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

by Lisa Smedman; Phillip Athans; Paul S. Kemp

  Finally, they came upon a wide, square-keeled boat with a single long oar attached to a tall pole. The vessel had been pulled up on the riverbank, and a few feet away there was the indistinct lump of some humanoid creature asleep on the coarse sand. He’d built a fire before he drifted off to unconsciousness, and it sat next to him, the last of the embers quickly fading.

  Ryld moved to within a few inches of the ferryman without making a sound. The weapons master slowly, silently drew his short sword and held it in a loose, easy grip. He crouched next to the humanoid, and the sleeper let out an odd sort of sustained, rumbling cough. Ryld half stood, looked at Halisstra, and shrugged. Halisstra returned the gesture. She had no idea what the sound could signify except that maybe the man—if it was a man—was choking.

  Ryld rolled him over with a purposely harsh, violent push. The sleeper had the gruff grayish-yellow features of an orc, but not entirely. His eyes bulged, and he took a deep breath, his heavy brow wrinkled in anger. Ryld dropped the blade of his short sword to the boatman’s neck, and the angry man stopped very suddenly. Halisstra stepped in. When she looked more closely at him, she saw that the ferryman was a half-orc. That was good luck for them. Half-orcs tended to be as despised on the World Above as they were in the Underdark, so he would be easier to manipulate into keeping their presence secret.

  “Silence,” Ryld whispered in the guttural trade tongue of the surface races.

  The half-orc glanced once at Halisstra, then met Ryld’s eyes and made a show of relaxing. He said nothing.

  “We require a boat,” the weapons master said quietly. “You will take us east across the river, and you will tell no one of it.”

  The half-orc looked at him, considering it.

  Ryld nicked the man’s neck with his short sword, barely enough to draw a half-inch sliver of blood.

  “I wasn’t asking,” the weapons master added, and the halforc nodded.

  Within minutes they were on the boat. The horizon in front of them turned from black to a deep indigo. Halisstra had begun to grow accustomed to the sun, but Ryld still hated it, so they had been traveling at night. In order to make their arranged rendezvous with Danifae, they might have to continue through the morning, but Halisstra knew Ryld wouldn’t complain.

  “I think the ferryman expects us to pay him when we get to the other side,” Ryld said in Low Drow, glancing at the half-orc who was pretending not to be staring at them. “Or do they breed half-orcs as slaves here too?”

  At first Halisstra thought he was joking. It was hard to see his eyes with the cowl of his piwafwi pulled over his head. Halisstra wore her own hood the same way, but by the time they got to the midpoint in the wide river delta, the priestess realized that no one on any of the other boats was bothering to look at them and night-blind humans wouldn’t be able to see them in the dark—not from a distance anyway. She slipped the hood off her head, eliciting an irritated scowl from Ryld, who kept his own cowl up.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Halisstra said, nodding at the boatman.

  Ryld shook his head.

  “Danifae is going to kill you,” he said, his voice flat.

  “Is she?”

  “I would,” the weapons master replied. “She was your battlecaptive for a long time, and now she isn’t. Of course she will seek revenge for her years of bondage.”

  “Maybe,” Halisstra had to admit, “but I don’t think so.”

  “We don’t get your kind around here much,” the boatman blurted suddenly in heavily accented Low Drow.

  The sound of the half-human, half-orc thing speaking the language of the dark elves made Halisstra’s skin crawl. Ryld drew his short sword.

  The boatman put up a hand, shaking, and said, “I mean no disrespect or anything. I was just saying . . .”

  “You’ve seen drow before?” Halisstra asked then flashed a quick sentence in sign language: An extra hundred gold pieces if you forget all about us.

  The half-orc had no reaction to the signed question. He didn’t even seem to notice that she’d been trying to communicate.

  “Sure,” the boatman replied, “I’ve seen a drow or two. Not recently, but . . .”

  Halisstra shrugged off the boatman’s answer and signed to Ryld, I think he wanted us to know he understood us, so we wouldn’t say something that would make us want to kill him for hearing it.

  That drew a smile from Ryld.

  You can put your sword away, she added.

  The weapons master sheathed his blade and said, “If he understands the sign, he should say so now or I will kill him.”

  The half-orc waved a hand and said, “No, no, sir. I swear to you. I didn’t even know what you were doing. I just paddle, yes? Paddle? You don’t even have to pay me.”

  “Pay you?” Ryld asked.

  The half-orc looked away.

  He heard us mention the temple, Ryld signed. It goes without saying that he can’t be trusted.

  Who can? Halisstra answered.

  Not Danifae, the weapons master signed.

  Eilistraee will guide us, she replied. Danifae has no goddess to guide her.

  Ryld nodded, though he made his continued skepticism plain.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, and soon they were at the other side of the river. Halisstra stepped off the boat, wading in inches deep water to the rocky riverbank. She looked back for Ryld, who was stepping toward the half-orc. The weapons master reached behind the ferryman, unsheathed Splitter, took off the half-orc’s head, and resheathed his weapon in precisely the space of one of Halisstra’s heartbeats. The head splashed into the water, and the weapons master kicked the body in after it.

  Ryld turned to wade ashore, and Halisstra looked away into the blue-gray light of the dawn. She could hear his footsteps in the water then on the rocks behind her, but she didn’t want to look at his face just then.

  Danifae materialized on the deck of the ship of chaos and was instantly struck by how much had changed. Valas appeared next to her, and she watched his expression change from his normal stoic, blank pragmatism to an uneasy curiosity—he’d noticed it too.

  Pharaun and Quenthel both looked bad and smelled bad. The ship itself looked different. The deck, which had been a dull white expanse of stark bone, was covered in spots with pink tissue and crossed with gently throbbing arteries. Sinew and what might have been ligaments stretched between gaps in the bone. The ship felt alive.

  Pharaun and Jeggred both looked up at them when they appeared, but only Pharaun stood. The draegloth looked to one side, and Danifae followed his gaze to Quenthel. Jeggred’s eyes burned when he looked at the high priestess, who sat on the deck with her back to the others, one hand absently caressing one of the vipers that made up her whip.

  “Welcome back to the Underdark’s dull wet arse,” the Master of Sorcere said. He only glanced at Danifae but approached Valas with his hand out. “You have what we need?”

  The Bregan D’aerthe scout nodded and handed the wizard one of the magical sacks that held their supplies.

  Danifae kept her attention on Jeggred, who made eye contact with her finally and nodded. The former battle-captive gave the draegloth a smile and a slight bow—then she noticed that the bound uridezu was missing.

  “What happened here?” she asked Pharaun.

  The wizard began to laugh, and at first it seemed as if he would be laughing for a long time. When no one joined him, he calmed himself and took a deep breath.

  “Mistress?” Danifae called to Quenthel.

  Nothing.

  Jeggred stared at the high priestess’s back, saying nothing as well.

  “Are we . . . ?” the scout asked Pharaun.

  “Oh, yes,” the wizard replied, “we’ll be setting sail as planned. It turns out that we didn’t need the captain’s services after all. Jeggred was kind enough to retire his commission for us. I will be piloting the ship to the Abyss and back.”

  Valas nodded, sat, and began to sort through their supplies. Pharaun
stood over him, occasionally commenting on what the scout had purchased. Quenthel continued to sit with her back to the rest of them, saying nothing. Danifae approached Jeggred, gauging his mood as she moved closer. He seemed to want to speak to her, so she sat down next to him.

  “Reverie?” she asked, nodding at Quenthel.

  “No,” said the draegloth, making no effort to lower his voice. “She has been unable to take the Reverie. The mistress is weakening.”

  Danifae took a deep breath, searching the draegloth’s eyes for some hint that he was anything but genuinely angry with Quenthel. It didn’t seem possible that Jeggred had come that far in the relatively short time that she and Valas had been gone, but obviously things had progressed much more swiftly than she’d hoped.

  “The ‘captain’,” Jeggred grumbled, “gated in some of his kind. They attacked us, and we prevailed.”

  “Quenthel didn’t fight?” Danifae guessed.

  Jeggred looked at the silent high priestess and thought about that for a while.

  “She fought,” the draegloth said finally, “but she . . .”

  Danifae waited a few heartbeats for him to finish then prodded, “We all serve greater mistresses, Jeggred. The Matron Mother of House Baenre, in your case, and in mine, Lolth herself—both greater mistresses than Quenthel. If you have something that either your matron mother or your goddess need to know, you must speak. Duty demands it.”

  Jeggred looked deep into her eyes, and she let him. She held the half-demon’s gaze for a long time, never permitting herself the slightest twitch, the most miniscule sign of weakness or indecision.

  “She’s . . . sensitive,” the draegloth said.

  “Sensitive?” Danifae pressed.

  “The Mistress of Arach-Tinilith has a sensitivity to beings from the outer planes,” he said. “She can sense the presence of demons and communicate with them. It’s not something that everyone knows about her, but I do.”

  “Then why didn’t she know that Raashub was gating in . . . ?” She let the question fade away.

  The look in Jeggred’s eyes as he stared at Quenthel’s still back told her all she needed to know.

  “I am a priestess of Lolth,” she told the draegloth. “I serve the Queen of the Demonweb Pits, and on this ship that means I serve Quenthel Baenre.”

  Jeggred tipped his huge head to one side, his wild mane of white hair spilling over his muscular, gray-furred shoulders.

  “I serve her,” Danifae went on, “whether she knows it or not, whether she appreciates it or not, and whether she desires it or not. Something is . . .”

  Danifae wasn’t sure how to finish that thought.

  “She has succumbed,” the draegloth said.

  “Succumbed?” asked Danifae.

  “To fear.”

  Danifae let that settle in then said, “She requires our services more than ever now. Lolth’s servant demands our service, and we both live to serve, do we not?”

  Jeggred nodded slowly, making it plain he was waiting to hear more.

  The former battle-captive reached into her pouch and drew out one of the rings she’d taken from the cold, dead hand of her former House mage. She held it up so that only Jeggred could see it, sliding it between her fingertips so that it reflected the feeble illumination—enough for the draegloth’s dark-sensitive eyes to see it. Jeggred opened one hand, and Danifae let the ring fall onto the half-demon’s palm.

  I need you to go somewhere with me, Danifae signed, her hands close to her stomach so none of the others could see, and do something for me.

  Ask, he replied, also careful to keep his hands where only she could see them. I live to serve, Mistress.

  chapter

  fourteen

  They hadn’t managed to kill each other yet.

  Gromph floated in the still darkness above the Clawrift surrounded by a globe of magical energy. He’d conjured it from his staff, draining some of the item’s magical essence in the process. The cost was worth it to keep out even the rudimentary spells the globe protected him from. Gromph knew the lich was capable of much more powerful castings— spells that would pass through the globe without the slightest degradation in power—but at least it would limit Dyrr’s options.

  Regardless of the globe, no matter what he tried, Gromph couldn’t get within sixty yards of the lich.

  The repulsion effect is coming from Dyrr’s staff, Nauzhror whispered into Gromph’s mind. We are studying possible solutions.

  The repulsion was another petty defense, another meager drain on a powerful item, and in that way Gromph and Dyrr were even—again.

  “What are you afraid of, lich?” the archmage called to his opponent. “I won’t try to kiss you.”

  Dyrr, who was also floating above the black depths of the Clawrift, actually laughed.

  “We could simply float here,” Dyrr replied, “waiting for one of the defenses to go down—your globe, my repulsion . . . but where’s the sport in that?”

  “Good question,” Gromph whispered, not caring if the lich could hear him or not.

  The archmage began to cast a spell, and the lich pressed his fingertips together, waiting to defend against it. Gromph set himself moving through the air toward the lich the second he finished his incantation and knew it was successful when the distance between them abruptly closed. The repulsion effect successfully dispelled, Gromph swooped in quickly to get into range for a more damaging spell.

  Dyrr, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised, dropped out of the air. Gromph knew he’d dispelled the repulsion effect, not Dyrr’s ability to fly. The lich was trying to escape into the black abyss of the Clawrift.

  Gromph dropped after him. The air, moving fast over the surface of the magical globe that still surrounded him, made a curious humming sound that Gromph found distracting. Still, he managed to cast another spell as he flew and succeeded in closing the distance between them even more.

  A bead of pulsing orange light appeared in Gromph’s right hand. He looked up at Dyrr, brought his arm back to throw the bead, and hesitated. Dyrr, a cold light in his dead eyes, was coming at him. The distance between the two mages was closing faster and faster—and the lichdrow was casting a spell.

  The words of Dyrr’s spell—a series of almost nonsensical quatrains in an obscure dialect of Draconic—echoed around them both. Gromph drew his right arm back farther still, aiming the bead at his opponent’s face while holding his staff in his left hand. Dyrr had something cupped in his own left hand and his own staff in his right. It was as if they were both looking in a mirror.

  Dyrr threw his first. A cloud of sparkling red dust—Crushed rubies, Grendan reported—burst into the air around the lich. The dust swirled on some twist of wind for half a heartbeat then was gone. As the last grain of the powdered gemstone disappeared, Gromph threw the bead.

  The archmage came to a sudden stop in the air. The breath was forced from his lungs, and he grunted loudly. His own staff hit him in the face, numbing his bottom lip and making his eyes water. His joints went limp for a few seconds, and his arms and legs flapped out of control.

  The bead of compressed fire should have hit the lich in the face and exploded in a ball of flame six paces wide. It should have burned the lich’s face off—but it didn’t.

  Gromph, as he finally gained control of his body and came to rest once again hovering in midair, could see the tiny speck of orange light fly true toward the lich’s face then curve in the air and dive into the garish crown the Agrach Dyrr wizard had the audacity to wear. The bead blazed briefly to life in a splash of orange and yellow luminescence that lit the lichdrow’s face but didn’t come close to burning it off.

  The crown, Gromph thought. I should have remembered.

  The fireball has been absorbed by the crown, Nauzhror hissed into Gromph’s mind.

  Gromph was certain he’d see it again.

  The item will allow him to redirect the fireball at you, Grendan warned.

  Yes, gentlemen, Gromph repl
ied. Thank you.

  Dyrr drew to an abrupt stop and hung in the air, bouncing ever so slightly. He looked like a mushroom cap bobbing on the surface of Donigarten Lake. Gromph, on the other hand, was frozen in air, standing on what felt like a solid surface but looked like a dim, phosphorescent glow.

  Gromph’s globe was still up, but it wasn’t the only thing that surrounded him.

  An impressive spell, Nauzhror said. Difficult to cast and expensive what with the ruby dust and all. It’s nothing you can’t handle, Archmage.

  “A forcecage?” Gromph asked.

  The lichdrow didn’t bother answering. Instead, he began to cast another spell. Clearly he thought he had Gromph trapped, so of course he would take advantage of the situation. The archmage brought a spell to mind and rushed through the casting of it, racing the lich, though he would likely still have to suffer through whatever Dyrr was throwing at him. He needed to get the forcecage off him. Being trapped in a magical box was hardly convenient at that moment.

  Dyrr’s spell took effect half a heartbeat before Gromph’s. As the lich finished the last gestures and the final complex verbalization and crunched a lodestone and a pinch of dust in his right hand, something opened under the archmage’s feet.

  Gromph’s spell went off, and his own globe fell victim to it—but so did the forcecage—and Gromph was falling into whatever it was Dyrr had conjured underneath him.

  The archmage touched his brooch and made himself stop quickly, well before he contacted Dyrr’s dramatic magical effect. As he drew himself up, moving farther and farther away from it, Gromph looked down—and into a whole other universe. The lichdrow had opened a gate beneath him, and a blinding, eye-searing light poured out of it. Gromph had seen light like it only a few times in his long life. It was sunlight, and the Archmage of Menzoberranzan didn’t like it at all.

  “Where are you trying to send me?” Gromph asked his opponent.