Pharaun’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the sly smirk in the demon’s eye. A wand of location was easy to recognize by its distinctive forked shape, but it was almost as if the demon wanted Quenthel to use it. Was there some additional property of the wand that Pharaun had missed—something the demon hoped to turn to its advantage?
“Just a moment, Quenthel,” Pharaun told her. “We’ll use my wand, instead.”
Reaching into the slender case that hung from his belt, he drew one of his four wands and waved it in a slow pass in front of him, level with the deck of the ship. A hatch that had been previously hidden by magic suddenly became visible, its edges limned with a faint purple glow. The ring-latch that would open it was recessed into the hatch itself, flush with the deck. Nodding, Pharaun tucked the wand back inside his case.
Quenthel chuckled and reached for the latch, then paused as her whip vipers hissed a warning. She glanced at Pharaun, parted her lips as if to speak, then decided against whatever order she’d been about to give.
Instead she turned to Jeggred and commanded, “Open it.”
Obediently, the draegloth bent forward.
“Jeggred, wait,” Pharaun barked.
He had no love for the draegloth, but Pharaun was still suspicious of the demon’s motives. Waving Jeggred back, the wizard motioned for the demon to open the hatch, instead. It was just within the demon’s reach. By straining, the uridezu was able to hook its fingers into the latch.
Be ready, Pharaun signed to the others behind the demon’s back, reaching for a different wand. Something’s going to come out.
He was right. As soon as the demon yanked open the hatch, a wave of rats scurried out, tittering and squeaking. And no ordinary rats but gaunt, half-rotted caricatures of life—a swarm of tiny undead.
With a speed born of long practice, Pharaun fired his wand. A lightning bolt exploded from it and careered along the deck, turning nearly a dozen of the creatures instantly to charred flesh and blackened bone.
Quenthel and Jeggred were equally quick to react. Quenthel lashed at the rats with quick flicks of her whip, and Jeggred batted whole handfuls of them away with powerful sweeps of his fighting arms.
Pharaun chuckled as he blasted the last of the swarm with his wand. Was that the best the demon could do—summon up a few undead rats?
The laughter died in his throat. He’d been expecting a complicated trick worthy of a sava master and had felt somewhat disappointed when the demon had done nothing more than send a swarm of undead rats against them. Then Pharaun realized the demon’s real plan—one so simple it had slipped under Pharaun’s guard. The undead rats’ attack on Pharaun, Quenthel, and Jeggred was just a diversion. All the demon needed was for a single rat to survive. That animal’s true target, as directed by the imperative telepathic commands of its demonic master, was the chain.
The soft lead chain.
An instant later the rat’s sharp teeth parted the chain, and the demon was free. Whirling in place, it lashed out with its tail once—knocking Jeggred headlong down the slanting deck, through the dome of force and out into the whirling sea—then again, sending Quenthel tumbling after him.
It turned to face Pharaun, whiskers quivering.
“Wizard,” it squeaked. “You are mine.”
Pharaun made no answer as his free hand plunged into his
pocket, whipping out a glove. As the demon bared its fangs, then leaped for his throat, Pharaun was silently thankful it had chosen a simple frontal attack, rather than to use its magic—it would give him the instant he needed to cast his spell.
Demons really were predictable.
Sometimes.
chapter
thirty four
As the mouth of the tunnel came into view, Ryld’s heart sank. Fresh snow lay ankle-deep on the slope that led up to the surface, and enormous flakes of white were falling into the tunnel so thickly it was impossible to see more than a few paces beyond the opening. How were he and Halisstra ever going to find their way across the Cold Field in that curtain of white? Without landmarks to guide them, they were likely to wander in circles until the cold finally claimed them.
Over and above that small problem, Ryld was already tiring. His House insignia allowed him to levitate, so that Halisstra could tow him through the air like a child’s floater, but the concentration required to sustain the brooch’s magic was wearying him. Allowing it to lapse, he sank gently to the ground and contemplated the snow falling into the tunnel.
Halisstra shivered, making him aware of just how woefully inadequate her clothes were to ward off winter’s bitter chill.
“Do you have any magic that will keep you warm?” Ryld asked.
She nodded and answered, “Eilistraee will grant me a spell that will help me resist the cold, but . . .”
“But what?” Ryld prompted.
Halisstra sighed and said, “It only lasts a short time. I’d have to recast it—several times—to keep warm all the way to the edge of the Cold Field. And that would mean not being able to recast the spell that’s keeping you alive.”
“Then leave me.”
The look Halisstra gave him needed no words.
“How long do I have?” he asked instead of arguing.
“The spell I cast on you should last the rest of the night, at least—until just after the sun rises,” she told him. “I’ll use my magic sparingly until then and count on the sun to keep me warm afterward. That should leave enough magic to slow the poison a second time. Let me know—immediately—if your pain worsens. The spell’s duration isn’t that precise. It could wear off suddenly, without warning. If the poison returns full force to your body, the shock could kill you. The fewer times I have to recast the spell, the better.”
Ryld nodded.
Halisstra shivered, then added, “Let’s get moving. I’ll be warmer if I’m walking.”
Once again Ryld levitated. Halisstra trudged up the slope and onto the open plain, boots squeaking in the fresh snow, towing him behind her, then she broke into a jog. After no more than a dozen steps Ryld was unable to see the worm hole behind them. Ahead lay a thick veil of falling snow that hid the landscape from sight. No stars or moon could be seen overhead. The sky was a solid, sullen gray. Thick flakes landed on the weapons master’s close-shaved scalp, melted, and froze again.
For a time, the rapid pace Halisstra set kept her warm. But by the time the snow had deepened to calf level, she was shivering. She pressed on until her teeth began to chatter, then at last she paused and whispered a quick prayer to Eilistraee, her breath fogging in the bitterly cold air. When it was done she breathed easier. Gradually her shivers subsided.
As she’d predicted, the soothing effects of the spell didn’t last long. Halisstra was able to continue for some time more, her jog slowed to a walk by the deepening snow, but then she began to shiver again. When she raised a hand to her lips, blowing on it, Ryld saw to his dismay that her fingertips had a grayish tinge. The surface elves had a word for it: frostbite. Ryld was coming to understand why they’d chosen such an odd term. His own fingers and toes—and the end of his nose—felt raw, as if invisible creatures were gnawing on them.
“That spell doesn’t last long enough,” he observed.
“No,” Halisstra agreed, her teeth starting to chatter again. “It doesn’t.”
Ryld squinted at the thickly falling snow that formed a curtain on every side. Though the sky was getting lighter, he could no longer see the battlefield debris that littered the ground due to the snow. A moment later, however, Halisstra’s boot crunched down onto a piece of frozen bone, snapping it, reminding him that they were still on the Cold Field.
“We’re not going to make it,” Ryld said. “Not without help.”
He paused as pain twisted his gut, making him gasp.
Halisstra’s eyes widened.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “It can’t be the spell ending—it’s too soon.”
Ryld allowed himself to sink to the grou
nd and stood for a time with his hands on his thighs, breathing away the pain. When he felt steady again, he answered her question.
“It’s the strain of levitating. I’m weak. Your spell delayed the poison, but by then the venom had already done a fair bit of damage, by the feel of it.” He nodded at the Crescent Blade strapped to her backpack. “I’m expendable, but you have a job to do. If you’re going to make it off this plain, you’ve got to save your magic for yourself. Leave me.”
Halisstra didn’t argue. She merely stared at Ryld, her eyes watering. Lips pressed in a tight line, she took his hand and squeezed it. He nodded at her, encouraging her, and she started to turn away.
Then she stopped.
“No,” she said, turning back to him again. “There must be a way. Let me think. There must be a spell I can use—something that will help me to move more quickly.”
Ryld nodded, staring dully at the falling snow. The flakes drifted straight down from the sky; there wasn’t a breath of wind. Strange, then, that patches of falling snow seemed to be swirling, taking vague shape and breaking apart again . . .
With a start, he realized what he was seeing.
Halisstra, he signed, not daring to speak out loud. Ghosts. We’re surrounded by them.
“We m-m-may be among them, s-s-soon enough,” Halisstra said through chattering teeth. “It’s nearly d-d-dawn. C-come closer s-so I can c-c-cast—”
Quiet, Ryld signed. They can hear you.
One of the ghosts had glanced briefly in their direction as Halisstra spoke. As it did, it seemed to solidify a bit. Ryld recognized it as a soldier, his face so smudged with soot it was almost as dark as Ryld’s own. The front of his wooden shield was burned nearly to charcoal. The ghost remained corporeal just long enough for Ryld to recognize the emblem on the back of its tunic—the tree of Lord Velar’s army—then it dissolved into a swirl amid the snowflakes.
Ryld could see dozens of the ghostly figures, moving in the same direction he and Halisstra had been. He caught only glimpses of them—like the first soldier, they seemed to be shifting between solid and mistlike form—but those glimpses were enough to tell him that it was an army in retreat. Shoulders slumped and eyes staring dully at the ground, the soldiers listlessly dragged their weapons behind them. Every now and then a ghostly animal of the Surface Realms would race past, the rider on its back whipping it frantically. Whenever that happened the foot soldiers would glance fearfully over their shoulders as if looking to see what was pursuing the rider, and some would break into a run. After a few stumbling steps, however, they slowed to a trudge again, some of them falling and failing to rise, their ghostly forms sinking into the snow.
The army of ghosts took little notice of Ryld and Halisstra. The soldiers seemed to sense, somehow, that the drow were also walking wounded—that they too were trying to retreat from that cold, lifeless plain. One of the soldiers—a standardbearer who still carried an iron pole topped with a pennant emblazoned with the tree emblem—crumpled to the ground right in front of Ryld, taking no notice of him. Though the pennant brushed Ryld’s arm as it fell toward the snow, the pole itself made no mark in the smooth white surface. Like the standard-bearer’s body, it sank into the snow without a trace.
Ryld noticed that the snow in front of him was slightly humped. Curious, he reached into its cold depths and felt a skeleton, and beside it a cold metal pole, its surface flaked with rust. Like the ghostly officer Ryld had met earlier, the soldier had acted out the final moments of his life, crumpling once again in the same spot where he had died, centuries gone by.
Ryld, feeling the pain in his gut start to grow, wondered if he was about to join him.
Halisstra touched the symbol of Eilistraee that hung from her belt.
“The s-s-spell,” she said, shivering violently, then switching to sign language. I should cast it soon.
Ryld’s attention, however, was focused on a ghostly rider racing toward them on one of the surface mounts—a “horse,” Ryld suddenly remembered it was called. The horse’s feet did not disturb the snow, yet Ryld could hear—faintly—the sound of hooves striking the ground. The horse was still strong, still capable of running swiftly—and was corporeal, at least for the moment. And that gave him an idea.
Grasping the fallen standard-bearer’s pole, he wrenched it up out of the snow and stood as straight as the wracking pain in his gut would allow.
“In the name of Lord Velar, halt!” he shouted. “I bear a message that must reach your commander’s ears.”
For an anxious moment, Ryld thought his ruse wasn’t going to work. The standard in his hands was ancient and rusted, the pennant long since rotted away. But the officer seemed to see it as it once had been. Immediately, the ghost pulled up its mount. Fully corporeal, the dead man stared down at Ryld. Its horse mirrored the ghost’s apprehension as it flared its nostrils and—perhaps catching scent of a dragon that was long-since dead in Ryld’s time—whinnied nervously.
The undead officer’s eyes narrowed, however, as it glanced between Ryld and Halisstra.
“You aren’t soldiers,” the ghost said. “You’re not even human.”
“We’re drow,” Ryld said quickly, silently praying that his race had not been at war with those humans in their day. “Dark elves from the Realms Below who have come to fight beside Lord Velar.”
“You’re too late. Look around you. Lord Velar’s army is defeated. The dragons . . .”
The ghost shuddered, unable to go on.
“Yes, I know.” Ryld raised his left hand, drawing the officer’s eye to the dragon-shaped ring of Melee-Magthere on his finger. “I am quite familiar with dragons, and I know how terrible a weapon they can be. I have knowledge that can help Lord Velar defeat them—if I can reach him in time. Loan me your horse, and this defeat may yet be turned into a victory.”
Behind Ryld, Halisstra stood shivering, her arms tucked tight to her chest.
The officer gave one last nervous glance over his shoulder, then swung down out of the saddle.
“Take her,” the apparition said, thrusting the reins into Ryld’s hand. The ghost drew its sword and turned back toward the direction from which it had ridden. “ ‘Better to die proud than live in shame,’ ” it said, reciting the words like a quote.
The ghost officer strode away, dissolving into a swirl of mist amidst the thickly falling snow.
The horse, however, remained. As it shifted its weight, its legs ploughed a furrow in the snow. Reaching up to stroke its neck and steady it, Ryld found that he could smell the sweat and dust that clung to its hair. The animal’s body gave off a welcome heat—one that Halisstra, shivering violently, could use to stay alive.
“Can you ride it?” he asked her—a bit belatedly, he realized.
Halisstra gave a shiver that might have been a nod.
“I’ve r-r-ridden lizards. This beast sh-shouldn’t b-b-be any more d-difficult. Wh-what is it?”
“It’s called a horse. I saw one for sale in the Bazaar in Menzoberranzan a few years ago. Heard it fetched a pretty penny but only lived a couple days,” he said, then realized again that time was of the essence. “Sit in the saddle, and I’ll—”
A wave of pain flowed through Ryld’s gut, forcing him to gasp.
Halisstra gave him a worried look.
Ryld, irritated by his lack of control, forced the pain out of his awareness. He gave Halisstra a tight smile as he handed her the reins.
“You ride,” he said, “and I’ll hold on, levitating behind. The animal will be able to move faster that way. With luck, we’ll reach the forest and make contact with the priestesses before the spell you cast on me runs out.”
“Not luck,” Halisstra chastised. “With the b-blessing of the g-g-goddess.”
She gave him a brief kiss—with lips that seemed as cold as those of the dead—then she limbed, still shivering, into the saddle.
chapter
thirty five
An instant before the demon reached Pharaun, the
spell activated, and an enormous glowing hand interposed itself between them. The hand slammed into the demon, smashing it down against the deck and dragging it across the bone-white boards away from Pharaun. Squeaking with fury, the demon tried to squirm free, but the magical hand was too strong for it.
As the uridezu struggled, unable to move, Pharaun cautiously approached and grasped the two ends of the broken chain. Holding them together, he cast a cantrip, glad that he had been forced to use that form of binding. A pentagram, once broken, had to be redrawn entirely, but a chain used in a binding spell could always be restored with a simple mending—assuming one had the magic to actually restrain the demon, first.
The instant the chain mended itself, Pharaun stepped back and dispelled the magic hand. The demon leaped to its feet, eyes
slitted with fury. As it yanked, futilely, on the chain, Pharaun turned to look for Quenthel and Jeggred. He spotted them a moment later—they’d managed to escape from the whirlpool by levitating and were floating in the eye of the storm. Unable to reach the ship, they were rapidly being left behind. Quenthel shouted something at him, but Pharaun couldn’t hear her over the crash of waves and the howl of the wind. Her message was plain enough, however, from the waving of her arms. She wanted Pharaun to use his magic to fetch them back to the ship.
Pharaun made a show of cupping his ear and shrugged theatrically. Then he turned away, chuckling. He stared at the demon, which once again had lapsed into surly submission.
“Now then, demon,” he told it. “You said the mouth was in the ship’s hold?”
The demon snarled and said, “Go see for yourself.”
Pharaun took a step toward the open hatch, watching the demon out of the corner of his eye. When it tensed expectantly, he paused.
“I think not,” he said.
Instead he pulled from his pocket the jar of ointment and rubbed a little of it on his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, he saw that his caution had been well founded. There was indeed a hatch on the deck, but it didn’t open onto stairs and a darkened hold. The edges of the hatch were actually a wet pucker of flesh resembling lips. Inside, where the stairs had appeared to be, were rows of jagged teeth. Beyond those, the hold was filled with bones and skulls. Red light flickered around them, shining up through the eye sockets like the glow of angry coals.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 32