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

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

  Syrzan threw Pharaun down and faced its creation. No doubt if left unmolested, it could have averted the construct somehow, but Pharaun found the strength for one more spell. His labored incantation shattered the floor of the dais, staggering the alhoon and breaking its concentration.

  The huge tentacles scooped Syrzan up and conveyed it to the maw behind them, whereupon the strangely shaped mouth began to suck and chew. The alhoon’s own magic mangled him as Pharaun’s never had. The lich faded for a moment, then became opaque and solid again. It was trying to shift to another plane of existence but couldn’t focus past the agony.

  After a time, the enormous head blinked out of existence. Its passing dumped inert chunks of mummified mind flayer on the floor.

  Pharaun’s strength began to trickle back. He rummaged through the alhoon’s stinking remains until he found his silver ring, then turned his magic on the renegades, though it wasn’t really necessary. Ryld, Welverin, and their cohorts already had the upper hand.

  When the last rogue lay dead, the entranced Master of MeleeMagthere sat down cross-legged on the floor. His chin drooped down onto his chest, and he started to snore. Silver leg rattling as if a blow had loosened the components, Welverin limped over to check him and, Pharaun supposed, tend him as needed.

  The Mizzrym thought he ought to take a look as well but when he tried to stand, his head spun, and he had to flop back down.

  Triel stood on the balcony gazing down at the city below. It was virtually the same view she’d surveyed on the night of the slave uprising, the burning spectacle that showed her all Menzoberranzan was in turmoil.

  The fires were gone. In their place, cold pools of standing water dotted the streets and hindered traffic. The rain had flooded cellars and dungeons as well, and it would take time to get rid of it. No one had anticipated a downpour, not with miles of rock between the City of Spiders and the open sky, and in consequence, no builder had made much provision for drainage.

  Someone coughed a discreet little cough. Triel turned. Standing in the doorway, Gromph inclined his head.

  “Matron.”

  She felt a thrill of pleasure—relief, actually—at the sight of her brother, who’d come to her so quickly once she’d given him leave. She took care to mask the feeling.

  “Archmage,” she said. “Join me.”

  “Of course.”

  Gromph walked somewhat stiffly toward the balustrade.

  In one corner of the terrace, Jeggred slouched on a chair too small for him and gnawed a raw haunch of rothé. He looked entirely engrossed in his snack, but Triel was confident he was watching her sibling’s progress. That was his task, after all, to ward her from all potential enemies, including her own kin. Especially her own kin.

  Gromph looked out at the city’s domes and spires. Some had lost their luminescence, as if his rain had washed it away, and many had flowed and twisted in the fire’s embrace, warping the spider carvings into crippled shapes or effacing them entirely. The wizard’s mouth twisted.

  “It could have been worse,” Triel said. “The stoneworkers can repair the damage.”

  “They have their work cut out for them, especially without slaves to help.”

  “We have some. A few undercreatures declined to revolt or were captured instead of slain. We’ll drive them hard and buy and capture more.”

  “Still, does anyone remember precisely how every rampart and sculpture looked? Can anyone recreate Menzoberranzan exactly as it was? No. We’re changed, scarred, and—”

  He winced and rubbed his chest.

  “Forgive me,” the archmage continued. “I didn’t come to lament but to perform my function as your advisor, to share my thoughts on how to meet the challenges to come.”

  Triel rested her hand atop the cool, polished stone of the rail and asked, “How do you see those challenges?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? We’ve just experienced what promises to be the first in a series of calamities. By dint of observing you in combat, every Menzoberranyr with half a brain now knows you priestesses have lost your power. Rest assured, no matter what measures the Council takes, the word will spread beyond our borders. Perhaps some escaped thrall is proclaiming it even now. Soon, one or another enemy will march on us, or, if our luck is really bad, they might all unite in a grand alliance.”

  Triel swallowed. “None of our foes dares even to dream of taking Menzoberranzan.”

  “This Syrzan did. When its kin, and others, find out we’ve lost our divine magic, a significant fraction of our drow warriors, and virtually all our slave troops, it may inspire them to optimism. And they’re not even the greatest threat.”

  “We ourselves are,” Triel sighed.

  “Exactly. We always have our share of feuds and assassinations. Occasionally one House exterminates another outright, and that’s as it should be. It’s our way, it makes us strong. But we can’t endure constant, flagrant warfare. That would be too much . . . chaos. It would tear Menzoberranzan to shreds. Up to now, fear of the Spider Queen and her clergy has kept the lid on, but it won’t anymore.” He spat. “It’s a pity our new heroes didn’t die heroic deaths in their homeland’s defense.”

  “You refer to Quenthel and the outcast Mizzrym?”

  “Who else? Do you imagine them any less ambitious than the rest of us? They championed the established order yesterday, but, inspired by the knowledge that many would rally to their banners, may themselves seek to topple it tomorrow. Quenthel may try to seize your throne, not in a hundred years but now. Pharaun may strike for the Robes of the Archmage—by the Six Hundred and Sixty-six Layers, he all but did, having spent no effort in finding me before scurrying to your side. What a disaster that would be! Aside from any personal inconvenience to you and me, the city in its weakened state can’t withstand that sort of disruption.”

  “I suppose they could be planning just that,” Triel said, frowning. “Perhaps we should have followed through and at least killed Master Pharaun.”

  “If we execute one of the saviors of Menzoberranzan—damn his miserable little hide—it would have made House Baenre look frightened and weak.” The archmage smiled a crooked smile. “Which we are, at the moment, but we don’t dare give the appearance.”

  “What, then, do you recommend?”

  Below the balcony, a lizard hissed and wheels creaked as a cart rolled by.

  “Use them in a way that simultaneously benefits us and neutralizes the threat they represent,” said Gromph. “Surely you and I agree that the present situation can’t continue. We must find a way to restore the priesthood’s magic.”

  Triel nodded, looking away from her battered city.

  “I propose that as a first step,” the archmage continued, “we send agents to another city—likely Ched Nasad—to find out if their divines are similarly afflicted, and if so, whether they know why. You can assign Quenthel to lead the expedition. After all, it concerns Arach-Tinilith perhaps most of all. I’ll be delighted to loan you the services of Master Pharaun. If the story I heard was correct, that weapons master friend of his should go as well, if for no other reason than it’ll make Pharaun squirm.”

  “Ched Nasad . . .” Triel whispered.

  “The three of them ought to be more than capable of surviving a trek as far as Ched Nasad,” continued Gromph, “and they can’t very well try to overthrow us while they’re leagues away from the city, can they? Who knows, perhaps Lolth will return before they do, and in any case, with time, their notoriety will fade.”

  His suggestion left Triel feeling a little sheepish. She hid it as best she could by pretending to consider his plan.

  “Faeryl Zauvirr proposed an expedition to Ched Nasad. She claimed to be concerned because the caravans have stopped.”

  Gromph cocked his head. “Really? Well, our representatives can sort that out as well. You know, it’s good that the ambassador is already keen to go. She’ll make a valuable addition and a more than adequate cover for the whole enterprise.”

>   “Waerva told me Faeryl was a spy,” said Triel, “and sought to depart the city in order to report our weakness to her confederates. So I forbade her to leave.”

  “What proof did Waerva offer?”

  “She told me she learned of Faeryl’s treachery from one of her informants.”

  Gromph waited a moment as if expecting something more.

  “And that’s it?” he asked at length. “With respect, Matron, may I point out that if you haven’t spoken with the informer yourself, if you haven’t probed the matter any further, then you really only have Waerva’s word for it that the envoy is a traitor.”

  “I can’t handle everything personally,” Triel scowled. “That’s why we have retainers in the first place. I have not entirely lost touch with my—our interests in Ched Nasad, though their explanations and excuses do wear thin.”

  “Of course, Matron,” Gromph said quickly. “I quite understand. I have the same problem with my own retainers, and I only have Menzoberranzan’s wizards to oversee, not an entire city.”

  “Why would Waerva lie?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve had some dealings with Faeryl Zauvirr. She never struck me as stupid enough to cross the Baenre. Waerva, on the other hand, is reckless and discontented enough for any game. Accordingly, I think it might be worthwhile to inquire into this matter ourselves.”

  Triel hesitated before saying, “That could prove difficult. Despite my orders, the Zauvirr tried to flee Menzoberranzan. I hired some agents of Bregan D’aerthe, led by Valas Hune—do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard the name mentioned,” Gromph replied.

  “He would make a fair addition to your little band of explorers,” Triel said. “He’s known to be more than passingly familiar with the wilds of the Underdark—a guide of some accomplishment, in fact.”

  Gromph bowed his agreement.

  “Be that as it may, it was Valas Hune I hired to fetch Faeryl back. He completed his task well, and I gave the ambassador to Jeggred.”

  The wizard rounded on the draegloth.

  “What’s the prisoner’s condition?” he asked the creature. “Is she alive?”

  “Yes,” said Jeggred through a mouthful of bloody meat. “I was taking my time, to prove I can. But you can’t have her. Mother gave her to me. She just told you.”

  Gromph stared up into the half-demon’s eyes.

  “Nephew,” he said, “I’m sore, frustrated, and in a foul mood generally. Right now I don’t give a leaky sack of rat droppings whether you’re a sacred being or not. Show some respect, lead me to this prisoner forthwith, or I’ll blight you where you sit.”

  Clutching the rothé bone like a club, Jeggred sprang upward from his seat.

  Triel said, “Do as the archmage bade you. I wish it as well.”

  The draegloth lowered his makeshift weapon.

  “Yes, Mother,” he sighed.

  chapter

  twenty-five

  Her pack weighting her shoulders, her heart pounding, Waerva turned and peered about. The cave stretched out before her and behind, with stalactites stabbing down from the ceiling and stalagmites jutting up from the uneven floor. Nothing moved.

  What, then, had she heard? As if in response to her unspoken question, a drop of falling water plopped somewhere in the passages ahead. It was one of the most common sounds of the Underdark, and scarcely a harbinger of peril.

  Waerva wiped sweat from her brow and scowled at her own jumpiness. She had good reason to be edgy, though. Everyone said it was suicide to travel the subterranean wilderness alone.

  Sadly, thanks to the cursed goblin rebellion, she had little choice. Because of the desperate fighting all across the city, the clergy’s incapacity was no great secret anymore. Certainly Gromph had discerned it, which meant Triel no longer had anything to hide from him. Surely, then, she would seek his counsel once more.

  Waerva had been confident she could manipulate the frazzled matron mother, but she very much doubted she could fool the canny archmage. Accordingly, she’d cleared out of the Great Mound and Menzoberranzan itself before her kinsman could start asking questions, and there she was, a solitary wayfarer hiking through a perilous wilderness.

  But she was strong and cunning, and she’d survive. She’d make her way to her secret allies, and everything would be all right.

  She took four more strides, then heard another little sound, and this one wasn’t falling water. It sounded more like a stealthy footstep brushing stone, and it came from behind her.

  She whirled and saw no one, then something stung her arm. She pivoted. At her feet lay the pebble someone had thrown. Soft, sibilant laughter rippled through the air. From the sound of it, the merrymakers were all around her.

  Why, then, couldn’t she see them?

  Adamantine mace at the ready, one wing of her piwafwi tossed back to facilitate the action of her weapon arm, Waerva advanced in the direction from which the rock had come. Weaving her way through the stalagmites, she reached the cavern wall without so much as glimpsing her attacker. She caught a whiff of a familiar reptilian musk, though, and she knew.

  Kobolds. The horned, scaly undercreatures were small enough that it was relatively easy for them to hide amid the calcite bumps and spikes.

  She turned once more, and despite herself, gave a start. Evidently the kobolds lacked the patience to play their skulking game for very long, because they were done hiding. While her back was turned, they’d crept out into the open and there formed a ragged C-shaped line to pen her against the wall.

  The brutes were Menzoberranyr thralls. House brands and whip scars gave that fact away. Indeed, a couple still wore broken shackles. Waerva plainly wasn’t the only one who’d fled the city.

  She glared at the kobolds and said, “I’m a Baenre. You know what that means. Make way, or I’ll strike you dead.”

  The undercreatures stared back at her for a moment, then lowered their eyes. The line broke in the middle, making an exit.

  Sneering, head held high, Waerva started for the opening. For a moment, all was silent, then the reptiles laughed, screeched, and rushed her.

  Bellowing a battle cry, she swung her mace, and every stroke smashed the life from a thrall. But for every one she killed, there were dozens more hacking and beating at her legs.

  Her knee screamed with pain, and she fell. The kobolds swarmed over her and pounded her until she just couldn’t struggle any more.

  With some difficulty, they divested her of her armor and clothing, and went to work on her. Amazingly for such a bestial race, they seemed to understand anatomy as thoroughly as her dear Tluth, but their ministrations were nothing like massage.

  Faeryl had learned to court unconsciousness. It brought surcease from the lingering pains of past tortures. Unfortunately, it couldn’t avert new ones. When Jeggred found her so, he simply waved a bottle of pungent smelling salts beneath her nose until it jolted her awake.

  She could hear him coming. So could the jailers, who scurried to the back of the dungeon to give him privacy. Shivering, she struggled to compose herself. Perhaps she could deny him the satisfaction of a scream—at least for a while—or even provoke him into killing her. That would be wonderful.

  The draegloth appeared in the doorway, stooping to pass through. Despite herself, Faeryl flinched, then saw he was not alone. Dainty little Triel accompanied him. So did her harsh-featured brother, clad as usual in the Robes of the Archmage.

  “My . . . salutations, Matron,” the Zauvirr croaked.

  “Hush,” said Gromph, “and all will be well.” He looked up at the glowering half-demon. “Free her, and be gentle about it.”

  Jeggred strode to Faeryl. This time, she managed not to cringe. The draegloth supported her weight with his smaller hands while cutting her bonds with the claws of the larger ones, then scooped her up in his arms. She passed out.

  Next came a blur of hours or days, during which she would wake for a few muddled moments, then lapse into unconsciousness again. S
he lay on a soft divan, where servants salved and bandaged her wounds and sometimes spooned broth into her mouth. Priestesses read scrolls of healing, and Gromph appeared periodically to cast his own spells over her. She noticed Mother’s Kiss lying on a little table beside her, and when she felt strong enough, stretched out her trembling arm and touched it.

  Finally she opened her eyes to find her thoughts clear and vitality tingling in her limbs. The servants helped her don new raiment. They said it was for a meeting with Triel.

  Faeryl considered taking her warhammer along, then thought better of it. If her rehabilitation was an elaborate prank, if the Baenre was summoning her to further torment, the weapon wouldn’t save her.

  Her legs still the least bit unsteady, she followed a male through the endless corridors of the Great Mound. Eventually he opened the door to a small but lavishly decorated room.

  Triel sat at the table in the center of the space, with two bodyguards standing against the wall behind her. Faeryl inferred that this was a chamber the matron used when she wished to palaver away from the formal trappings of her court.

  The Baenre rose and took her prisoner’s hands.

  “My child,” Triel said, “I rejoice to see you. Some folk said you wouldn’t recover, but I never doubted it. I knew you were strong, a true drow princess favored of Lolth.”

  “Thank you, Matron,” said Faeryl, thoroughly perplexed.

  Triel conducted her a chair.

  “You’ll be glad to know we caught them,” the matron said.

  “Them?”

  “The brigands who waylaid you and murdered your followers, who left you for dead in that place where my servant Valas found you. I supervised the executions myself.”

  Faeryl was beginning to comprehend her situation. For some reason, Triel had forgiven her her disobedience. The Zauvirr could go free, her honor and rank restored, but there was a catch. Henceforth, she would have to endorse the fiction that Triel was in no way responsible for any of her misfortunes. For after all, the sovereign of Menzoberranzan was a perfect being, whom the Spider Queen herself had exalted above all others. How, then, could she possibly make a mistake?