Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  The regent stopped before Mith Barak’s throne and bowed. “The regents are prepared to discuss battle strategies, my king,” he said.

  “Tomorrow,” Mith Barak said. “Today I’ll be interrogating the drow again.” The regent nodded, but Mith Barak saw the dismayed expression the dwarf tried to hide. “What is it?” he demanded in irritation. “Speak!”

  “My king,” the regent said, “drow patrols press closer to the city every day. If we’re to prepare our army against an assault, we must act quickly.”

  Mith Barak gazed at the pillars lining the hall, the dust-filled carvings in the ancient stone. “You see the names on these pillars, Regent? The scholars, smiths, the warrior priests, greatest dwarves of an age—all of them gone. The dead outnumber the living ten to one. It will not take nearly so long as you believe to prepare our army. What’s left of it.”

  Lost in his dark thoughts, he fell silent. He waited for the regent to leave, but the dwarf stayed, maybe waiting for him to change his mind. Maybe he sensed Mith Barak’s dangerous mood and didn’t want to leave him.

  As if he could do anything about it. Mith Barak gripped the arms of his throne, felt the indentations where his fingers had dug into the stone in his statue form. Over a century, they’d worn their mark while he slept, oblivious to the passage of time.

  No, not oblivious. To either time or pain.

  How much had he missed while he was trapped in that Astral void? How many births, deaths among his people? Without guidance, the city had stagnated during his sleep, unable to grow or prosper because its leader was absent, yet the people had been unwilling to replace him. Now when he finally had a chance to change things, the damned drow decide to attack.

  Mith Barak knew he should be out there now, among his soldiers, meeting with his council. Yet here he sat, on the same throne where he’d dwelled a century in stone, unable to make himself leave his hall unless it was to go down to the dungeons to interrogate Zollgarza. Worst of all was the knowledge that here on his throne, in his hall, was the only place he felt safe.

  I’m a fool. There are no more safe places.

  Mith Barak shook away those thoughts and stood. “Tomorrow, we’ll begin,” he said to the regent. “We don’t have time to indulge in past losses or regrets.”

  The regent bowed and left the audience chamber. Mith Barak listened to his boots echo on the stone and tried to swallow his bitterness.

  THE UNDERDARK

  21 UKTAR

  THE ENDLESS SERIES OF TUNNELS, DARK SPACES penetrated by flickering torchlight, and silence broken only by the hollow echoes of their footsteps were starting to give Icelin a terrible headache. How much farther before they wandered out the other side of Faerûn?

  Eventually, though, the tunnel before them emptied out into a barrel-shaped cavern, and Icelin heard the sound of rushing water. An underground river gushed over stones, and a forest of stalactites hung low over the water.

  “We’re not far from the city’s outer checkpoints,” Garn said.

  Icelin stared at the river, grateful for anything to look at besides dark tunnel walls. The water foamed around the stalagmites as if from the mouth of a crooked-toothed beast. Blue-green fungus grew among the rocks on the shoreline, and there were a few stepping stones out in the river itself, but these looked dangerously slick and barely large enough to hold one person.

  How many humans had actually crossed this river in all the centuries since its creation? Icelin had never dreamed, when they set out, that the dwarves would lead them this far into the Underdark. She’d never thought of herself as being afraid of tight spaces, but the idea of being so far from sunlight unnerved her. Yet another part of her thrilled to the idea that she walked in a cavern unknown to most of the people in Faerûn above. They had stepped into another world. If only Sull had been there to share the sights with her, Icelin would have been content.

  Well, content might not have been the best word, not while Ruen continued to irritate her. What had gotten into the man anyway? When they’d stood near the bridge, for a second he’d looked at her as if she were a stranger. She wondered what was in his mind. Would he tell her if she asked?

  A sharp hiss and twang cut the air, vibrating down the length of her staff. Icelin flinched. A black, spiny rod had embedded itself in her staff, just below the cage of light. Icelin brought the staff closer so she could see the object clearly.

  Her breath caught. Embedded in the wood was a crossbow quarrel, the kind fired from a single-handed weapon.

  Icelin opened her mouth to warn the others, when suddenly a second black quarrel buried itself in her arm. Staring at the missile in shock, Icelin at first didn’t feel any pain. Blood welled and flowed in a warm trickle down her arm. Icelin found her voice. “We’re under attack!” she cried.

  More hisses echoed in the cavern. “Get down!” Garn shouted.

  Ruen spun, flung his torch in the river and dragged Icelin to the ground behind some rocks. Obrin crouched beside them. Grunting, he drew his axe and gestured to the middle of the river.

  Icelin clutched her wounded arm and looked through a crack between two rocks. In the middle of the river, three figures levitated near one of the larger stalactites. One wore wizard’s robes, and the other two wore armor that fit their slender bodies like a second skin. These two reloaded hand crossbows. Even in the dim red light of her staff, Icelin could appreciate their graceful forms, elegantly pointed ears, and obsidian skin.

  Icelin shouldn’t have been surprised to see the drow in the Underdark, but knowing such beings existed in the world, and seeing them firsthand, was quite a different experience.

  Red eyes—a wave of fascination and revulsion swept over Icelin. The tales don’t prepare you for seeing such burning eyes.

  Throbbing pain in her arm reminded Icelin that they were not safe even crouched behind these rocks. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped blood-soaked fingers around the quarrel’s shaft and pulled it out. Flesh tore as streaks of fiery pain shot up her arm. When she could stand it, Icelin examined the barbed weapon. A mixture of blood and a black, ichor-like substance coated the point.

  “Are you all right?” Ruen asked, his gaze traveling from her wound to the drow and back again, as if he couldn’t decide which danger to address first.

  “The quarrels are poisoned,” Icelin said. Her fingers shook when she touched her wound. A numbing fatigue traveled up her arms, weighing them down. “I think it’s a sleep poison. At least I hope it is and not something worse.”

  The fatigue quickly spread to her chest, her legs—Icelin rolled onto her side, putting her back against the wet rocks by the river. The frigid water revived her a little. She had to stay alert, but all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep.

  “Hold on,” Ruen said. He yanked up Icelin’s sleeve and covered the wound, then folded her fingers around her staff. “Keep the light down,” he said. “Don’t make yourself a target.”

  “Come ashore and fight us, you bloody cowards!” shouted Garn, drawing Icelin’s attention momentarily away from her wound. He made a sharp gesture. A ribbon of water coiled up from the river and encircled his hand, forming the shape of another rune. The water snapped out, its foam crests like barbs that lashed at the drow crossbowmen and caused them to waver in midair.

  The drow wizard raised his hands, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the blows. Water slapped the skin of his cheeks with audible cracks. His red eyes burned, and he shouted in incoherent fury.

  “Like that, did you?” Garn’s deep, taunting laughter echoed in the cavern. “I’ll have you down from there. See if I don’t!”

  The drow wizard shouted something in an unfamiliar tongue, snarling the words as his hands clawed the air in a complex gesture. A curtain of flame rose at the wizard’s feet and rippled across the river.

  “Get down!” Icelin cried, and Ruen, who had been moving among the stones, making his way to the river, went down on his belly. Flames roared over their heads, leaving a trail of stea
m over the river that temporarily obscured the drow.

  “Got them angry now!” Garn touched the rocks along the shoreline, tracing symbols furiously as he crawled to where Icelin and Ruen crouched. “Watch your heads, you two,” he told them and splayed his hand against the nearest stone.

  A burst of gold light shot up from the rocks, pushing the flames back to the edge of the river and creating a pocket of protection around them. Steam still rose in thick clouds. They couldn’t see the drow, but at least the drow couldn’t see them either.

  Ruen again began crawling to the river. “What are you doing?” Icelin demanded. “The river’s still covered in fire.”

  “You’re right.” Ruen took off his hat and tossed it to her. “Don’t let this get burned.”

  Icelin caught the hat and suppressed the urge to hurl it into the fire. “You idiot! If the flames don’t get you, the river’s current will! You won’t be able to get to them.” Icelin reached out to grab his arm and missed.

  Ruen leaped to his feet and ran toward the river. He jumped through the flames beyond Garn’s protective barrier and disappeared. A breath passed, and Icelin heard a splash. She looked over the rocks, but Ruen was underwater.

  When she glanced back, she saw that Obrin paced the riverbank behind Garn’s barrier, prowling like a caged beast. He twirled his axe in his hands, hairy knuckles gripping the handle.

  Seeing his distress, Icelin brought her staff up close to her face. The dwarf needed to be able to get at the drow through the fire and steam, and Icelin wanted to make sure Ruen was all right. That meant getting rid of the fire. Her body was still sluggish from the poison, but manipulating water was not a difficult spell, not with the cave breezes to aid her, and the staff guided and focused her energy.

  Whispering the words of the spell, Icelin held up the staff. She pointed it across the river, and a burst of air shot out, stirring up waves. The roiling water from her spell pierced the curtain of fire and quelled it. Cool air flowed through the cavern in the wake of the blaze. When the steam dissipated, Icelin saw the drow wizard was still standing on air in the middle of the river. One of the drow warriors had levitated high above and hovered near the cavern ceiling, his hand crossbow held at the ready. The third drow was nowhere in sight.

  The missing warrior didn’t seem to trouble Obrin. He shouted a laugh and hurled his axe at the drow hovering near the ceiling. The weapon spun end over end, black horns flashing. The drow tried to dodge, but it was too late. Obrin’s axe impaled the warrior in the chest with a sickening thud. The force of impact bent the drow’s lithe body backward and knocked him out of the grip of the levitation spell. He fell into the river, and both he and the axe disappeared beneath the water.

  “You’re outmatched, little drow!” Garn shouted at the wizard. “Your spells won’t protect you forever.”

  The wizard laughed scornfully. “You hardly have the advantage, dwarf,” he answered in Common. “One of your comrades is weak from our poison, and the other is missing a weapon. How much longer will your own magic protect you? Why don’t you retreat to your city? We’ll root you out there eventually, but why not claim some peace while you can?”

  Icelin watched Garn’s face. She expected him to react with anger, to strike out at the drow with his axe as Obrin had done, but Garn’s expression remained a mask of impassivity. He went to stand next to Obrin, and the two of them exchanged a glance. Garn murmured, “We’re not lost yet, wizard,” and touched the axe on his belt. The runes along the blade flashed.

  Obrin held out his hands, palms up, and his own axe materialized in the air. Obrin took the weapon, smiled faintly, and nodded to his father.

  The drow’s gloating expression vanished. Furiously, he began casting again—conjuring shields, Icelin guessed, so he wouldn’t find himself with Obrin’s axe blade protruding from his stomach.

  Ruen burst from the river, coughing and scrubbing water out of his eyes. The second drow crossbowman surfaced in front of him. A dagger glinted in his grip, reflecting the light from Icelin’s staff.

  “Ruen!” Icelin screamed.

  Ruen grabbed the drow’s wrist before he could stab him with the weapon. They grappled with each other and the current for a breath, but Ruen was the stronger. He turned the dagger aside and forced the drow’s arm down, driving the weapon into the warrior’s own stomach. Ruen pushed the drow’s body aside, letting the river carry it away.

  Icelin picked up Ruen’s hat and went to the shoreline. Ruen swam across, fighting the current, and pulled himself, dripping, from the water. He accepted his hat gravely and put it on his head.

  “Are you all right?” Icelin asked.

  He nodded. “And you?”

  “Well enough.” Icelin leaned on her staff for support. Her sleeve had stopped the bleeding. Weakness dragged at her limbs, but she gritted her teeth against it. She’d been in the Underdark less than a day, and already she was sick of it. “Your comrades are gone, and I’m strong enough to hurl more spells at you,” she shouted at the drow wizard. “Surrender!”

  Shields in place, the wizard turned to look at Icelin. His eyes changed, the red light deepening with hatred and a resolve that frightened her. Cornered as he was, he’d kill himself and all of them before he let himself be taken. The drow raised his hands and so did Icelin, spitting out the words to one of her most potent spells. She did it without thinking.

  Or considering the consequences.

  Her staff clattered to the ground as an all too familiar wave of sickness washed over her, a clawing sensation in her stomach that spread outward to her limbs. She tried to concentrate on the spell, but it was too big, a wild thing growing inside her. On a broken cry, Icelin thrust her arms out from her body.

  Lightning erupted from her hands, but what should have been a contained burst instead manifested as huge, jagged bolts that sizzled from her flesh and raised the hair all over Icelin’s body. Stalactites rained down from the cavern ceiling as the lightning tore through them. Loud cracks and pops filled the air, and amid the chaos came the wizard’s scream. Lightning had burned through his spell shields all at once.

  “Icelin!”

  Ruen’s voice came to her distantly, through the blue blur of the electrical storm. “Stay away! All of you get away from me!” She screamed and bent double, clutching her stomach to try to rein in the spell, but the lightning came from everywhere: her hands, arms, and chest. Smoke rose around her, and even the blood from her wound took on an eldritch blue radiance.

  Gods, I’m bleeding magic now, Icelin thought. The smell of charred flesh filled her nostrils, making her gag. She prayed that only the drow wizard had been killed by her lightning. But what if it wasn’t his burning flesh she smelled? What if Ruen had gotten too close?

  It was too much. Icelin’s legs gave out, and she fell, curling into a ball on the cavern floor. She stopped fighting the sleep poison, let it cloud her mind and numb her limbs. Sparks burst in the air, bright pops in front of Icelin’s eyes, but the storm appeared to be dying down. The poison might even be helping to calm the lightning storm of magic. Icelin never thought she’d be grateful to the drow for that favor.

  Her eyes drifted closed, and when she opened them, Ruen and Garn were leaning over her. Obrin stood behind them, keeping watch. They were alive, their flesh not charred and stripped away by lightning. Icelin almost couldn’t think beyond her relief, but then she saw Ruen’s face. It was a tight, pale mask, his eyes wide.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Slowly, Icelin sat up, aware of Ruen’s arm at her back, supporting her. “I think so,” she said. It was mostly a lie, but she didn’t want to worry him more. A hollow sensation had taken over her body, a lightness, as if she’d been emptied of all her energy at once. Right now, she was a shell. The sensation would pass but not quickly. Her arm ached, and the poison still coursed through her, but Icelin thought she could walk if she had to.

  “Damn impressive sight,” Garn said, chuckling. “You burned that
wizard to a crisp, girl.”

  Well, at least I made someone happy, Icelin thought. A lump rose in her throat, but she couldn’t even cry. Maybe the magic had burned the tears out of her too.

  Obrin lifted his axe and gave a sudden cry. Icelin tensed, but then she realized there was no alarm in the dwarf’s voice. His cry had been one of greeting.

  “Is everyone all right?” called a voice from across the river.

  Icelin turned. On the opposite bank, torchlight shone through a narrow tunnel, the place where Garn had been leading them before the attack. A cluster of dwarves stood at the tunnel mouth.

  “You said to wait, and I waited, now let me through, damn you all!”

  The familiar, grumbling voice made Icelin tremble with relief. Sull broke through the group of dwarves, but finding no bridge across the river, he paced back and forth along the shoreline.

  “Are you all right, Icelin?” he called to her. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “Hurt her?” Garn said. “Did you see that lightning storm?”

  Ruen’s hand clenched into a fist. Icelin wished Garn would stop sounding so damned pleased. “We’re fine, Sull,” she said, offering the butcher a weary smile. “We came to rescue you.”

  “We heard the fightin’ and got here just in time to see the light show, but these two wouldn’t let me go to you,” Sull complained, pointing to a pair of female dwarves. The taller of the two was fair-haired, and the other had mahogany braids similar to Obrin’s. They both had axes identical to Obrin’s and Garn’s hanging from their belts, down to the three black horns. Echoes of Garn’s features showed up in the women’s faces, though only faintly in the fair-haired one.

  “Are those your sisters?” Icelin asked Obrin. The dwarf only grunted, but it sounded to Icelin like an affirmative.

  “We came back when we heard the fighting. We were worried those two were giving you trouble,” said the dark-haired dwarf woman in Common. “I see it was the drow instead.”