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

by Lisa Smedman; Phillip Athans; Paul S. Kemp

  Feliane would hear the call and come to them. Ryld cringed when he realized that when she got there and saw the two of them dumbfounded by what looked like harmless prey animals . . . they would both look foolish again. At least, Ryld would.

  Feliane came stomping through the underbrush. Ryld was surprised by not only how fast the Eilistraeen was moving but by how loud she was. He’d come to respect their ability to slip through the forest undetected.

  He realized at that moment that what he heard crashing at them through the pitch-black forest wasn’t Feliane. It wasn’t a drow, or a surface elf, or even a human. It was something else—something big.

  The thing burst out of the thick tangle of underbrush like an advancing wall of matted brown fur. Ryld managed to get his hand on Splitter’s pommel but couldn’t draw it before the beast rolled over him. The weapons master tried to tuck his body to protect his belly from the monster’s trampling claws, but he didn’t have the time.

  The creature stomped on him, tripped on him, rolled on him, then stepped on him. All Ryld could do was keep his eyes pressed closed and grunt. It was heavy, and when it first punched him into the ground Ryld heard then felt at least one of his ribs snap under its weight. It finally came off him, and Ryld rolled off to one side—any side—ending up curled under a spindly “bush” with thorns that harried at his armor and piwafwi. Snow packed into the spaces between his armor’s plates and chilled his neck and hands.

  The creature stopped, rolling all the way over in the end and coming back onto its feet still facing away from Ryld. The weapons master looked up and blinked at it. It looked like a bigger—much bigger—version of the little animals that had wandered up to twitch their noses at the drow. It was a clever ruse and surely a successful hunting strategy: Disarm and distract your prey with your curious young, then trample it into the ground when it isn’t looking.

  Still, the Master of Melee-Magthere grimaced at his having fallen for it, however clever it was.

  I’m getting slow, he thought. All this open air, all this talk of goddesses and redemption . . .

  Shaking the distracting thoughts from his mind, Ryld spun to his feet at the same time he drew Splitter and whirled it in front of him. The lumbering animal turned to face him, and Ryld was ready for it.

  The beast looked him in the eye and Ryld winked at it over the razor edge of his greatsword.

  Steam puffed from its nostrils as it coughed out a series of loud grunts. It scratched at the snow with one of its front paws, and Ryld saw its black claws, the size of hunting knives, at the end of surprisingly well articulated hands. The look in the creature’s eyes was a mix of slow-wittedness and feral anger—a look Ryld had seen before and had learned to respect. Stupid foes were easy to defeat and angry foes even easier. Mix the two together, though, and you’re in for a fight.

  The beast charged, and Ryld obliged it by meeting it in the middle. When it reared up at the end of its charge, the animal was nearly three times the drow’s height. That display would likely frighten lesser opponents, but for Ryld all it did was open the thing’s belly. The weapons master brought his greatsword in fast at shoulder height in a hard slash meant to open the animal’s gut and end it quickly. The beast was faster than it looked, though, and it fell backward, rolling onto its back as the edge of Ryld’s sword flashed past it, missing by a foot or more. Ryld had no choice but to follow through with the swing, but he managed to make use of the inertia to send him dodging off to the left when the creature slashed at him with its hind claws.

  Ryld spun to a halt, blade up high, while the animal continued its roll and flipped back onto its feet. Both of them blew steam into the frigid air, but only Ryld smiled.

  They went at each other again, and Ryld was ready for it to try to either trample him or rear up again. The animal did neither. It reached out for the drow warrior with both hands, obviously trying to grab him by the shoulders—or by the head. Ryld slid toward it at the end of his run, stabbing up with his greatsword as he passed under the animal’s chin. He intended to impale it, maybe even behead it, but his opponent proved still more surprisingly agile. It ducked its head to one side, and all Ryld managed to do was nick one of its ears.

  The weapons master continued his slide, bringing his arms in so he could stab again and at least get the creature in the gut, but the animal jumped to one side and rolled off, again managing to elude the drow’s attack.

  Ryld hopped to his feet, and the two opponents faced each other again. Ryld heard a voice to his left and glanced over to see Halisstra, bent in an attitude of prayer, mumbling her way through some kind of chant. The animal took advantage of Ryld’s momentary attention gap and leaped at him, clearing easily eight feet before crashing to the ground in front of the drow. The creature had to dodge back, unbalancing itself, to avoid another slash from Splitter. It opened its jaws wide, revealing nasty fangs, and let loose another series of angry, frustrated grunts.

  It swiped at Ryld with one set of claws. Ryld was ready to meet it, fully engaged to sever the animal’s front leg at the elbow—when both of them jerked backward to avoid something that whizzed through the air between them in a flurry of feathers, talons, and turbulent air.

  Ryld followed the animal’s eyes as it followed the new player’s mad course through the air. It was some kind of bird, but with four wings. Its multicolored feathers blended well into the dark background of the forest, and Ryld actually lost sight of it for a second. The huge furry beast stepped back, trying to look at Ryld and look out for the bird-thing at the same time.

  Even Ryld wasn’t able to do that, and since the furry animal was in front of him and at least a little off its guard, the weapons master stepped in to attack again—and again the bird-thing flashed between them, raking the air with its needle-like talons.

  Ryld barely twitched away, but the big animal all but fell onto its back to avoid the newcomer. Ryld, already in midslash, quickly changed the direction of his attack and was half an inch from cutting the fast-flying bird-thing in half when Halisstra called out from behind him.

  “Wait!” she shouted, and Ryld tipped the point of his blade down barely enough to let the bird fly past. “It’s mine. I summoned it.”

  Ryld didn’t have time to ask her how she’d managed to do that. Instead he stepped back three long strides, keeping his eyes on the beast, which was already back on its feet. The bird-thing slashed in from the darkness behind the animal and dragged its talons across the beast’s head. The creature howled in pain and surprise and snapped its jaws at the passing bird-thing, missing it by a yard or more.

  “What is that?” Ryld asked, not looking at Halisstra but keeping his eyes on the furious forest animal.

  “It’s an arrowhawk,” Halisstra answered.

  Ryld could hear the pride and surprise in her voice, and something about that sent a chill down his spine.

  The animal looked at him, grunted, and came on. Either it had forgotten about the arrowhawk or had given up trying to see it coming. Ryld crouched, Splitter out in front of him, awaiting the beast’s charge. He kept his shoulders loose and told himself that the fight had gone on long enough. He was not going to be made a fool of.

  In that moment the arrowhawk swished over his head, missing the top of his close-cropped white hair by a finger’s width.

  Ryld tucked his head down as it shot over him. The bird flew as fast as an arrow shot from a longbow, and it was easy for Ryld to understand how the creature had received its name. It looked as if the hawk was flying straight for the furry creature’s eyes. Half of Ryld wanted the arrowhawk to kill it, the other half didn’t want to be shown up by some conjured bird. At least not in front of . . .

  That thought too went unfinished when Ryld heard himself gasp at the sight of the huge ground animal grabbing the arrowhawk right out of the air with one huge, clawed hand.

  The bird let out an ear-rattling squawk, and the creature looked it in the eyes as it started to squeeze. Ryld didn’t doubt for a momen
t that the big animal could break the long, slender arrowhawk in two with one hand. It was half a second away from doing just that when the arrowhawk flipped its long, feathered tail up and pointed it at the animal’s face. An eye-searing flash of blinding light arced from the arrowhawk’s tail to the tip of the animal’s nose. Ryld snapped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the pain. There was a loud rustle of feathers, another angry squawk, and a high-pitched wail that could only have come from the big ground animal.

  Ryld opened his eyes and had to blink away an afterimage of the graceful purple spark that had shot from the arrowhawk’s tail. The animal had let go of the bird, which was nowhere to be seen. A tendril of smoke rose from its burned nose, and the stench of singed hair quickly filled the still night air.

  Halisstra stepped up to Ryld, and they shared a glance and a smile as the big animal writhed in pain.

  “Not bad,” the weapons master joked, and Halisstra responded with a pleased smile.

  “Praise Eilistraee,” she said.

  As if it understood her and had no love for her goddess, the big animal looked up, coughed out two more feral grunts, and started at them. Ryld put out one hand to push Halisstra behind him, but she had already skipped back into the darkness. He set his feet, ready for the charge, and saw the arrowhawk shoot out of the darkness again. The arrowhawk whipped its tail forward, and Ryld, knowing what was coming, closed his eyes and lifted one arm—both hands on Splitter’s pommel—to shield his sensitive eyes.

  There was a sizzle of electricity, the faint smell of ozone, and the none-too-faint stench of burned hair again. The furred creature growled in agony, and Ryld opened his eyes. Again, the arrowhawk was nowhere to be seen, likely whirling through the forest dodging tree trunks, circling back for another pass.

  “Wait!” a woman’s voice called. Ryld thought at first that it was Halisstra.

  “No, Feliane,” Halisstra called back. “It’s all right. Between Ryld and the—”

  “No!” the surface drow cut in.

  Ryld would have turned to watch Feliane approach, but the animal had decided to charge him again. Not sure what Feliane was trying to stop, exactly, Ryld stepped in toward the big animal. He saw the arrowhawk coming, though and slid to a stop in the snow. The animal must have realized why the drow came to such a sudden halt, and when the arrowhawk came in low for another slash with its talons, the creature saw it as well.

  Jaws snapped over the arrowhawk. There was a loud confusion of fluttering wings, screaming, growling, snapping, and popping—and the arrowhawk fell to the snow in two twitching, bleeding pieces.

  “What’s going on here?” Feliane called, her voice much closer. “What in the goddess’s name are you doing?”

  Its long, fang-lined jaws dripping with the arrowhawk’s blood, the animal looked fiercer, more dangerous, and angrier than ever. Ryld smiled, spun his massive enchanted greatsword in front of him, and ran at the thing head on.

  Behind him and off in the underbrush, Halisstra and Feliane were talking in urgent tones, but Ryld’s trained senses put that aside. They were allies, and the only opponent of note was the furious beast. Whatever they were discussing, they could tell him about it later, after he had dispatched the vicious, cunning predator.

  The creature reared up again as Ryld came in, and the drow slipped Splitter in low in front of him, slicing a deep furrow in the beast’s exposed underbelly. Blood oozed from the wound, and quickly soaked the matted, dirty brown fur around it. Ryld spun his greatsword back around and pointed it forward, held in both hands above his head, for a final impaling stab.

  The forest predator again proved it wouldn’t go down easily. Before Ryld could plunge Splitter home, the thing’s huge, handlike claw wrapped around his right arm, digging into the space between his pauldron and vambrace to puncture the skin of his underarm.

  Ryld tucked his right arm down, pressing the claw against his armored side to keep the beast from tearing away his pauldron—and a good portion of skin and muscle with it. That had the unfortunate effect of tipping the point of his greatsword up. The animal pushed down, and its weight was enough to send Ryld sinking, slipping, then falling onto his back. Splitter’s tip passed harmlessly past the animal’s shoulder. When he felt the other claw clamp onto his left pauldron, Ryld knew he was pinned.

  The beast snapped at his face, but Ryld still had enough room to jerk his head out of the way. With all his considerable strength, the weapons master pushed up, but with his arms trapped over his head and his sword all but immobile next to the animal’s ear, he had to use his back and shoulders to try to lift himself off the ground—carrying the fifteen-foot animal that must have weighed a ton at least with him. He didn’t move it far, but when the animal felt him trying to push up, it pushed down, extending its arms the fraction of an inch Ryld needed to muscle his sword down and under. Twisting his wrists painfully, Ryld managed to get the greatsword’s tip up under the beast’s chin.

  The animal rolled its dark, dull eyes down and stretched its neck up and away from the sword. The two of them were stuck that way, and Ryld feared that that was how they were going to remain for a very long time: it pushing him away, he trying to stab it through the throat.

  “Halisstra!” Feliane screamed. “No!”

  The sound was shrill, panicked, and close enough that it finally registered on Ryld that the two females were still there. He wasn’t alone. As females were wont to do, they were letting him take the brunt of the punishment, but they wouldn’t leave him like that—or would they? From the sound of Feliane’s voice, it was exactly what she intended to do.

  Ryld redoubled his efforts, but so did the beast and they got no closer to a resolution—until Ryld heard a woman growl in an odd way, realizing it was Halisstra. The thing dipped that fraction of an inch forward that Ryld was hoping for.

  The tip of the greatsword bit into the animal’s throat, and blood poured down the blade. The animal grunted, opening its mouth a quarter of an inch—and allowing the blade to slip that much farther in. Hot red blood exploded from the wound, then pumped out of the monstrosity’s neck in rhythm to its speeding heart—Ryld had found the artery he’d been hoping for.

  He saw Halisstra’s boot to his right and heard a sword come out of its sheath. She had jumped onto the animal’s back and was straddling it, drawing the Crescent Blade to deliver the killing blow.

  Ryld celebrated that realization by twisting Splitter’s tip into the creature’s throat, bringing more blood and sending a shiver rippling through the creature’s fur.

  Feliane ran up next to them and must have hit the side of the animal hard. Halisstra grunted, and the hulk started to topple sideways. Ryld sawed into its neck for good measure, not sure it was actually dead.

  Feliane’s boot scuffled in the snow next to him, and she said, “Stop it. For Eilistraee’s sake, that’s not what the Crescent Blade was meant for.”

  Ryld let the quivering carcass roll off him and fall into a dead sprawl in the underbrush. Wincing from the pain in his shoulder and underarm, he slid his blade out of the dead animal’s neck and got to his feet, stepping back a few steps before he had his legs under him.

  Halisstra and Feliane were standing next to the fallen animal, and Feliane’s hand was wrapped tightly around Halisstra’s sword arm.

  “I couldn’t . . .” Halisstra said, her voice quavering, each word punctuated by a puff of steam that rolled into the frigid air. “I couldn’t let it kill him.”

  Both of the women turned to look at Ryld, who could only shrug.

  “She was only protecting her young,” Feliane said.

  She was looking at Ryld, but the weapons master got the distinct impression she was talking to Halisstra. Ryld didn’t understand. Who was protecting . . . ?

  “The animal?” he asked.

  “She’s a giant land sloth,” the Eilistraeen said, releasing Halisstra’s arm and stepping away from her. “She was a giant land sloth. They’re rare, especially this far north
.”

  “Good,” Ryld said. “It was tougher than it looks.”

  “Damn it!” Feliane cursed. “She was only protecting her young. You didn’t have to kill her.”

  Halisstra was looking at her sword, the blade glowing in the darkness.

  “Why,” Ryld asked, “would it attack an armed drow to protect its young? It could have lived to birth more.”

  Feliane opened her mouth to answer but said nothing. A strange look came over her, one that Ryld couldn’t remember ever seeing on the face of a drow.

  Halisstra looked down at the dead sloth and whispered, “She . . .”

  Ryld shook his head. He didn’t understand and was beginning to think he never would.

  chapter

  three

  It had been two days since Pharaun had contacted his master, and the news that sending had brought still sat heavily on the wizard’s shoulders. The spell allowed only a short message to travel through the Weave from the Lake of Shadows into Menzoberranzan and an equally short message back.

  Ship of chaos is ours, Pharaun had sent, careful to use no unnecessary words though that was against his natural tendencies. Advise on proper diet. Don’t trust captain. Any word of Ryld Argith or Halisstra Melarn? Sent home to report details.

  He’d waited the interminable seconds for a reply, all the time wondering if the time he had been waiting for had come—the moment when Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, would fail to answer. That would be the moment Pharaun would know that they had failed, that they had no city to return to, no civilization to protect.

  That time had not yet come.

  Feed it manes, the archmage had replied. As many as you can.

  Captain will serve power. Master Argith and Mistress Melarn not here. Stop your squabbling and get moving.

  Pharaun didn’t stop to wonder how Gromph had known that the tenuous alliances within the expedition were fraying. Gromph was a drow himself, after all, and probably assumed it. If he thought he’d had the time, Pharaun might have studied that point much more closely, tried to determine the degree to which Gromph was aware of their actions, but there was work to do.