Pharaun turned back as well, just in time to see a mass of undercreatures rushing him. He snatched three smooth gray stones from a pocket and started to recite a spell. Ryld’s greatsword flicked across the wizard’s field of vision, killing two gnolls that sought to engage him, allowing him to finish the incantation unmolested.
A cloud of vapor boiled into existence in front of him. Those orcs and goblins caught in the fumes collapsed. Others recoiled to avoid their touch.
The fog blinked out of existence a heartbeat later.
“I’m afraid I can’t permit you to kill us and sell the corpses to the authorities,” Pharaun told the crowd, “and I’m shocked— shocked!—you would even try. Aren’t you pleased we massacred a patrol?”
“They don’t want the priestesses to find you here,” said Bruherd. He hadn’t made a move during the skirmish. Perhaps he’d frozen, or maybe he’d figured his best hope of survival lay in passivity. “I don’t, either. They’re liable to kill us, too.”
“How disappointing,” Pharaun said. “And here I thought Ryld and I had found a cozy enclave of kindred spirits. But of course we won’t force our company on those who lack the rarified sensibility to appreciate it. Neither, however, will we quit this place before we slake our thirst. You goblins and whatnot will have to withdraw. Good evening.”
The undercreatures glowered. The mage could tell what they were thinking. They were many, and the intruders only two. Yet they’d seen what those two could do, and after a moment, they started trudging out, leaving their unconscious comrades sprawled on the floor.
“You’re crazy,” Bruherd told the masters. “You need to keep your heads down very low for a few years. Give the matrons and the Academy time to forget.”
“Alas,” Pharaun said, “I suspect I’m unforgettable. You too may depart if you can bear to tear yourself away.”
“Crazy,” the outcast repeated.
He limped for the stairs and in a moment was gone like the rest.
Pharaun walked behind the bar. “Now,” he said, “to begin drow’s eternal search for the stuff that bubbles.”
Ryld surveyed the slumbering goblins as if pondering whether to stick his sword in them.
“I still think this is a bad idea,” the weapons master said.
Careful not to soil his boots, Pharaun stepped around the two bloody pieces of the barkeep and inspected a rack of jugs and bottles.
“You always say that, and you’re always mistaken. The goblinoids will carry word of our whereabouts far and wide. The rogues are bound to hear.”
“As will your sister and everyone else we’ve managed to annoy.”
Pharaun uncorked a jug. The pungent liquid inside didn’t seem to be fizzing, so he moved on.
“Care to make a wager on who’ll arrive first?”
“Either way,” Ryld snorted, “we wind up dead.”
“Had I wished to hear the dreary voice of pessimism, I would have detained our friend Bruherd,” the wizard said as he inspected a jar full of cloudy liquid. “Here’s a jar of pickled sausages if you care to break your fast, but I won’t vouch for the ingredients. I think I see a kobold’s horn floating in the brine.”
He opened a glass bottle with a long, double-curved neck, and the contents hissed.
“Aha! I’ve found the draught the Duskryn recommended.”
“Someone’s here,” said Ryld.
The mage turned. Two figures were descending the stairs. They looked like orcs, with coarse, tangled manes and lupine ears, but Pharaun’s silver ring revealed that the appearance was an illusion, disguising dark elf males. The wizard saw the masks as translucent veils lying atop the reality.
He conveyed the truth of the situation to Ryld with a rapid flexing and crooking of his fingers.
“Gentlemen,” said the mage, “well met! My comrade and I have been looking everywhere for you.”
“We know,” said the taller of the newcomers, evidently not surprised that a Master of Sorcere had instantly penetrated his disguise. He was Houndaer Tuin’Tarl, one of the highest ranked of the missing males, likewise one of the first to elope, and thus almost certainly one of the ringleaders. Certainly he looked like a princely commander of lesser folk. His rich silk and velvet garments, the magical auras of many of his possessions, and strutting demeanor all proclaimed it. He wore crystals in his thick, flowing hair—a nice effect—had close-set eyes and a prominent jaw, and looked as if he knew how to manage the scimitar hanging at his side. He also looked rather tense
“We’ve known for a while,” said the other stranger, whom Pharaun didn’t recognize.
At first glance, he appeared to be a nondescript commoner, with the squint and small hands of a craftsman proficient at fine work. However, the dagger tucked in his sash fairly blazed with potent enchantments, as did an object concealed within his jerkin. Evidently he’d layered one disguise on another.
“Well,” said Ryld, “you took your time contacting us. I guess that’s understandable.”
“I think so,” said Houndaer as he and his comrade advanced. A goblin moaned, and the noble kicked the creature silent. “Why were you seeking us?”
“It’s our understanding,” said Pharaun, stepping from behind the bar, “that you offer a haven for males who find existence under the thumbs of their female relatives uncongenial and who, for whatever reason, aspire neither to the Academy, a merchant clan, nor Bregan D’aerthe. If so, then we wish to join your company.”
“But you two already did aspire to the Academy,” the aristocrat said. “You rose to high rank there. Some might say that gives my associates and I cause for concern.”
The orc mask’s tusked mouth perfectly copied the motions of his actual lips. Pharaun couldn’t have created a better illusion himself.
“You speak of the dead past,” Pharaun said. “You’ve no doubt heard I’m in disgrace, and Master Argith finds Melee-Magthere stale and tedious.” The dark powers knew, his discontented friend shouldn’t have much trouble convincing them of that. “We require an alternative way of life.”
Houndaer nodded and replied, “I’m glad to hear it, but what assurances can you give that you aren’t an agent the matrons sent to find us?”
Pharaun grinned. “My solemn oath?”
Everyone chuckled, even Ryld and the boy with the dagger, who were both quietly, thoughtfully watching their more loquacious companions palaver.
“Seriously,” the wizard continued, “if our escapade in the Bazaar failed to convince you of our bona fides, I have no idea what other persuasion we can offer. But it didn’t fail, did it? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. So unless you perceive something in our manner that screams spy . . .”
The faux commoner smiled. “You’re right.” He turned to Houndaer and added, “They smell all right to me, and if they’re not, I doubt a little quizzing in this stinking goblin hole will prove otherwise. Let’s get them home before some servant of the clergy comes sniffing for them and finds us. Either way, it’ll all get sorted out in the end.”
For a moment, as the power of Pharaun’s silver ring wavered, the drow’s mild, civilized tone became an orc’s growl. He even smelled like a dirty undercreature.
The Tuin’Tarl’s mouth tightened. Pharaun suspected he didn’t much like taking advice from anyone, his companion included.
“I’m just being careful—as should you—but you may have a point.” He turned back to the masters and said, “If we take you to our stronghold, there’s no going back. You’ll aid our cause or die.”
Pharaun grinned. “Well spoken, and quite in the spirit of a thousand thousand conspiracies before you. Whisk us away.”
“Gladly,” the noble said with a mean little smile of his own, “as soon as the two of you surrender your weapons and that cloak of pockets.”
The wizard crooked an eyebrow and said, “I thought you’d decided to trust us.”
“It’s time for you to show a little trust,” Houndaer replied.
Pharaun sur
rendered his piwafwi, hand crossbow, and dagger. He was a little worried about Ryld’s willingness to do the same. He could easily imagine the warrior deciding that, in preference to entering the dragon’s cave unarmed, he’d subdue Houndaer and his companion there and then and wring what information out of them he could.
The problem with that strategy was that the Tuin’Tarl and his nameless companion might not be privy to all the mystic secrets held by the cabal as a whole, and those who were might flee when the two emissaries failed to return. Thus, while the masters would likely succeed in forestalling a goblin revolt, they’d miss acquiring the extraordinary power they sought.
Besides, it would be much more fun to join, and undo the rogues from within.
Apparently Ryld shared Pharaun’s perspective, or else he was simply content to follow the wizard’s lead, for he handed over Splitter and his other weapons to Houndaer without demur.
The Tuin’Tarl reached into his pouch, extracted a stone, and tossed it. It exploded in a strange, lopsided way, tearing a wound in the air, a gash the size and shape of a sarcophagus standing on end and the color of the light that swims inside closed eyelids. He gestured to the portal and said, “After you.”
Pharaun smiled.
“Thank you.”
As easy as that? Pharaun thought. He was experiencing a certain sense of anticlimax, which was absurd, really. It had been astonishingly difficult to get this far.
He stepped into the portal, and experienced none of the spinning vertigo of ordinary teleportation. Save for a brief moment of blindness, it was just like striding from one room to the next. The only problem was the drider waiting on the other side.
The wizard struggled not to make a sound. Still, the huge creature, half spider, half drow, a bow in its hand and a quiver of arrows slung across its naked back, turned toward him. Pharaun had no fear of a single such aberration, but the goddess only knew just how elaborate this trap actually was. He whirled back toward the magical doorway just as Ryld came through.
Ryld, who’d slain his share of driders in the caverns surrounding Menzoberranzan, knew that this one—a hybrid creature with the head, arms, and torso of a dark elf male married to the body and segmented legs of a colossal spider—was larger than average; a robust example of its species, if species was the proper term. Nature didn’t make them, magic did. Sometimes, when the goddess deemed one of her worshipers insufficiently reverent, the punishment was transformation at the hands of a circle of priestesses and a demon called a yochlol.
The Master of Melee-Magthere naturally focused on the venomous aberration as soon as he stepped through the portal, but like every competent warrior—and unlike Pharaun, evidently—he also took in the disposition of the entire area.
The portal had deposited them in a large, unfurnished hall with a number of openings along the wall. It was the sort of central hub used in castles to link the various wings. A couple males were wandering through, and while neither had ventured into the drider’s immediate vicinity, they weren’t preparing to attack him or flee from him, either. Nor did the creature himself appear on the verge of assaulting anyone, though he regarded the newcomers with a scowl.
Somewhat pleased to be ahead of his clever friend for once, Ryld gripped Pharaun by the shoulder.
“Steady,” the swordsman said. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
The wizard looked around, then grinned and said, “Right. Our friends didn’t trick us into entering a trap. The drider’s magically constrained.”
“No.”
Ryld glanced back to see that the two bogus orcs had stepped through the portal, which dwindled to nothing behind them. It was the bigger and more talkative of the duo who was speaking.
“The driders help us of their own free will.”
“Interesting,” said Pharaun.
In the blink of an eye, the goblinoids turned into an aristocratic warrior—Houndaer Tuin’Tarl, specifically, whom Ryld had trained—and a craftsman of one sort or another. The prince closed the portal with a wave of his arm.
“Do you still use that second-intention indirect attack?” Ryld asked. “That was a nice move.”
For the first time, Houndaer smiled a smile that had neither malice nor suspicion in it.
“You remember that, Master? It’s been so long, I’m surprised you even remember me.”
“I always remember the ones who truly learn.”
“Well, thank you. It’s good to have you with us, and you’re going to be glad you are. Great things are in store.” the noble said. The drider scuttled toward them. “Ah, here comes Tsabrak. You’ll see his mind isn’t sluggish or otherwise crippled, yet he’s on our side nonetheless.”
In point of fact, the drider didn’t look especially congenial. The length of his legs lifted his head above those of the four dark elves, and he glared down at them with eyes full of madness and hate. Ryld inferred that Tsabrak had entered into a typical Menzoberranyr alliance. He’d thrown in with the runaways to secure some practical advantage, but he still loathed all the drow who’d deformed him and cast him out.
“What is this?” the drider snarled, exposing his fangs. They seemed to impede his speech a trifle. “Syrzan said no!”
Syrzan wasn’t a typical drow name, but Ryld had no idea to which other race it might belong. He glanced over at Pharaun, who conveyed with a subtle shrug that he didn’t know, either.
“Syrzan is my ally, not my superior,” said Houndaer, glaring back at the spider-thing. “I make my own decisions, and I’ve decided these gentlemen can help us. They’re masters of Tier Breche—”
“I know who they are!” Tsabrak screamed, flecks of foam, perhaps mixed with venom, flying from his lips. “Do you think me a mindless beast? I studied on Tier Breche the same as anyone!”
“Then you know how useful their talents could be,” said the craftsman, “and how unlikely it is they can do us any harm, particularly now that the prince has disarmed them.”
“Just point us to Syrzan,” Houndaer said. “It will allay your fears.”
It? Ryld wondered.
“I can’t,” the drider said. “It’s gone off somewhere.”
“Where?” Houndaer asked
“Agitating slaves? Acquiring more magic fire from its secret source? How do I know? You’ll just have to sit on these two until it gets back.”
“That’s all right,” the noble said. “Master Argith and I can reminisce about old times. We’ll all wait in the room where Syrzan interviewed the other recruits.”
“Perhaps you’d care to tag along,” the craftsman said, “to make absolutely sure the masters don’t cause any trouble.”
Pharaun beamed up at the bloodthirsty aberration and asked, “Please? There are half a dozen questions concerning drider existence that have perplexed me for years.”
Tsabrak ignored him, instead glowering at Houndaer and the artisan as if he suspected them of playing a trick on him. Finally, he said, “Yes. I’ll go. Somebody with sense needs to be there.”
“Fine.” Houndaer nodded to Ryld and Pharaun and said, “Come this way.”
The masters and their hosts, or captors, set off through a maze of passageways. As promised, Pharaun treated Tsabrak to a barrage of questions, and, when the drider failed to respond, cheerfully answered himself with a gush of scholarly speculation.
Ryld paid little attention. He was too busy studying the rogues’ citadel, a forlorn and dusty place where Pharaun’s monologue echoed away into the quiet. No servants were in evidence, merely runaway males and driders, who often recognized their former instructors and curiously peered after them. The marks of magical attacks, bursts of lightning and sprays of acid, scarred the walls.
By all appearances, the conspirators were hiding in the seat of a House extinguished by its enemies. No one was supposed to take possession of such a fortress without the Baenre’s permission, and few would dare. The vacant castles were supposedly cursed and haunted places, breeding grounds for sickness, insanity,
and bad luck. As if to compound the potential for ill fortune, the squatters had broken the copious shrouds of spiderweb wherever they impeded traffic and even in corners where they didn’t.
At one point, the masters and their warders passed a row of small octagonal windows. The glass was gone but the molded calcite cames remained. Ryld glanced out and saw mansions shining green and violet far below. The rogues had taken a stalactite castle, hanging from the cavern ceiling, for their hiding place. No doubt the isolation had attracted them.
A moment later, the little procession reached its destination, a chapel with rows of benches, a crooked aisle snaking up the middle to an asymmetrical basalt altar, and murals, agleam with silvery phosphorescence, carved in bas-relief on the walls and ceiling. To Ryld’s surprise, these last depicted not the Demonweb but other hells entirely devoid of spiders, yochlols, or the goddess Lolth herself. Apparently the House that once abode here had sacrificed to forbidden deities. Perhaps that transgression had contributed to its downfall.
The dark elves settled themselves in the pews. While Houndaer and the commoner seemed convinced of the masters’ claim of estrangement from Tier Breche, they nonetheless retained possession of the newcomers’ gear. Tsabrak crouched just inside the door, his legs splayed out on either side of the entrance.
“I admire the decor,” Pharaun said. “Without even trying, I noticed images of Cyric, Orcus, Bane, Ghaunadaur, and Vhaeraun. Quite a nice selection of patron powers for the discriminating worshiper.”
“We’re not looking for a new god,” Houndaer spat.
“I’m sure,” the wizard said. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell Master Argith and me what your grand and glorious scheme is all about. And why now?”
“Why now?” the noble asked.
“Our fellowship has existed for decades,” the craftsman cut in, “though it’s only recently that we all eloped and took up residence here full time. Formerly we merely gathered for an hour or two every fortnight or so.”
“If you’re a male,” Houndaer said, “and utterly dissatisfied with your place in Menzoberranzan, you need some sort of a refuge, don’t you?”
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 28
