Quenthel reacted as would any dark elfin the same situation. She yearned to accept the challenge and kill the other female, felt the need like a sensual tension pressing for an explosive release. Either responding to her surge of emotion or else themselves vexed by Drisinil’s temerity, the whip vipers reared and hissed.
The problem was that, despite Quenthel’s assertions to the contrary, the students were not altogether devoid of importance. They were the raw but valuable ore sent to the Academy to be refined and hammered into useful implements. No one would fret over a few amputated pinkies, but the matron mothers did expect that, for the most part, their children would survive their education, an assumption the idiot Mizzrym renegade had already called into question. True, Pharaun had only lost males, but still, by any sensible reckoning, he had used up the school’s quota of allowable deaths for several years to come.
At this juncture it would be a poor idea for Quenthel to kill any student, certainly a scion of the powerful Barrison Del’Armgo. Quenthel didn’t want to stir up discord between the Academy and the noble Houses when Menzoberranzan already perched on the brink of dissolution.
Besides, she was a bit concerned that the other failed runaways might take it into their heads to jump into the fight on their ringleader’s side.
Quenthel quieted the vipers with a thought, fixed Drisinil with her steeliest stare, and said, “Think.”
“I have thought,” Drisinil retorted. “I’ve thought, why should we spend ten years of our lives cooped up on Tier Breche when there’s nothing for us here?”
“There is everything for you here,” said Quenthel, maintaining the pressure of her gaze. “This is where you learn to be all that a lady of Menzoberranzan must be.”
“What? What am I learning?”
“At the moment, patience and submission.”
“That’s not what I came for.”
“Evidently not. Consider this, then. All the priestesses of Menzoberranzan are currently playing a game, and the object of the game is to convince others that nothing is amiss. If a student leaves Arach-Tinilith prematurely, as none has ever done since the founding of the city, that will seem peculiar, a hint that all is not as it ought to be.”
“Perhaps I don’t care about the game.”
“Your mother does. She plays as diligently as the rest of us. Do you think she will welcome you home if you jeopardize her efforts?”
Drisinil’s emerald eyes blinked, the first sign that Quenthel’s stare was unsettling her. “I … yes, certainly she would!”
“You, a traitor to your House, your city, your sex, and the goddess herself?”
“The goddess—”
“Don’t say it!” Quenthel snapped. “Or your life ends, and your soul is bound to torment forevermore. I speak not only as Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, but as a Baenre. You remember Baenre, Barrison Del’Armgo? We are the First House, and you, merely the Second. Even if you should succeed in departing Arach-Tinilith, even if your gross and uncouth dam should be so unwise as to accept you back into that hovel you Del’Armgo call a home, you will not survive the month. My sister Triel, Matron Mother Baenre, will personally attend to your destruction.”
It was no less than the truth. There was no love lost between the two Baenre sisters, but when it came to maintaining the supremacy of their House, they supported one another absolutely.
Drisinil swallowed and lowered her eyes a hair. “Mistress, I mean no disrespect. I just don’t want to mutilate myself.”
“But you will, novice, and without any further delay. You really have no other option … and isn’t it convenient, you already have a knife in your grasp.”
Drisinil swallowed again, and, her dagger hand shaking a little, brought the blade into position to saw at her little finger. Quenthel thought the procedure might go easier if the novice walked a few steps and braced her pinkie atop the nearby table, but apparently she was taking “without any further delay” quite literally, and that was fine with the high priestess. In her imagination, she was already savoring the first slice when a blare like a sour note blasted from a hundred glaur horns split the air.
For an instant, Quenthel faltered, not frightened but disoriented. She had been told what this ugly noise was but had expected never to actually hear it. To the best of her knowledge, no one ever had.
The priestesses of Menzoberranzan enjoyed a complex relationship with the inhabitants of the Abyss. Some infernal entities were the knights or handmaidens of Lolth, and during worship were venerated as such, but on other occasions the clerics did not scruple to snare spirits with their summoning spells and compel them to do their bidding. Sometimes the creatures stalked the physical plane of their own volition, slaughtering any mortal who crossed their path, not excepting the drow, who were by some accounts their kindred.
The founders of the Academy had shielded Tier Breche in general and Arach-Tinilith in particular with enchantments devised to keep out any spirit save those the occupants saw fit to welcome. Countless generations of priestesses had deemed those wards impregnable, but if the ear-splitting alarm told true, the barriers were falling one by one.
The blare seemed to be coming from the south. The pleasures of chastisement forgotten, Quenthel ran in that direction past countless chapels, altars, and icons of Lolth in both her dark elf and spider forms; past the classrooms where the faculty gave instruction in dogma, ritual, divine magic, torture, sacrifice, and all the other arts the novices needed to learn. Their books, chalkboards, and whimpering, half-dissected slave victims forgotten, some of the teachers and students appeared on the brink of venturing out to investigate the alarm, while others still looked startled and confused.
The blaring stopped. Either the demon had given up attempting to force its way in, or else it had breached every single ward. Quenthel suspected the latter was the case, and when the screaming started, she knew she was right.
“Do you know what’s breaking through?” she panted.
“No,” hissed Yngoth, perhaps the wisest of the whip vipers. “The intruder has shielded itself from the Sight.”
“Wonderful.”
The echoing cries led Quenthel into a spacious candlelit hall filled with towering black marble sculptures of spiders, set there to make the temple’s entryway as impressive as possible. The battered valves of the great adamantine double door in the curved south wall gaped crookedly, half off their hinges, affording a glimpse of the plateau outside. Several priestesses lay battered and insensible on the floor. For a moment, Quenthel couldn’t make out what had caused the mess, then the culprit scuttled across her field of vision toward another hapless servant of Lolth.
The intruder was a gigantic spider bearing a close resemblance to the gleaming black effigies around it, and upon seeing it, Quenthel scowled at an unfamiliar and unwelcome pang of doubt.
On the one hand, the demon, if that was what it truly was, was attacking her pupils and staff, but on the other, it was a kind of spider, sacred to Lolth. Perhaps it was even her emissary, sent to punish the weak and heretical. Maybe Quenthel should simply step aside and permit it to continue its rampage.
It sensed her somehow, turned, and rushed toward her as if it had been looking for her all along.
Though many spiders possessed several eyes, this one, she observed, was exceptional beyond the point of deformity. The head behind the jagged mandibles was virtually nothing but a mass of bulging eyes, and a scatter of others opened here and there about the creature’s shiny black bulb of a body.
Its peculiarities notwithstanding, the spider’s manifest hostile intent resolved Quenthel’s uncertainty in an instant. She would kill the freakish thing.
The question was, how? She did not feel weak—she never had and never would—but she knew it was scarcely the optimal time for her to fight such a battle. On top of any other disadvantages, she wasn’t even wearing her mail tunic or piwafwi. She rarely did within the walls of Arach-Tinilith. For the most part, her minions feared her too much t
o attempt an assassination, and she had always been confident that she wouldn’t need armor to disappoint any who did not.
As she backed away from the charging spider, her slim, gleaming obsidian hands opened the pouch at her belt, extracted a roll of vellum, and unrolled it for her scrutiny, all with practiced ease and likewise with a certain annoyance, for the magical scroll was a treasure, and she was about to use it up. But it was necessary, and the parchment was scarcely the only magical implement hoarded within those walls.
Rapidly, but with perfect rhythm and pronunciation, she read the verses, the golden characters vanishing from the page as she spoke the words. Dark, heatless flame leaped from the vellum to the floor and shot across that polished surface faster than a wildfire propagating itself across a stand of dead, dry fungus, defining a path that led from herself to the demon.
The black conflagration washed over the demon’s dainty bladed feet. It should also have driven the many-eyed creature helplessly backward, but it didn’t. The arachnid kept coming nimbly as before, which was to say, considerably faster than the best effort of a drow.
“The spirit has defenses against the magic!” cried K’Sothra, perhaps the least intelligent of the whip vipers and certainly the one most inclined to belabor the obvious.
Quenthel wouldn’t have time to attempt another spell before the spider reached her, nor could she outrun it. She would have to out-maneuver it instead. Dropping the useless sheet of parchment, she turned and dived beneath the belly of one of the statues. Unless it had the power to shrink or shapeshift, the invader wouldn’t be able to negotiate the same low space.
She slid on the floor, rubbing her elbows hot. One of the snakes cursed foully when its scaly, wedge-shaped head rapped against the stone. She rolled over and saw that she had only bought herself a moment. No, the demon couldn’t slip under the statue but, clustered eyes glaring, it was rapidly clambering over the top of it. Up close, it had a foul, carrion smell.
Quenthel knew that if she permitted the spider to pounce down on her, the monster would hold her down and snip her apart with its mandibles. She sprang to her feet and swung her whip.
The vipers twisted in flight to bring their fangs to bear. Those poisonous spikes plunged deep and ripped downward, tearing gashes in some of the demon’s bulging, clustered eyes before yanking free. The organs gushed fluid and collapsed, and the serpents thrashed in joy.
Quenthel could feel their exultation through the psionic link they shared, but she knew it was premature. The spider had plenty of other eyes, and the stroke had only balked it for an instant. It was still going to spring.
Though caught without certain of her protections, Quenthel was at least wearing the necklace of dull black pearls. She reached up, slipped one of the enchanted beads from the specially crafted fine gold chain, and threw it at the spider.
White light blazed around her, seemingly emanating from all directions at once. Thanks be to Lolth, this time her magic had an effect. The spider slipped and floundered. Encased in an invisible sphere of magical force it thrashed about in panic. The explosion had opened horrid sores that speckled the creature’s body. Unfortunately, it seemed able to ignore whatever pain those wounds caused it and continued scratching at the restraining sphere. Blue-white sparks flashed at the tips of its feet, and Quenthel knew it was using more than brute force and panic to break free.
Speak to me, Quenthel thought, sure the words would be heard in the spider’s mind. She felt a connection, but a tenuous one, perhaps attenuated by the sphere of force.
The sphere faded as Quenthel swung the whip again, trying to smash through the creature’s hideous visage and into the brain that presumably lay behind it.
The spider sprang away as explosively as one of its tiny jumping cousins, arcing high and landing at the far end of the chamber behind a rank of sculptures. The spirit scuttled through the shadows, and even though Quenthel was watching intently, in another second she lost track of it.
Where are you? she sent.
The reply was a burst of anger from the creature no mere words could convey. Quenthel gave up trying to communicate with it, though if it was a servant of Lolth, it should respond to her.
“You could get out now, Mistress,” said Hsiv, the first imp Quenthel had bound inside a whip viper. “From over there, it couldn’t reach you before you run out the door.”
“Nonsense!” she snapped. “The brute disrupted my Academy, threatened my person, and I will have my vengeance.”
Infected with her anger, the banded vipers reared and hissed until she silenced them with a mental command.
One of the priestesses sprawled on the floor was moaning in pain. Quenthel stalked over to the spider’s victim and kicked her in the head, silencing her instantly.
The drow high priestess had eliminated all extraneous sounds, but it didn’t help her locate the spider. Save for the soft hiss of her own breathing, the chamber was silent.
Turning slowly, heart pounding, she inspected the arachnid effigies all around her. Did that jointed spindle of a leg just twitch? Did that head, coyly turned just enough that she couldn’t quite get an adequate look at it, possess too many eyes? Had the figure on the right shifted a hair closer when she wasn’t looking?
No, no, and no. It was just her imagination, trying to supply what observation had not.
She sniffed repeatedly, but that was no help, either. The spider’s stink hung in the air, but it seemed no stronger in one direction than another.
Curse it, the demon had to be somewhere!
Yes, she realized, but it didn’t have to still be on the floor, not if it could skitter up vertical surfaces like its smaller kindred.
Assuming the demon was clinging to the upper walls or ceiling it might have taken it a moment to shake off the shock of the flare and its ugly wounds, but surely it was creeping into the best position from which to leap down on its adversary.
Quenthel peered upward. The artists had decorated the shadowy highest reaches of the chamber as well. The ceiling was an octagonal web acrawl with painted spiders, providing splendid camouflage for the creature. If it was in fact crouching in their midst, she couldn’t see it.
Still scanning the ceiling, the whip vipers keeping watch as well, she backed to one of the wall sconces and read the trigger phrase from another scroll, whereupon the candle flame leaped up and turned a roiling black. She put her arm into the darkfire, and her flowing gossamer sleeve caught instantly.
Though they were at the end of what was, thus far, the non-burning arm, the serpents hissed and coiled in alarm. Quenthel brought them to heel with a brutal thrust of her will. Feeling naught but a pleasant warmth, she silently commanded the darkfire. A portion of the magical stuff flowed down her arm and congealed into a soft, semisolid ball in her palm. She threw it, and her magic shot it up like a sling bullet to strike the ceiling fresco where it splashed into a great gout of murky flame.
Quenthel followed that first missile with a steady barrage. Where the darkfire had kissed it, the fresco began to burn with ordinary yellow flame, suffusing the air with eye-stinging smoke and a vile stink that was also a sickening, throat-clenching taste at the back of her mouth.
She was throwing blindly, but with the blaze above spreading, it shouldn’t matter. Surely the spider wouldn’t simply sit still and allow itself to burn. The fire ought to spur it into motion and thus into visibility.
Unless, of course, the spider wasn’t really on the ceiling, which was a real possibility. Maybe it was actually hiding elsewhere. It might even be creeping up on her while she stared at the burning painting and the nervous vipers worried more about their proximity to a darkfire than about keeping watch.
No, her intuition had pointed her in the right direction. She spotted the spider as it gathered itself to spring down at her, and having flushed it out, she need only survive its renewed attack.
She dived from beneath its plummeting form and rolled, leaving a trail of black, burning scraps of cloth
behind on the floor. The creature with its tattered, oozing eyes landed with a thump, its eight legs flexing to absorb the impact.
Quenthel scrambled up and backed away from it. Her whole gown was aflame, nearly her entire body shrouded in darkfire. She threw another ball of the stuff, which spattered on the demon’s back and streamed down its flanks. To her delight, her magic affected it again. The spider too wore a mantle of shadowy flame, the heat rippling the air above it.
That meant it ought to drop, didn’t it, or at least flounder about in helpless agony? The fire was surely damaging it, for Quenthel could smell its flesh charring even through the omnipresent reek of burning paint, but the demon turned and scuttled after her.
She aimed the next burning missile at the cluster of eyes that seemed in some indefinable way to constitute the very core of the thing. The spider did lurch and falter when the burning darkness splashed over the orbs, but only for a second, and it kept coming.
Unable to outrun it, hoping she’d at least softened it up a little, Quenthel shouted her goddess’s name and lunged to meet it. Sheathed in darkfire, her whole body was a weapon and would burn the spider wherever it touched. Where the black flame on the monster’s limbs was giving way to yellow, it could burn her, too, but not if she didn’t let it. Their natural savagery overcoming their fear of fire, the whip vipers lashed and struck in a frenzy of bloodlust.
At first, swinging the whip, ducking and dodging, she kept herself clear of the spider’s mandibles. She shifted left when she should have jumped right, and the razor-sharp pincers snapped shut around her.
They stopped short of piercing her flesh. Loath to clasp her blazing body and be seared thereby, the spider faltered for just an instant. Before it could muster the will to proceed, Quenthel struck a final blow.
Dissolution Page 3