Arathane’s bodyguards cut down several web masses without drawing any response from hidden observers. Chant realized he was clenching his teeth. He opened and closed his mouth several times, massaging his jaw.
“Should we help?” asked Jaul.
“Yeah. Let’s see if we can do anything for these folks,” said Chant. He squatted down next to one of the cocoons. He set aside his crossbow and swallowed. He really, really didn’t want to touch it but … Jaul passed him one of his red knives, and Chant cut at the webbing. The body proved to be … far past saving. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, only that the body had been sucked dry as a mummy’s husk. A faint smell, like lavender and musk, curled up from the corpse. Chant’s stomach heaved. He stood up suddenly and turned away.
“Nope,” said Jaul, taking his knife back. “No helping him.” The young man scratched his chin and looked around at the other cocoons.
The pawnbroker frowned at his son’s lack of reaction. It was a body-they were surrounded by dead people-killed by some kind of web-spinning horror. Didn’t he understand the same thing could happen to them?
“We need to see what’s down in the mine,” Demascus said. He looked at Arathane. She nodded.
Oh great, thought Chant. Wasn’t this evidence enough that hurling an army at Tymanther’s capital of Djerad Thymar would be exactly the wrong move?
“I’m guessing freakishly large spiders,” Riltana said. “Fist! I hate spiders!”
Arathane directed one peacemaker to finish cutting down the corpses. The remaining bodyguard took up position a pace behind the queen.
“Which one should we try first?” said Riltana. She pointed to three distinct mine heads poking up from the depot floor. Each was an elevator shaft terminus and was surmounted by a big iron wheel around which wound slender but presumably strong cord. Chant imagined each cord was attached to a platform that could be raised or lowered to deep levels of the mine. He noticed Jaul casually walking past each shaft terminus in turn, nodding as he examined the mechanisms.
“Arathane?” said Demascus.
The queen shook her head. “I never came farther than-”
“I bet I know which one we should try first,” said Jaul. The bodyguard stiffened at the queen being interrupted, but Arathane didn’t seem to notice.
“You do?” Chant blurted.
“Sure,” said Jaul. He returned to the first wheel and said, “This one.”
“Why that one?” said Demascus.
“See those?” He gestured to a long parchment attached to a post, filled with scribbled notes. Each mine head contained a similar posting. “Maintenance logs. If miners kept good accounts on each shaft, the log will tell us how much maintenance each elevator had. The more they’re used, the more strain on the wheel, the more danger to the miners, and so on. Which means the one with the most grease on the wheels, the least rust on the lines, and so on, got the most maintenance, and probably was used most.”
Chant blinked. How did Jaul know that? His son usually wasn’t one for brilliant displays of logic. On the other hand, the habit of thinking things through was something the pawnbroker had always worked to instill in his son.
Jaul pointed. “And this one gets three times as much maintenance as the other two.”
“All of which means …?” said Riltana
“That this shaft leads to the richest seam of arambarium, probably.” A smug smile lit his face. “So anyone trying to steal the mineral would-”
“Infiltrate the portion of the mine where it was most concentrated. The part of the mine served by that elevator,” finished Demascus.
Chant nodded. That actually … made sense. Pride filled him. He’d secretly been afraid that Jaul’s only aspiration was to serve as thug under Master Raneger. But the boy obviously had a mind of his own, and a sharp one at that. Which meant, eventually, he’d see that Ranenger wasn’t someone worthy of admiration.
“Assuming, of course, the drow are as smart as you,” said Riltana. “And aren’t somewhere below pursuing dust in a played-out seam.”
“The drow have been here more than long enough to discover the richest vein,” said Arathane. “We’ll try the one Jaul suggested first.”
They all crowded around the wheel, the dark cord of which dangled into darkness. Three levers protruded from an iron box mounted next to the wheel. The middle one was probably a brake. So the other two …
“Where’s the platform?” said Riltana.
Chant pulled a lever before anyone could tell him not to. Something clunked; probably a counterweight shifting. The wheel lurched into motion. It gradually wound more and more of its dangling cord onto its spool, creaking and squealing in protest.
“It needs more grease,” said Demascus.
The platform emerged into the light, still some way below the lip of the shaft. It was an iron-reinforced square of hardwood, complete with railing, suspended from each corner. Three creatures slouched along the platform’s railing. They were white-haired elves with skin the color of coal from the waist up. But their legs and lower bodies were giant spiders!
“Fist!” cursed Riltana, stumbling back from the shaft lip.
Chant recognized them from the bestiary in his pawnshop. “Driders!”
The largest of the three spit something into the air-
everything went black. Chant couldn’t move his hands or feet. Sounds were muffled. And when he felt himself falling, something sticky held his mouth closed! He came down hard on something. It knocked the breath out of him, but at least the immediate impact meant he wasn’t plummeting down the shaft.
“Pa!” He recognized Jaul’s shout.
“Hey, watch it!” yelled Riltana.
“They’re coming!” came an unfamiliar voice. The bodyguard?
Sharkbite! Chant realized what his problem was-he’d been webbed by the damn drider. He had to get free! He thrashed for all he was worth, as screams, clangs, and the sound of metal through flesh whirred around him.
A buzzing, accented voice spoke. “Leave the primordial mother lode to us, and we’ll vanish again and trouble your upworld existence no further. Continue to disturb us, and Lolth shall send her swarming, many-legged assassins to your bedchambers.”
A resonant snap echoed across the depot, followed by the sound of a wheel whirring faster and faster. Several long moments passed, then a tremendous crash, attenuated as if the sound had traveled far. Perhaps as far as the bottom of a lift shaft? Someone must have cut the cord holding the platform!
Someone asked Chant, “You all right?”
Was that Riltana’s voice? Something cold pressed against the side of his face. He flinched.
“Easy, I’m cutting you loose. Don’t jump, leech-son, or you’ll lose an ear.”
Definitely Riltana.
A moment later, he was mostly free of the entangling strands, and he rubbed his hands and eyes. As he’d guessed, the ascending wheel spun freely, with no cord. Demascus stood next to the mechanism with his swords in hand. The driders had been dropped to the bottom of the shaft, hopefully to their collective deaths.
Chant cleared his throat. “Any way to seal this shaft? If those driders aren’t dead, they’ll just climb back up the sides-they’re spiders.”
Jaul took four steps over to a lever with a red handle. “I bet this releases the capstone,” he said, and yanked it. A minor tremor shook the floor. A hollow boom preceded a billowing cloud of rock dust up the shaft. Jaul coughed and nodded. “It’d take an excavation team a day to clear that rubble.”
“Nice work,” the queen told Jaul. She peeled webbing from her torso with a free hand. Her other arm was webbed to her side.
Jaul beamed. Chant looked around. Demascus and Riltana were web free. And the bodyguard … was simply gone.
“You’ve got your proof, Your Highness,” said Riltana. “This is a drow incursion. We should head back to Airspur, tell the Four Stewards the real deal, and do whatever a monarch does when dark elves are discove
red sneaking around her queendom. Oh yeah, and write that letter on my behalf to your favorite niece …”
The queen nodded thoughtfully, but not in agreement. “What did those creatures mean about finding the mother lode? The ‘primordial’ mother lode?”
“Simple enough,” said Chant. “They’re after the largest, oldest concentration of arambarium. If you let them remove it, they’ll leave Akanul for good.”
“For good,” said the queen, stretching the last word out. “Are drow known for dealing in truth?”
The pawnbroker shrugged. “Well, what? You want to go down after them? Driders are nothing to mess around with-they’re champions of the race. The dark elves think driders are manifestations of Lolth’s will! If a drider threatens you in Lolth’s name, you better pay attention.”
“I recall these creatures,” said Demascus. “And from what I can remember … driders answer to drow priestesses. The ones we just encountered are probably on Chenraya Xorlarrin’s leash, not Lolth’s.”
Chant opened his mouth to tell the deva he was an idiot to consider anything but heading back to the Green Siren, but paused when the queen’s hand went up.
“I’m not willing to cede the realm’s largest concentration of arambarium to drow looters. Nor are we powerless to stop them.” She snapped her fingers. An answering peal of thunder shook the mine depot’s roof. Demascus grinned in delight.
Chant shook his head. Yep. Idiots. “But the shaft down to the deposit is destroyed, thanks to Jaul.”
“Well …” said Jaul. “We could go down one of these secondary shafts. Then make our way through side tunnels to the main face. It’d take longer, but we’d get there eventually.”
His son was too smart for his own good. “When did you become such an expert on mines?” demanded Chant.
Jaul shrugged. “You’re not the only one who likes to read, Pa.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ITHIMIR ISLE
20 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Chenraya Xorlarrin touched the dagger tip to the whimpering genasi’s chest. He was one of the few miners still alive. The torture hadn’t managed to kill him like the others. She’d thought his mind was shattered, but by the way he jerked against the bonds he’d apparently retained enough sense of self-preservation to realize what was in store for him. The culmination of the ritual she’d been murmuring and chanting the last half hour approached. His eyes sought hers above the muffling gag, wide with appeal. As if that would sway her not to sacrifice him.
The imbecile’s soul would be consumed by Lolth. He should be grateful. How many creatures on or beneath Toril could claim such exaltation? The priestesses of House Xorlarrin had been commanded by Matron Mother Zeerith to avoid any communion with Lolth during the next half year. Zeerith, who was rumored to be profaning her body by lying down with a man, had the right to make such a request as Matron Mother of the house. Just as Chenraya had the right to ignore it.
It was time to inform Lolth that House Xorlarrin was about to grant the goddess a wonderful boon, and more important, that Chenraya was responsible. Lolth wanted her daughters to gather certain things: blueflame items, the remains of powerful wizards once precious to Mystra, and relics of immense power. It was the latter that Chenraya was about to gain for Lolth. But if allowed, Matron Mother Zeerith would claim the glory for herself. Chenraya’s station wouldn’t advance the width of a spider’s shadow. It was a gamble. Lolth could choose to punish Chenraya for impudence in attempting direct contact. The possibility was real. Chenraya could be transformed into a mindless servitor, a brute drider, or some other humiliating creature.
But the Spider Queen sometimes rewarded initiative among her followers. And of all the drow scurrying across Faerun to find the elements or to retake the surface lands Lolth desired, Chenraya judged herself closest to succeeding. She’d finally uncovered the relic!
Chenraya pushed harder on the dagger and chanted the last words of the ritual. The skin of the sacrifice dimpled, then split. Blood welled in the wound, glowing with the power of her arcane working. She drew the dagger up toward the ceiling, and a line of blood followed, more like a web than fluid. She pulled the dagger through the air in a clockwise motion, creating a circle of glowing blood in empty space. When she completed the design, she uttered the final word of her spell and plunged the dagger straight through the sacrifice’s heart. His last sound was a gurgle. The man’s soul energized the annulus. Through it, Chenraya could see a misty expanse and something huge and black. Perhaps a spider the size of a small village? Communion was imminent!
Chenraya realized her mouth was so dry she couldn’t wet her lips. She was more nervous then she’d admitted to herself. She cleared her throat, then said in a hoarse voice, addressing the floating portal, “Lolth, Spider Queen and Queen of the Demonweb Pits, I-”
“WHO?” A voice thundered into Chenraya’s consciousness. It battered aside her defenses, all her layers of ego and experience, and raked her naked soul. It was the Demon Queen Lolth, or actually, the priestess understood, a splinter of the Spider Queen’s divine attention. Chenraya tried and failed again and again to formulate an answer. Chenraya realized she might have just made her very last mistake.
Lord Pashra swept into the cave. His huge frame threw a shadow across the limp body on the altar and across the floating annulus hung in midair. The moment the oni’s shadow bisected the floating circle, it collapsed into a splatter of blood across the dead genasi’s chest. The overwhelming presence pinning Chenraya’s mind like a moth on a placard whispered away in the same instant.
The priestess slumped, catching herself on the edge of the altar.
“Chenraya!” said Pashra. “They’re here! On the island!”
“Who … who’s here?” What was the oni talking about? She was having difficulty focusing. Her mind felt as if it’d barely withstood the impact of a sledgehammer. It hadn’t shattered, but tiny cracks splintered all through it.
“Who do you think? The spies who found us at the warehouse, who ventured into the Demonweb. The white-haired man, the windsoul, and a few others. They threw our greeting force back down the main shaft and sealed it! Only one drider survived the fall.
What should we do?”
The image of the pale-haired man with tattoos the color of gray clouds gave her something to focus on. That one was dangerous. Something about him raised the hairs on her neck like flexing spider legs …
She pushed away from the altar and straightened. Pashra’s intrusion would normally have thrown her into a rage. However, given that the oni’s interruption had probably saved her from the direct attention of a vengeful goddess, Chenraya decided to defer punishment for a later date. For now …
“I’ll prepare an ambush with the full force of my harem and slaves,” she said. “You see about unsealing the main shaft. It’s time for you to carry your weight in this partnership.”
The oni frowned. “Without me, you’d never have known the relic existed, let alone its location.”
She shrugged. “That’s in the past; we’re in the present, dear Pashra. See that you clear our exit. I’ll make certain our troublesome guests find the end they so obviously crave. If my slave-soldiers and harem can’t eliminate them, half the weight of a collapsing island falling on them will.”
Pashra growled but kept his thoughts to himself as he departed.
Chenraya stood in the silence of her cave for a moment, looking at the failed results of her ritual. Then she made a fist and slammed it down on the immobile body.
“All for nothing!” she screamed. If retrieving the relic hidden in this clot of alien landscape wasn’t enough to garner Lolth’s favor, what would be? The priestess smashed the corpse one more time for good measure, then turned to leave.
That’s when she heard a tiny voice in her head. So small at first she thought she imagined it. But when the meaning finally penetrated, fear as cold as the wind off the great glacier chilled her blood.
�
��I’m watching you, daughter. Do not disappoint.”
Riltana hated being underground. The air was lifeless. It barely stirred itself to her desire, and even then, only with dragging petulance. It smelled faintly of sulfur and … urine? Was that even possible? Probably-who knew how many excavators had been here, relieving themselves in dark corners. Her nose wrinkled. Mine air was bad air, through and through. The stone walls were chipped and ridged with the cuts of picks, shovels, and magical blasts. Every so often they came across a hair-wide seam of silvery mineral. Queen Arathane said it was low-grade arambarium, not worth digging out when higher-grade ore was more easily extractable in other places. Wood spars at irregular intervals marked their progress. Except they’d been down here for what felt like hours already. She’d lost track of time and spars.
“How far now?” she asked.
Demascus shrugged as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Right; she knew better. Well, she hoped she knew better.
Jaul’s head was bent over a sheaf of parchment in his hands, where he was sketching tunnels on a crude map. “We’re close,” he said.
“You said that an hour ago.”
“This time, we are.”
She sighed and bottled up an acid comeback. Probably not the time to risk precipitating violence. The queen already didn’t think the windsoul was a good friend for her niece. Riltana didn’t want to add fuel to that fire by acting out too much. Arathane likely wouldn’t go back on her promise to intercede on Riltana’s behalf, but why be needlessly stupid?
Instead Riltana rubbed her palms together and pictured a small yellow sphere. The Prisoner’s Stone fell out of glovespace into her hand. She rolled it between her fingers. Its slight weight was reassuring. If worse came to worst, it might allow her to get out of the mine. Its power to break bonds of every other sort had always functioned when she needed it. Though she wasn’t quite sure how the magic worked. Would the stone’s power to break artificial bonds of imprisonment allow her to squirm free from tons of entombing rock, too? Her stomach churned at the thought.
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