Pharaun struggled to regather his senses and his breath.
The chwidencha raised one of its claws high and drove it toward Pharaun’s face. He tried to squirm aside, failed, and the claw hit him with enough force to split rock. His protective enchantments prevented his face and skull from splitting open but the impact still exploded his nose and drove his head hard against the rocky ground. For a horrifying moment, consciousness started to slip from him. He grabbed at it and reeled it in with the entire force of his will.
Dazed and increasingly angry, he realized that he still clutched in his right hand the ball of bat guano.
“Here’s a treat,” he mumbled through a blood-filled mouth.
He mouthed the words to a spell that would turn the chwidencha and the entire area into cinders. He swallowed down the blood leaking into his mouth from his ruined nose and spoke the words clearly. He would have to hope that the inherent drow resistance to magic would shield him and his companions; that, or he would have to hope they could take more punishment than the chwidencha.
Just as he was about to utter the final syllables of the spell, the creature’s fangs penetrated his piwafwi and sank into the skin of his chest. A bolt of pain caused his body to spasm but Pharaun did not lose the cadence of his spell. He had trained in Sorcere, cast spells as an apprentice while his Masters had held candle flames to his bare flesh. A bite from one of Lolth’s failures could not break his iron concentration.
He finished the spell as the chwidencha reared back to take another bite of his flesh. Gritting his teeth, Pharaun closed his fist around the tiny ball of guano and shoved it into the chwidencha’s open maw.
Reflexively, it clamped down on his hand.
Pharaun closed his eyes just as his universe exploded in orange light and searing heat. He felt some of his hair melt, felt the flesh of his arm, chest, and face char. He could not contain a scream.
The force of the blast blew apart the chwidencha atop him, reducing it instantly to ash. Hisses, growls, and screams sounded all around him, audible above the explosion. He smelled the stink of burning flesh. His own, no doubt.
It was over in one agonizing heartbeat.
He opened his eyes and found himself staring up into the dark sky above. For a moment, he had the absurd thought that his spell had charred the clouds, but then he realized that the storm was gathering above them.
Blinking, dazed, he shook the charred chwidencha pieces from his body—they were little more than chunks of seared flesh—and slowly sat up. He wiped the blackened blood from his face and nose and blinked until his blurry vision cleared. His hand was a blackened, seared piece of meat. It did not yet pain him, but it soon would.
He looked around and saw that the fireball had wrought a perfect sphere of devastation. A circular swath of blackened and partially melted rock denoted its boundaries. He had not burned the sky, but he had nicely burned the earth. He took a professional’s pride in the damage it had done.
Within the circle, Jeggred sat on his four hands and knees, chest heaving, eyes blinking. A seared chwidencha corpse lay in pieces under his claws, and chwidencha legs dangled from his mouth. Bleeding but only mildly burned, the draegloth eyed Pharaun coldly as he spat the legs to the ground and climbed to his feet.
“You’ll need to do better than fire, mage,” the draegloth said, his voice raspy.
To Pharaun’s surprise, Danifae and Quenthel both had survived too. They were burned and smoking, and minor cuts and bruises covered them both, but they lived. Quenthel stood on the far side of the blast radius, returned to normal size. Her serpents, covered in ash, hissed at Pharaun. He frowned, wishing he had at least put them down.
Danifae stood on the other side of the blast, leaning on her morningstar for support. She must have regained her feet and her weapon during the combat.
A score or so chwidencha carcasses, charred, smoking, and stinking, lay scattered about the battlefield.
“What in the Abyss did you do?” Danifae demanded, then she coughed. Claw scratches crisscrossed the fireball-pinked flesh of her face.
Saved your hide, unfortunately, Pharaun thought but did not say.
Instead, he replied, “A spell went awry, Mistress Danifae.”
“Awry?” Quenthel asked. Much of her hair was singed, but she otherwise looked to have avoided most of the effect of the fireball. “Indeed.” She coughed. “If your spell went awry, mage, then you merit no credit for ending the combat.”
Pharaun smirked through his broken nose and bowed as best as his wounded body allowed. The bite wound in his stomach throbbed, and his hand was in agony.
Danifae glared at him and added, “Next time, male, you are to provide a warning before another of your spells . . . goes awry.”
Pharaun snorted with disdainful laughter and instantly regretted it. Blood shot from his nose, and pain wracked his face.
At that, Jeggred offered a snort of his own.
Through his pain, Pharaun said to Danifae, “And you might have warned me a bit earlier than—”
A scrabbling from outside the circle drew Pharaun’s eye, and he trailed off.
All of them followed his gaze.
The Teeming continued around them but that was not what concerned him.
Nearly a score of chwidenchas rose smoking from the rocks outside the blast radius. All had twisted legs and melted flesh and hair, but they too had survived the blast. They hissed, raised their front claws, and started tentatively forward.
“Perhaps the combat isn’t ended, after all,” Pharaun observed and took some satisfaction in the acid look Quenthel shot him.
Quenthel cracked her whip, and the serpents offered a hiss at the chwidenchas. Danifae brandished her morningstar and stepped near Jeggred. The draegloth threw back his head and uttered a roar that shook stones.
Pharaun let his companions dangle for a moment before he said, “But then again, perhaps it is over.” He’d had his fill of chwidenchas for the day. “Draw near,” he said to them, and looked directly at Danifae. “You are hereby warned.”
His companions shared a look and hurriedly backed near him as the chwidenchas slowly scuttled forward. Pharaun took a pinch of phosphorous powder from the inventory he kept organized in his piwafwi’s pockets, cast it in the air, and spoke the words to a spell. When he finished, a semi-opaque curtain of green fire whooshed into being, a ring of flames twenty paces tall that burned between them and the chwidenchas. It danced merrily, casting them all in a sickly green light.
“That should keep them a while,” he said.
His companions offered no thanks, but he took some satisfaction when even the whip-serpents sagged with relief.
With nothing else to be done for the moment, Pharaun said, “Pardon me, all,” before he pushed one nostril closed with a finger, blew out a gob of blood and snot, then did the same for the other side.
He was a bit embarrassed by it all—it was something Jeggred might do—but he had little choice. He could hardly breathe. Pharaun shook his throbbing head to help clear it and drew a handkerchief from an inner pocket and wiped off his face as best he could. The white silk came back black with ash and red with blood.
Through the ring of flames, Pharaun saw the chwidencha circling, watching them through the breaks in the fire. Beyond the chwidencha, he still caught glimpses of the violence of the Teeming.
“How long, mage?” Quenthel asked.
“Not long enough, unfortunately,” he answered. “Perhaps a quarter hour. How long does this Teeming last?”
Quenthel belted her whip and shook her head. Pharaun wasn’t sure if that meant she didn’t know or simply didn’t want to answer.
“It lasts as long as Lolth wills it,” Danifae offered, belting her own weapon. She ran her fingers over the scratches on her face, checking their depth.
“Hardly helpful, Mistress Danifae,” Pharaun said. “And how convenient for us that her will caused it to occur just after we arrived here.”
“Tread caref
ully, mage,” Quenthel warned.
“Indeed,” Danifae said, eyeing him.
Pharaun was tempted to ask then and there why the chwidencha had answered neither Quenthel’s nor Danifae’s commands, but one look at Quenthel’s whip made him think better of it.
Instead, he said, “I think it ill-advised to travel overland while this continues. Chwidencha may prove the least of our concerns. It appears the Spider Queen has decided to make the Teeming part of her test.”
The priestesses said nothing but looked out through the curtain of green fire, their expressions distant and unreadable. Perhaps they too were wondering why the chwidencha had not responded to their power.
Finally, Danifae said, “We should take shelter for a time, let the Teeming run its course. Then we can travel overland again.”
Jeggred eyed the chwidencha with hungry eyes. “The wizard said the wall of fire will last only a quarter hour. What shelter will we find in so short a time?”
“The caves,” Pharaun said.
All of them looked first to Pharaun, then at the ground, to the holes that surrounded them.
“Why not atop one of the tors?” Danifae asked, pointing at one of the innumerable spires of black stone that dotted the plane. “Few spiders seem able or willing to scale their heights.”
“Look to the sky, Mistress Danifae,” Pharaun answered. Already the sun was invisible behind a wall of black storm clouds. “I think it would be safer and more comfortable, underground.”
Besides, Pharaun had already encountered one horror atop a spire. He had no desire to encounter another.
“The caves,” Quenthel said, nodding.
“Yes, Mistress,” hissed one of the female heads of her whip. “The caves will be safer.”
“Silence, Zinda,” Quenthel gently admonished her whip.
“Safer?” Jeggred said and sneered. “Safety is the concern of cowards, timid priestesses, and weak mages.” He eyed Quenthel and Pharaun meaningfully in turn.
Pharaun smiled at the draegloth, turned his gaze to Quenthel, and said, “I would remind your nephew that it was Mistress Danifae who suggested that we seek shelter to avoid the danger of the Teeming. Does that mean you think her timid, Jeggred?”
Pharaun took a moment to enjoy the look of consternation on Jeggred’s face before he said, “Perhaps not, then. But in any event, it appears you would prefer to linger on the surface until we return. I think it an excellent idea. Thank you, Jeggred. Your bravery will be remembered in song.”
He offered the draegloth an insincere bow, and Jeggred snarled and bared his fangs.
Pharaun ignored the oaf—showing a dolt to be a dolt brought him only small satisfaction—and eyed the open mouth of the chwidenchas’ hole.
To Quenthel, he said, “I can seal the cave opening behind us with a spell, and we can wait for as long as need be. When the storm passes and the violence ends, I can get us back through, and we can travel then.”
Quenthel nodded, and said, “An excellent idea, Master Mizzrym.”
Jeggred snorted with contempt, and Quenthel fixed him with a stare that could have frozen a fire elemental. The serpent heads of her whip rose up and offered the draegloth a stare of their own.
“Nephew?” she said and made the word sound like an insult. “You wish to say something more, perhaps?”
Jeggred opened his mouth, but Danifae’s hand on his arm stopped him from saying whatever words he had thought to offer.
Instead, Danifae smiled her disarming smile and looked to Pharaun.
“Master Mizzrym has offered sage counsel,” she said, as though to Jeggred but really to Quenthel. “And Mistress Quenthel is wise to heed it.” She let that sit a moment before she cocked her pretty head and frowned. “Though, I’ve never before seen a male demonstrate such persuasion over a priestess of Lolth.”
Pharaun almost laughed aloud at the transparency of the play. Danifae hoped to weaken the relationship between Pharaun and Quenthel by intimating that the high priestess relied to an unseemly degree upon Pharaun.
“Hardly persuasion,” he replied. “But perhaps if she were not the only priestess in this little band to have demonstrated wisdom, she would not have to rely on the paltry suggestions of a mere male.”
Jeggred glared at him, fangs bare. Pharaun stared back at the oaf.
Danifae showed no sign that she had heard Pharaun. She had eyes only for Quenthel.
The Baenre priestess met Danifae’s stare with one of her own, gave a tight smile, and said, “Some males serve a purpose, battle-captive.” She too let that sit a moment before adding, “Of course, one must be careful in choosing which males best suit the purpose at hand.” Then she let her gaze settle contemptuously on Jeggred. “A priestess with a poor eye for choosing her male servants is often a dead priestess. Perhaps your draegloth has some sage counsel of his own to offer on the matter?”
“Counsel?” Jeggred snarled. “Here’s my counsel, you—”
“Jeggred,” Danifae interrupted and patted one of the draegloth’s fighting arms. “Be silent.”
The draegloth said no more.
“Your dog is well-trained,” Pharaun said, and Jeggred started to lunge at him.
Danifae caught his mane, and he halted in mid-stride. Pharaun held his ground and smiled.
Again, Danifae did not acknowledge Pharaun, instead saying to Quenthel, “No, Jeggred has nothing to say at the moment. He is a male and offers his counsel only when solicited by me.”
Pharaun could see the anger brewing behind Quenthel’s eyes. She walked up to Danifae—not even Jeggred dared get in her way, though he did stay beside the battle-captive—and stared down at the smaller female.
“My nephew has never been known for his intellect,” she said.
Danifae smiled and stroked the draegloth’s arm. “No, Mistress Quenthel,” she replied. “Just his loyalty.”
Quenthel’s expression hardened. She gave Danifae one last glare before turning to Pharaun and saying, “And I rely on only Lolth, male.”
When he heard those words, Pharaun knew that Danifae had accomplished exactly what she had hoped.
“Of course, Mistress,” he said, and nothing more, for there was nothing more to say. The damage was already done.
Behind Quenthel, Danifae offered him a knowing smile through the cuts on her face. Jeggred offered him a snarl of undisguised hate.
He ignored them both and said to Quenthel, “The cave, Mistress?”
She nodded and replied, “The cave. But first . . .”
The high priestess withdrew from an inner pocket of her piwafwi the wand of healing that she had stolen from Halisstra Melarn back in Ched Nasad. She touched it to herself and whispered the command word. The cuts on her face closed, the burns diminished, and her breathing grew easier. Afterward, she walked over, and without asking permission, touched it to Pharaun and repeated the process. Much to his relief, his nose healed, the charred mess of his hand regenerated, and the innumerable cuts and scratches on his torso closed.
“Thank you, Mistress,” he said with a bow.
Quenthel did not acknowledge his gratitude. She put the wand back in her cloak, turned to Danifae, and said, “No doubt, you will tend to yourself and your loyal draegloth.”
Pharaun offered Danifae a sneer. Likely, Danifae could tend to no one. Though Lolth had reawakened and both priestesses had spells at their command, it was rare for a priestess of Lolth to store many healing spells in her mind. Priestesses of Lolth destroyed, they did not heal. Quenthel could heal herself and Pharaun fully only because she had Halisstra’s wand.
To his surprise, Danifae smiled at Quenthel and said, “Lolth will tend to us. As always.”
“Quite so,” Quenthel replied with a cunning look.
Pharaun straightened his robes. At his feet, the cave mouth yawned. It sank almost vertically into the rock. Webs lined its walls, and stink leaked from it.
“After you, Mistress Danifae,” he said and gestured down at the cave, all
the while thinking, After all, there might be something dangerous down there.
Danifae twisted her beautiful face into a sneer and said, “Come, Jeggred, Master Mizzrym remains timid.”
The draegloth took her curvaceous body in his inner, smaller arms and lifted her from her feet.
“How quaint,” Pharaun observed.
The draegloth stared holes into the mage.
One of Danifae’s legs escaped her cloak. She wore tightfitting breeches, and the curve of her thigh and hip drew Pharaun’s eye, despite himself. She caught him eyeing her and did not cover her leg.
“Descend,” she said to Jeggred, all the while smiling seductively at Pharaun.
Jeggred touched his House Baenre brooch and levitated down into the cave mouth.
For Quenthel’s benefit, Pharaun signed after Danifae, Whore.
He looked up to find Quenthel staring at him, her expression unreadable. She drew her whip and stepped to the cave opening.
“Seal it behind us, mage,” she said.
She touched her own brooch and followed Danifae and her nephew down, whip bare and ready in the event of an ambush.
Pharaun stood a moment at the edge, watching the top of Quenthel’s head sink into the darkness. Quenthel had said to Danifae that some males served a purpose—he needed to make certain that she continued to think him one such.
For a moment, for a single tempting heartbeat, he considered abandoning her, abandoning the quest, but quickly dismissed the idea as ill-advised. Lolth was awake, and her priestesses again wielded the power of their goddess; things were returning to normal. Besides, Pharaun would be answerable to Gromph and House Baenre upon his return to Menzoberranzan for any direct or indirect harm he caused Quenthel.
With nothing else for it, he touched his House Mizzrym brooch and stepped out over the cave mouth. For a moment, he hovered there, listening to the darkness below, wondering whether Danifae and Jeggred would actually dare an ambush. He heard nothing and so descended until he floated just below the cave mouth. There, he withdrew from his pocket a round piece of polished granite, a stone he had purchased from a curio vendor in Menzoberranzan’s bazaar, long ago. He cradled it against his palm with his thumb, flattened his hands palms downward, and recited a series of arcane words.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 77