R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation

by Richard Lee Byers; Thomas M. Reid; Richard Baker

  “I understand,” the warrior said. “Make noise. Bring someone.”

  Pharaun nodded. The cage around his head clinked.

  “Ho!” Ryld shouted. “Somebody, come here! I’m a Master of Melee-Magthere. I know secrets about the defenses of the great Houses, secrets you must know for your plans to succeed. I’ll trade them for my freedom!”

  He continued in the same vein for a time, clashing his chains against the wall for emphasis. Meanwhile Pharaun lay motionless, as if he were still unconscious.

  Finally, eyes appeared at the little barred window in the door.

  “What?” the newcomer snarled. It wasn’t a voice Ryld had heard before.

  “I need to talk to you,” the weapons master said.

  “I heard,” said the other drow. “You have secrets. The alhoon will rip them out of you, no bargain required.”

  “Syrzan said it would take time to turn us into mind-slaves,” Ryld replied. “I have information you need before you unleash the undercreatures. Their rebellion will do you no good if the weapons masters strike them all dead before they even get started.”

  “How could the masters-of-arms do that?” asked the rogue.

  “A secret,” said Ryld, “that we brothers of the pyramid teach to a chosen few.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “We’ve been studying war for millennia. Do you think we impart all we know to every young dullard who enrolls in the Academy, or is it likely we hold greater, deadlier mysteries in reserve?”

  The rogue hesitated.

  “All right, tell me. If there’s anything to it, I’ll set you free.”

  Ryld shrugged, rattling his fetters. They were already rubbing his wrists raw.

  “Shout it through a closed door?” the weapons master asked. “Is that what you really want?”

  “Wait.”

  The contempt in the prisoner’s tone had reminded the rogue of a basic principle. It was best to keep information to yourself, at least until you figured out how to reap a benefit from sharing it. This rogue didn’t want anyone overhearing what Ryld had to say.

  The door clacked as a key turned in the lock. It creaked open, and the renegade stepped through. He was stocky, with a broken nose squashed across an angular face. He’d decorated rather nondescript clothing with gaudy ornaments, including a silver fillet set with garnets. His rapier hung from a baldric, the hilt of a dagger protruded from the top of either boot, and a hand crossbow dangled from his belt.

  He stopped just inside the doorway, where he had every right to think himself safe. The cell was large enough, and the prisoners’ shackles short enough, that he was beyond their reach. He swung the door shut behind him but didn’t permit it to latch.

  “All right,” he said, “now you can tell me.”

  “First,” said Ryld, “unchain me.”

  He thought he had to keep the renegade occupied for just a few more heartbeats, long enough for Pharaun to cast his spell.

  The guard just laughed and said, “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  “But you might just listen to the secrets and leave me imprisoned,” said Ryld, watching Pharaun from the corner of his eye.

  To his dismay, the wizard wasn’t conjuring. He wasn’t moving at all. Had he passed out again?

  “You’re caged,” said the renegade, “and I’m not. Therefore, you will have to trust me, not the other way around.”

  Ryld scowled, meanwhile racking his brains for inspiration. With Pharaun inert, he was going to have to improvise a story to detain the rogue and pray the wizard would make a move before much longer.

  “All right, I suppose I have no choice. Not far beyond Bauthwaf lies the entrance to a tunnel leading to the deepest reaches of the Underdark, where even our people do not—”

  “What’s this got to do with weapons masters killing slaves?” the guard demanded.

  “Listen, and you’ll find out. At the lower end of the passage is a mineral I’ve never seen anywhere else . . .” At last Pharaun moved his feet. Now, if only the renegade didn’t notice. “When you crush the rock to powder . . .”

  “Hey!”

  Evidently the guard’s peripheral vision was almost as good as Ryld’s, for he pivoted toward Pharaun, but not in time. A disembodied hand made of pale yellow light appeared beside his shoulder and gave him a push.

  The impetus sent him staggering closer to Ryld. The weapons master grabbed him and smashed his head against the wall until it left a sticky mess on the stone, then he searched the corpse and found a ring of keys clipped to its belt.

  He discovered the one that opened his own restraints, and Pharaun’s. The wizard flexed his fingers, restoring circulation, produced a silken handkerchief from his sleeve, and dabbed at the blood on the sides of his mouth.

  “I think I’ll establish a new school of magic,” the wizard said. “Pedomancy—the sorcery of the feet.”

  “Why did you wait so long to throw the spell?” Ryld asked.

  “I was looking for our friend’s keys. It wouldn’t have done any good to attack him had he not been carrying the means to release us from our fetters. His cape was hanging over them, and it took me a moment to spot them.”

  “I was certain something had gone wrong. Are you ready to get us out of here?”

  “Momentarily,” Pharaun said as he pulled on his socks and boots. “I think everything’s going splendidly, don’t you? We’ve acquired the knowledge we came for, and now we’ll escape, just as planned.”

  “We didn’t plan on having to do it without our gear.”

  “Please, don’t harp on the obvious. It makes for a dreary conversation. Where exactly are we, by the way? Where’s the nearest exit?”

  “I don’t know. They gave me a knock on the head before they carried us here. I think we’re up inside the cavern ceiling.”

  “So we won’t encounter a window or balcony unless we descend a ways, but we might find a door opening on a tunnel.”

  Ryld scavenged the dead rogue’s weapons and piwafwi. The cloak was much too small for him, but would provide some protection nonetheless. The mail shirt, alas, he simply couldn’t wear.

  “No gear for me?” Pharaun asked.

  “I’m the fighter, and I’ll be standing in front.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

  “Let’s go.”

  The masters stood up. Ryld felt dizzy, swayed, but then recovered his balance. They started for the door, and something happened. It was like the blare of a trumpet and a white light, too, but it was neither. The weapons master didn’t know what it was, only that it froze him in place until it faded away.

  “What just happened?” he asked.

  “The Call,” Pharaun replied. “This close to the source, one can vaguely sense it even if one isn’t a goblin. The slaves are rising.”

  chapter

  twenty-one

  When the instructors rounded the corner, Pharaun saw a rogue about five yards away. Well armed, the conspirator was striding purposefully along, perhaps to join one of the assassination squads that would descend on the city once the goblin rebellion plunged it into chaos.

  He had good reflexes. As soon as he spotted the fugitives, he reached for the wall, no doubt to conceal himself behind a curtain of darkness.

  Pharaun lifted his hands to cast darts of force—he had two such spells remaining, neither requiring a focal object—but Ryld was quicker. He shot his hand crossbow. The quarrel plunged into the renegade’s eye, and he fell.

  The masters skulked up to the corpse and crouched down to examine it. Pharaun was hardly surprised yet disappointed to find that the dead warrior hadn’t been carrying any spell ingredients.

  The Master of Sorcere hadn’t lost faith in himself, but he realized that overconfidence coupled with ambition had lured him and Ryld into a desperate situation. They were stuck in the midst of their enemies. Without the proper triggers, most of
the wizard’s magic was unavailable to him, and the weapons master was feeling the effects of the blow on the head and Syrzan’s psionic assault. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Pharaun, who knew him well, could see subtle indications in the way he moved.

  Well, at least Ryld wasn’t bored.

  Pharaun stole the dead male’s hand crossbow, dirk, and piwafwi—including the insignia of a lesser House Pharaun assumed was enchanted in the same way as all the others. The mantle wasn’t a bad fit but felt strange without the weight of the hidden pockets to which he was accustomed. At least, he hoped, he’d be able to levitate. Ryld exchanged the rapier he’d been wearing for the fallen drow’s broadsword.

  The Master of Melee-Magthere cocked his crossbow and loaded a fresh shaft in the channel. The fugitives stalked on down the hallway, and the walls screamed. Pharaun and Ryld screwed up their faces at the painful loudness. Blue sparks of discharged magic showered from the walls and ceiling, and a hot, raw stink of power fouled the air.

  The screech stopped as suddenly as it had started, though it left echoes sobbing through the citadel.

  “Alarm spell?” said Ryld, trotting onward.

  “Yes,” Pharaun said, racing to catch up. His ears were ringing. “Had I seen it, I would have dispelled it, but—”

  “But as it stands, the rogues will be coming for us.” Pharaun frowned. “Unless they’re too busy getting ready to murder priestesses.”

  “No, they’ll realize they have to catch us at any cost. If a spy slipped away from here and reported their plans to the Council, it would ruin everything for them.”

  “You’re right, curse it.”

  The masters had been moving stealthily and therefore slowly ever since departing their cell, and they would have to sneak along even more warily, backtracking and detouring whenever they sensed their enemies were near. That would make it easier to get lost. The long-dead nobles had built their fortress according to a defensive strategy still occasionally employed in Menzoberranzan. The place was something of a maze. If a person had grown up there, that wouldn’t pose a problem. He’d know every turn and dead end, but outsiders had a difficult time moving about. Outsiders like Pharaun and Ryld, who had yet to find an exit.

  Perhaps, the wizard thought, the renegades will have trouble navigating as well.

  Though they’d squatted in the castle, they might not know it as well as the original occupants had. It was possible they’d simply familiarized themselves with a few key areas and primary passageways and left the rest of the allegedly cursed and haunted keep pretty much alone.

  Still, Pharaun knew it was only a matter of time until the hunters stumbled onto their prey, and he was correct. He and Ryld were traversing a gallery hung with musty phosphorescent tapestries when something rustled behind them. The masters pivoted. Silent in their drow boots, half a dozen warriors had appeared behind them and were leveling their crossbows.

  Ryld crouched and lifted a fold of his cloak in front of his face. Pharaun copied the move. Two arrowheads plunged through his makeshift shield, which apparently wasn’t as powerfully enchanted as the piwafwi Houndaer had taken from him. One quarrel hung up in the weave. The other hurtled right through and grazed the mage’s shoulder, stinging him and slicing a shallow cut. He prayed it wasn’t poisoned.

  Hearing a ragged clatter, Pharaun uncovered his eyes. The rogues had dropped their crossbows and were charging. They’d already dashed too close for him to employ the incantation he would have preferred. Instead he cast darts of light and dropped two renegades. He discharged his crossbow and missed a third.

  Ryld bellowed a war cry and sprang forward to meet the foes remaining. The broadsword flashed back and forth, thrusting, cutting, and parrying with the small, precise movements that characterized true mastery. Pharaun edged forward with his dirk in hand but never got a chance to use it. The rogues all died before he could advance into range.

  Pharaun took stock of himself and decided he didn’t have any venom in his system, but Ryld groaned, made a face, and clutched at his temple.

  “What is it?” the wizard asked.

  It seemed likely that one of the enemy had scored, but he didn’t see any blood slipping between his friend’s fingers, and head wounds bled copiously.

  “A throbbing headache,” said the swordsman. “Left over from Houndaer and Syrzan, I suppose, made worse when my heart started beating harder. I’m all right now.”

  “I rejoice to hear it.” Pharaun turned, right into a second volley of quarrels.

  He had no time to raise his cloak, dodge, or do anything else but gawk at the second band of renegades who’d crept up from the other direction. Miraculously, every shaft missed.

  One of the newcomers shouted, “They’re here!”

  The guards charged, and Pharaun brandished a bit of spiderweb, the one spell focus he’d had no difficulty replacing. A mesh of taut, luminous cables appeared around the onrushing renegades. Anchored to the wall, the cables were as strong as rope and as sticky as glue. They snared and held the rogues.

  All but the two in front. Either they’d been nimble enough to jump clear before the effect fully materialized, or their innate dark elf resistance to magic had protected them.

  Undeterred by the loss of their comrades, the warriors drove onward into sword range. The one who focused on Pharaun had a birthmark staining his left profile.

  Pharaun shot. The shaft hit the male square in the chest but glanced off his mail. The ugly male swung his sword in a flank cut. Pharaun twisted aside and commenced an incantation.

  He had to dodge two more attacks before he finished. Shafts of light sprang from his fingertips.

  Only one such spell left, he thought, and only one more chance to conjure a trap of webbing, too.

  The missiles passed through the renegade’s mail and sent him reeling backward. Wounded but still alive, the rogue gave his head a shake. Pharaun yanked his new dirk out of his belt and flung himself at the guard. The wizard rammed his point up under the ugly male’s chin before the latter had quite recovered his wits.

  Pharaun turned. Feinting low and striking high, Ryld whipped his broadsword through his opponent’s neck. The renegade fell, his severed head tumbling away. For a moment, Pharaun felt a touch of relief, then he noticed his friend’s grimace and the blood on his thigh, and heard the calls of other pursuers drawing near.

  “It sounds as if all the rogues are hunting us,” the wizard said. “What a gracious compliment.”

  “They heard the fight,” Ryld replied. “They have some idea where we are, and thanks to you, this passage has become a cul-de-sac. We have to move—now.”

  “Perhaps you would have preferred me to let the rest of our attackers swarm all over us.”

  “Just move.”

  They did, with the prisoners in the web shouting imprecations after them. Pharaun soon discerned that Ryld was making an effort not to limp nor show any sort of distress but couldn’t mask his pain completely.

  The wizard considered leaving patches of darkness behind to hinder pursuit, but had he done so, he would have been marking his trail. He could only think of one trick he could use to evade the renegades, and hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

  Twice, the masters sensed a band of rogues was near and hid in a room until they passed. Finally they found a staircase leading downward. Pharaun hoped their descent to the lower level would throw off the pursuit but soon realized it hadn’t. Perhaps it was because the fugitives were leaving a trail of blood. Pharaun’s little cut had stopped bleeding, but Ryld’s gashed leg had not.

  Despite himself, the burly swordsman began taking uneven strides, one shorter than the other. Pharaun heard a murmur of voices coming from behind and out of a side passage as well. He said, “Stay where you are. I have an idea.”

  Ryld shrugged.

  The wizard advanced a few paces down the corridor. He lifted his wisp of cobweb and chanted. Power groaned through the air, and crisscrossing cables sealed the corridor. The
rogues he’d heard were on the other side. So was Ryld.

  The swordsman looked at his friend through the interstices and said, “I don’t understand.”

  “And you a master tactician. Truly, I regret this, but I could either stick with you and let your injuries retard my progress or else leave you behind as a rear guard to slow my pursuers. Considering how vulnerable I currently am, the choice was reasonably obvious.”

  “Damn you! How many times have I saved your life?”

  “I’ve lost count. At any rate, this will make one more, in the course of which you’ll finally be rid of your melancholy. Goodbye, old friend.”

  Pharaun turned and strode away.

  He heard a crossbow clack, and flung himself to the side. The quarrel flew past him. Ryld had needed commendable accuracy to avoid snagging the missile in the adhesive mesh.

  Pharaun glanced back and said, “Nice shot, but you might want to save your quarrels for the renegades.”

  He skulked on, and quickened his pace when someone shouted behind him, and metal clashed on metal.

  Ryld quickly learned that one of the rogues was a wizard, and a deft one at that. He had no difficulty lobbing spells through the line his comrades had formed across the hall, leaving them unscathed but battering the weapons master with one attack after another.

  So far the flares of power had seared and chilled the Master of Melee-Magthere but done no serious harm. He doubted that would last. He needed to put a stop to the magic before the mage slipped an attack through his natural resistance, and that meant breaking through the line

  He faked a sidestep to the left, then dodged right. His wounded leg throbbed, and a soreness, the residue of Syrzan’s attack, twisted through his mind. The pain slowed him just enough to render the deception ineffective. Urlryn, the long-armed, gap-toothed renegade on the right, another of Ryld’s former students and a good one, met him with a wicked thrust to the belly.

  As every warrior knows, you can’t retreat at the same instant you’re advancing. Ryld had no choice but to defend with the blade. He swept his broadsword across his body in a lateral parry. Urlryn tried to dip his point beneath the block, but moved just a hair too slowly. Ryld smashed his adversary’s blade aside, loosening his grip in the bargain.