump of beeswax he’d picked up in Menzoberranzan, months before, from a trader from the World Above; and a black opal the size of his little fingernail, shot through with veins of red. He warmed the beeswax by working it with his hands, then he sculpted the softened lump, modeling the arms, legs, tail, and snout of an uridezu demon. The statuette was crude, but it would suffice. Slicing open its chest with a fingernail, Pharaun pushed the opal inside, then pinched the wound shut. He wrapped Valas’s chain around one of the statuette’s legs, securing it there by joining two links together.

  “There,” he said, nodding in satisfaction at the chain that bit slightly into the wax statuette’s ankle. “That should hold him long enough to get us to the Abyss.”

  chapter

  thirty two

  As the worm’s mouth closed around her, Halisstra squeezed her eyes shut. She gasped as a wave of acid splattered against the exposed portions of her body—her face, neck, and hands—then regretted it as the stench of acid filled her nostrils. Rivulets of agony trickled through her hair and down her neck, searing her chest and back as they found their way under her chain mail and padded tunic.

  Clinging to the hilt of the songsword, she twisted violently against the rippling, sucking force of the worm trying to swallow her down. She managed to get her feet braced against the worm’s lower jaw, but whe
n she tried to lever the mouth open her boots slipped. The worm swallowed her, wrenching her hands away from the hilt of the sword.

  As the worm’s throat muscles constricted, forcing her down its throat, Halisstra began to pray. To open her burning lips

  would mean swallowing acid, which would further increase her torment, so she prayed silently, fervently, begging Eilistraee to help her. Despite the fact that she could feel her skin erupting into blisters, she didn’t attempt a curative spell—that would only delay the inevitable—instead she pleaded for something that would help her to escape.

  The worm thrashed back and forth, bending Halisstra violently this way and that. She heard dull, muffled thuds that must have been Ryld hacking at the worm with his sword, but then the creature twisted suddenly and they stopped. The motion forced the air from Halisstra’s lungs—and she dared not try to inhale. Instead she forced her hand down, scraping it against her acid-slimed chain mail to touch the amulet hanging from her belt, next to her empty sheath.

  Eilistraee , she prayed. Help me. Send me a weapon. Something nudged against her hand—something hard and smooth. Grasping it, Halisstra realized it was the hilt of a sword—obviously the weapon of some other unfortunate victim of the worm. She wasted no time in using what the goddess had provided. Forcing her elbow back against the pulsing wall of the worm’s gut, she brought the point of the weapon to bear and felt it slide into the worm’s flesh. Then she began to saw.

  Her entire body was covered in acid. The worm’s digestive juices had seeped under her armor and clothing and onto her skin. She could feel blisters erupting and could feel the acid flowing into the rupturing skin with each move that she made. Head pounding from a lack of air, she sawed desperately, her movements made short and jerky by the fact that the worm’s gut was pressing her arm against her side. Flashes of red danced before her eyes, but still she continued to saw. It was either that or die.

  The wall of gut in front of her ruptured. Riding a wave of acid, Halisstra fell through the wound in the worm’s side, dropping the sword. She lay for a moment on the hard stone, drawing deep, shuddering breaths and watching the worm thrash itself across the cavern. The creature was wounded in half a dozen places: deep gashes that had probably been made by Ryld’s greatsword. As the worm shuddered and at last died, Halisstra rolled feebly over, out of the puddle of acid.

  “Ryld,” she gasped, sighting him.

  As her pain-dulled mind registered that he was lying on his back on the cavern floor, she forced herself into a sitting position, nearly fainting at the pain of her heavy chain mail as it rubbed against her acid-burned flesh.

  “Ryld,” she said, her voice cracking. “Ryld!”

  The weapons master’s chest still rose and fell beneath the breastplate he wore, though the breaths were shallow. Just below the edge of his breastplate his tunic was torn—a round bloodstain told her that it was a puncture wound. The worm had injected him with its venom.

  He needed her magic—and quickly—but she could not aid him without first healing herself. Time was of the essence, so she used bae’qeshel magic, a darksong that would close her wounds. The worst of her pain was relieved—though it returned, in lesser form, a moment later as the acid that had soaked into her clothing began to eat at her skin again. As rapidly as she could, she stripped off her chain mail and pulled off her soggy tunic and boots. Her tunic came off easily, peeling away in wet, rotted chunks. As she stripped down, she noted that the spell had knitted her ruptured skin back together but had left a pattern of overlapping burn marks. Startled by the sight of them, she began to raise a hand to her face—then immediately dropped it as she heard Ryld softly moan. It was no time for vanity.

  Scrambling across the floor to him, she laid a hand over the site of his wound and felt a shudder pass through the flesh under the blood-soaked tunic. Closing her eyes, she chanted her prayer.

  Eilistraee, aid him. Slow the poison that rushes through his veins. Grant him just a little time, yet, to live.

  She lifted her free hand, imagining herself outside, under a clear sky, reaching up toward the moon. When she felt the familiar tingle of magic she swept her hand down, placing her palm upon the hand that still covered Ryld’s wound. She felt a rush of magical energy flow through her and into Ryld—energy as cool and as bright as the moon. As the last of it drained out of her she shivered, suddenly cold and exhausted.

  Halisstra knelt, anxiously watching Ryld’s slow, labored breathing, wondering if her spell had worked. Uluyara had been right—Halisstra had been mad to think she could find the Crescent Blade, when the combined efforts of Eilistraee’s faithful had failed. Halisstra wondered if the ghost that had led her to the worm hole had truly been Mathira Melarn. It seemed more likely that it was just some malevolent spirit seeking to lead others to experience the same gruesome death that it had. Stupidly, like a rothé being led to slaughter, she had followed the ghost to the edge of the worm hole, then entered, despite her realization that it would be a purple worm she’d be confronting and not a dragon after all. She had proceeded anyway, blind faith causing her to believe that the Crescent Blade would be inside the worm’s lair.

  If it was, she hadn’t seen it. In the moments before Ryld had startled her, breaking her spell, Halisstra had gotten a good look at the cavern floor. She’d even gotten the worm to shift this way and that, enabling her to search beneath it.

  She’d seen nothing.

  Sighing, she stared down at Ryld. In pursuing her quest, she’d come close to forfeiting her own life. That, she had no quarrel with. As a drow, and a former servant of Lolth, she was used to such sacrifices being demanded of her and all around her. The goddess consumed her followers like flies, then cast their empty husks away. But Halisstra had expected more of Eilistraee. A little mercy—if not for her, then for innocents like Ryld. She hadn’t expected her quest to cost him his life as well.

  Then she saw a slight change. Ryld’s face, which had been swiftly draining of color a few moment before, seemed slightly darker, less gray. She could see his breathing begin to steady, though it still sounded wet and tight. The spell had worked— there was still hope.

  “Eilistraee, forgive me,” she quickly whispered. “Forgive me for doubting your mercy.”

  Squatting, she hooked one hand under Ryld’s shoulders, the other under his hips, intending to carry him, if need be, all the way up to the surface, then back across the Cold Field to the nearest town. Eilistraee willing, she would be able to locate one of the priestesses—someone who knew a healing spell that would flush the poison completely from his body—before the poison-delaying spell she’d cast ran out.

  As she started to lift Ryld his eyes flickered open, startling her. He looked confused for a moment, but slowly recognition dawned.

  “Halisstra,” he croaked. “Is it really you?”

  At first Halisstra thought he was still groggy from the poison. Then she realized, from the way he was staring at her, that he truly did not recognize her. She touched her face and found it cratered with overlapping scars. Her hand trembling, she reached up still farther, and found that most of her hair had fallen out. Only a few ragged strands remained. The bae’qeshel magic had closed the wounds caused by her burns—but it had left her with terrible scars.

  She told herself not to worry about it—the priestesses would certainly have a spell that would smooth her skin and restore her hair. Getting Ryld back was the thing to concentrate on.

  “It is me, Ryld,” she told him. “Do you think you can walk? Otherwise I’ll have to carry you back across the Cold Field.”

  “I can walk . . . if you help me up,” he said. Then he looked around. “Splitter—where is it?”

  The poison having been slowed, Ryld struggled to his hands and knees—still shaky but looking stronger than he had just a moment before. Halisstra knew he would no sooner leave his enchanted greatsword behind than he would sacrifice an arm or a leg, but he was still weak.

  “I’ll find it,” Halisstra
told him. “You stay here, and save your strength.”

  She approached the worm carefully, worried that it might not yet be dead. Its body was unmoving, however, coiled in a limp tangle. Easing its mouth open, she yanked Seyll’s songsword from its cheek and let the acid drain from the finger holes in the weapon’s hilt. Then she searched for Splitter.

  The greatsword lay close to the spot where Halisstra had hacked her way out of the worm’s belly, its hilt protruding from under a coil of the worm. She stooped and yanked it free—then spotted something lying half in and half out of the wound. It was the sword she’d used to cut herself free. Its blade was bright and untarnished—obviously magical, since it had been protected from the acid’s corrosive effects—and curved. Curved.

  Halisstra realized what weapon it must be.

  It was the Crescent Blade.

  Eyes wide with awe, ignoring the acid that was stinging the soles of her bare feet, she picked up the sword, then backed out of the pool of acid. The hilt should have been slippery with the worm’s digestive juices but its leather wrapping felt dry and clean—further evidence that it was a magical weapon. Silver had been inlaid along the length of the blade, giving the metal its sheen. The inlay spelled out words in the drow tongue that began to glow slightly as Halisstra held the sword.

  Ryld, rising unsteadily on his feet, moved closer to take a look as Halisstra read the inscription.

  “ ‘Be your heart filled with light and your cause be true, I shall not fail you,’ ” she recited. Her brows puckered in a doubtful frown. “Even in the Abyss?” she whispered.

  When she looked up, she saw Ryld staring at her.

  “So that’s why you wanted the Crescent Blade,” he said softly. “To try to kill Lolth?” He shook his head. “That’s something even Vhaeraun failed to do. How can you hope to succeed where a god has failed?”

  “I don’t know,” Halisstra answered honestly.

  Part of her felt manipulated—despite nearly being devoured by the worm, it felt as though the Crescent Blade had just fallen into her hands. That made her wary, uneasy. But at the same time, another part of her felt elation. She might be no more than a piece on a sava board, being moved this way and that by an unseen hand, but that hand belonged to a goddess. Eilistraee, for good or ill, had taken a personal interest in her—something Lolth had never done. The thought filled Halisstra with a heady pride.