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

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

  Zal’therra shrank back, saying, “Matron Mother, we all approved of Andzrel’s plans—”

  “Andzrel is a weapon, Zal’therra. Our House army is a weapon. Yours is the hand that must wield those weapons against our enemies. I sent you out to exercise your judgment and make decisions, to use your head and think!”

  Triel whirled away to keep herself from striking Zal’therra again. If she did, she didn’t think she’d be able to stop, and like it or not Zal’therra was probably the most promising of her cousins. Triel wouldn’t be around forever, and she needed to give thought to leaving House Baenre with at least a few competent priestesses in the event that the day came when she would have to have her sisters murdered.

  “Matron Mother,” the girl managed, her eyes wide with fear, “I apologize for my failure.”

  “I never asked for an apology, girl, and a Baenre should never offer one,” the matron mother rumbled, “but I will give you the opportunity to demonstrate that you have some redeeming portion of merit and resourcefulness. You will take command of the rearguard.”

  Triel gestured toward the south. There was an excellent chance that she was sending her cousin to her death, but she needed to know if Zal’therra had the wits and the resolve to become a leader of House Baenre, and if she found a way to survive the assignment and obtain any degree of success at all, Triel might consider permitting her to live.

  “Make the duergar fight for every step they take toward Menzoberranzan,” Triel added. “Your survival depends on your success. If you abandon this tunnel before three days pass, I will have you crucified.”

  Zal’therra bowed, and hurried off. Triel turned back to the weapons master.

  “Understand that I do not hold you blameless, either,” she said in a low voice. “You were the author of our grand strategy, and I committed the full weight of House Baenre’s power and prestige to your battle plan, which has led us to a disaster the likes of which we have not seen since Mithral Hall. In any other circumstances, I would have you dumped into a pit of hungry centipedes with your tendons slashed for your failure, but . . . these are unusual times, and there exists the small possibility that your skill and grasp of strategy may prove useful in the days to come. Do not fail me again.”

  “Yes, Matron Mother,” Andzrel said, bowing low.

  “So,” she continued, “where do we stop the duergar and their allies?”

  Without hesitation, the weapons master replied, “We do not, Matron Mother. Given the losses we have already suffered, I advise withdrawing back to Menzoberranzan and preparing for a siege.”

  “I do not like that option,” Triel snapped. “It reeks of defeat, and the longer an army sits on our doorstep, the more likely it is that they’ll be reinforced by the arrival of some other enemy, such as the beholders or the mind flayers.”

  “That is possible, of course,” Andzrel said, his voice carefully neutral, “but the gray dwarves will not find it easy to maintain a siege around Menzoberranzan, a hundred miles from their own city. I don’t think the duergar can wait us out for more than a few months, and I doubt they have the numbers to take the city by storm. Our best course of action is to make the duergar set their siege, and see what kind of a threat we’re really facing. It would provide us the opportunity to crush House Agrach Dyrr in the meantime.”

  “You’re afraid to face the duergar in battle again?” Triel rasped.

  “No, Matron Mother, but I will not advise a course of action that hazards the city on a battle for which we are not prepared, not unless we have no other choice. We are not yet at that point.” He paused, then added, “We can always gather our strength within the city and sally in force in only a few days, if we see the need or the opportunity.”

  Triel weighed the weapons master’s advice.

  “I will return to Menzoberranzan and set the matter before the Council,” she said at last, “but, until you’re ordered otherwise, continue your withdrawal. I will have our captains in the city make ready to withstand a siege.”

  Halisstra opened her eyes and found herself drifting in an endless silver sea. Soft gray clouds moved slowly in the distance, while strange dark streaks twisted violently through the sky, anchored in ends so distant she couldn’t perceive them, their middle parts revolving angrily like pieces of string rolled between a child’s fingertips. She glanced down, wondering what supported her, and saw nothing but more of the strange pearly sky beneath her feet and all around her.

  She drew in a sudden breath, surprised by the sight, and felt her lungs fill with something sweeter and perhaps a little more solid than air, but instead of gagging or drowning on the stuff she seemed perfectly acclimated to it. An electric thrill raced through her limbs as she found herself mesmerized by the simple act of respiration.

  Halisstra raised her hand to her face in an unconscious desire to shield her eyes, and she noticed that her eyesight was preternaturally keen. Each link of her mailed gauntlet leaped out in perfect symmetry, its edges boldly defined, the leather of her gloves gleaming with discrete layers of oils and stains.

  Words failed her.

  “You have not ventured here before, Mistress Melarn?” said Tzirik from somewhere behind her.

  Halisstra craned her neck back to look for him, but in response the entire vista seemed to revolve and spin in one quick, smooth motion, bringing into her view the floating forms of her companions. The Vhaeraunite priest stood—no, that was not right, floated was better—a dozen yards from her, his armor as sharp as the edge of a knife, his cloak rippling softly in a breeze Halisstra could not feel. He spoke softly, yet his voice carried with a marvelous clarity and precision that made it seem that he stood within arm’s reach.

  “I would have expected a priestess of your stature to be familiar with the astral realm,” the priest added.

  “I know something of what to expect, but I have never had the occasion to journey to other planes,” she replied. “My knowledge of this place is only . . . theoretical.”

  She noted that each of her comrades seemed every bit as sharply defined, as tangible and real, as Tzirik himself. From some spot she could not easily perceive—somewhere in the middle of their backs, or perhaps the napes of their necks—sprang a slender, gleaming tendon of silver light.

  Halisstra reached around behind her head and felt her own cord. The warm, pulsing artery vibrated with energy, and when her fingers brushed it, a powerful jolt quivered through her torso as if she’d just plucked the heartstring of her own soul. She jerked her hand back, and resolved not to try to touch her cord again.

  “Your silver cord,” Tzirik explained. “A nigh indestructible bond that ties your soul to its rightful home: your body, back in Minauthkeep.” The priest offered a cruel smile. “You will want to be careful of it. There are few things that can part an astral traveler’s cord, but if something did, that traveler would be destroyed in an instant.”

  Halisstra watched as Ryld felt for his own cord and touched it. His eyes widened and he snatched his hand back just as swiftly as she had withdrawn her own.

  “How long do these things get?” the weapons master asked.

  “They are infinite, Master Argith,” Tzirik said. “Don’t worry, they fade to intangibility within a foot or two of your skin, so you won’t be tripping over your own cord. In fact, it has the habit of keeping itself out of your way, quite without a thought on your part.”

  Halisstra glanced around the company, watching as the Menzoberranyr struggled to adjust themselves to their new environment. Ryld and Valas flailed their limbs slowly as if trying to tread water. Quenthel held herself as stiff as a blade, her limbs locked tight to her sides, while Danifae drifted languidly, her long white hair streaming behind her. Pharaun merely waited, his eyes sparkling with dark amusement as he watched the efforts of his companions. Tzirik glanced around, studying their surroundings, and nodded.

  “This is something of a timeless place,” he said, “but time does pass here, so I suppose we should begin
our journey. Follow me, and stay close. You may think you can see forever from here, but things have a way of vanishing in the mists.”

  He glided off without moving, arms folded, his cloak whipping silently behind him.

  Follow him how? Halisstra wondered, watching the priest go, but somehow in conceiving the desire to keep the priest close by, she found herself leaping forward with such alacrity that her next impulse was to yelp out loud, if only to herself, “Stop!”

  And she did, so quickly and with so perfect an end to motion that her mind told her she must lurch forward, as if she had tried to stop too suddenly from a run. She managed to throw herself into a violent circle before she stopped completely. Fortunately, she was not the only one having trouble.

  Danifae scowled prettily as she tried to make herself go anywhere at all, and Ryld and Valas had somehow collided with each other and clung together, unwilling to trust themselves to the void again.

  “Oh, in the name of the goddess!” Quenthel growled, watching them. “Simply clear your minds and think of where you want to go.”

  “With all due respect, Mistress, where is it that we should desire to go?” Valas asked as he disentangled himself from Ryld.

  “Concentrate on following the priest,” the Baenre replied. “He cast the spell, so he will be able to find the portal leading into the Demonweb Pits. It may take many hours, but you will find that time passes strangely here.”

  With that, Quenthel moved off in pursuit of Tzirik.

  Halisstra closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and concentrated on trailing the priest at a comfortable distance. She closed up quickly and smoothly, and this time she didn’t allow herself to react in panic. Soon enough the rest of the company sailed along beside her, keeping together easily as they became more and more accustomed to the strangeness of the Astral Plane. Halisstra indulged herself by experimenting with her mode of locomotion, at first orienting herself horizontally so that she felt like she flew like a bird through the pearly void, then trying to face her direction of travel so that she felt as if she was walking swiftly without moving her legs.

  As it turned out, it didn’t really matter what she did with her body as long as her mind remained focused on staying near her companions, and the true immateriality of the astral sea began to seep into her understanding. She was only a spirit, weightless, perfect, yet she was in a place where spirits became tangible. Somewhere beyond the endless pearly expanse that met her eye lay the realms of the gods, a thousand infinite concepts of existence where the divine beings who ruled over the fate of all Faerûn—of all the worlds, for that matter—had their abodes. She could spend a hundred drow lifetimes exploring the domains that touched on the astral sea, and not even come close to seeing them all.

  The thought made her feel small, almost insignificant, and she pushed it from her mind. Lolth had not called her to the Demonweb Pits for her to be overawed by the silver void of the Astral Plane. She had called Halisstra and the others to stand before her, capable and confident, to profess their faith and adoration. For what other purpose could the goddess have done all that she had done by withdrawing her power from her faithful, by permitting the fall of Ched Nasad, by causing the endless toils and tribulations that had assailed the First Daughter of House Melarn?

  There is a purpose, Halisstra told herself, a purpose that will be made clear to me soon, if I keep my faith strong and do not falter.

  The Queen of the Demonweb Pits has brought us this far. She will bring us a little farther.

  chapter

  nineteen

  How long it took them to cross the Astral Plane, Halisstra could not begin to say. She’d never realized before the extent to which the routine processes of one’s body measured the days. Her astral form didn’t grow tired or hungry, and didn’t know thirst or discomfort of any sort. Without the minor actions of looking after the body’s needs—taking a sip from a waterskin when thirsty, halting to take a meal during their day’s march, or even stopping to sink deep into Reverie and while away the bright hours of daylight—time simply lost its doleful count.

  From time to time they caught glimpses of phenomena other than the endless pearly clouds and twisting gray vortices that streaked the surrounding sky. Strange bits of matter drifted through the astral sea. On several occasions they passed boulders or hillocks of rock and dirt that hovered in space like miniature worlds, some nearly the size of mountains, others only a few yards across. Weird, empty ruins graced the larger of them, the abodes of astral sojourners or long gone residents. The strangest things they came across were whirling pools of color slowly revolving in the astral medium. The hues ranged from bright, shining silver to blackest midnight shot with angry purple streaks.

  “Don’t stray too close to any of the color pools,” Tzirik had said. “If you enter one you will be ejected into a different plane of existence, and I have no desire to wander into strange worlds looking for a careless traveling companion.”

  “How will we know which one will lead us to the Abyss?” Valas Hune asked.

  “Do not worry, my friend, the spell Vhaeraun has granted me also confers a certain affinity for the destination I conceived when I shifted my spirit to this plane, and I am leading us more or less directly to the nearest color pool that will serve our purposes.”

  “How much longer must we travel?” Quenthel asked.

  “We are drawing near,” the priest answered. “It’s hard to tell here, of course, but I would guess we are within four or five hours of our destination. We’ve already traveled for almost two days.”

  Two days? Halisstra thought. It seemed much less. She found herself wondering what might have transpired back in Faerûn in two days. Did Jeggred still maintain his vigil over their inert bodies? He couldn’t have been entirely remiss in his duties, as they were all still alive, but how many more days would pass before they reached their destination, beseeched the goddess for an audience, and managed to return to their native plane? Absorbed in her own thoughts, Halisstra kept to herself for the balance of the journey, scarcely noticing that her companions did the same. It came as a surprise to her when Tzirik slowed his effortless flight and finally arrested his motion all together, facing a whirlpool of black with silver streaks that slowly churned in the astral medium a short distance from the travelers.

  “The entrance to the Sixty-sixth Layer of the Abyss,” the priest of Vhaeraun said. “So far our journey has been uneventful, but once we set foot within Lolth’s domain that is bound to change. If you have any second thoughts about this quest, Mistress Baenre, this would be the time to express them.”

  “I have no reason to fear the Demonweb Pits,” Quenthel sneered. “I intend to do what I came here to do.”

  Without waiting for the priest she arrowed forward and plunged herself into the whirling, inky blot. In the blink of an eye her gleaming astral form was lost to view, swallowed by the maelstrom.

  “Impatient, isn’t she?” Tzirik remarked.

  He shrugged and moved into the color pool himself. Like Quenthel, Halisstra sensed a certainty in the moment, and she did not mean to let any quailing sway her from her intended course. She entered the pool of swirling night a heartbeat behind Tzirik, her teeth bared in a defiant snarl.

  There was no sensation at first, though the pool swallowed her sight completely the moment she plunged within it. The medium seemed much the same as the rest of the Astral Plane—a weightless, cool, perfect nothingness—but the swirling current of the revolving pool caught her at once, tugging on her with some strange nondimensional feeling of attraction or acceleration that dragged her psychic form in a direction she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. It didn’t hurt, but it felt so alien, so dislocating, that Halisstra gasped in shock and distress, shuddering violently in the grip of the astral maelstrom.

  Goddess, help me! she pleaded in the silence of her own mind, as she flailed her arms and tried to extricate herself from the spinning mass. There was another long moment of indescribable moti
on, and—

  She was through.

  Halisstra swayed drunkenly with the return of gravity and struggled to catch her balance. She opened her eyes and found herself standing on something silver-gray, a steeply sloping ramp or wall top that dropped away an incredible distance before her.

  The rest of the party stood close by, looking around in silence as they rubbed their limbs nervously or fingered their weapons.

  All around there was nothing but a black, smothering emptiness darker and more forbidding than the blackest chasm of the Underdark. Her nostrils filled with a foul, acrid scent, and a soft muttering updraft streamed constantly from below. Halisstra glanced into the abyss at her left hand and saw something gleaming there, a dull silver strand several miles away that sloped down through the darkness. Lesser strands intersected it at odd intervals, and as she followed some of them with her eyes she saw that they climbed back up slowly and met the very ramp or buttress on which she stood. The hot, stinking breeze grew momentarily stronger and actually managed to induce a great, gentle swaying in the monstrous strand.

  “It’s a spiderweb,” Ryld muttered. “A gigantic spiderweb.”

  “This surprises you?” Pharaun said with a sardonic smirk. Danifae took a couple of cautious steps down the surface of the strand. The whole thing was easily thirty or forty yards in diameter, yet because its surface was round, it was difficult to feel comfortable walking more than a dozen feet or so from the centerline of the strand. She knelt and brushed her fingers over the strand’s surface, and grimaced.

  “Sticky, but not dangerously so—and we appear to be completely physical again.” She straightened, and stretched languidly. “Do I have two bodies now? One here, and one back in the Jaelre castle?”

  “In fact, you do,” Tzirik said. “When one leaves the astral sea and enters another plane, the traveling spirit constructs for itself the physical body it expects. You might say that your spirit must undergo a sort of condensation to resume a physical existence on another plane. When you leave this place, your spirit will return to the Astral Plane, while this shell you have created for yourself will simply fade away into nothingness.”