R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection

by Lisa Smedman; Phillip Athans; Paul S. Kemp

  Triel decided to bluff.

  “I knew your master was not an Agrach Dyrr,” she told the assassin. “I had never seen him before—and I know all of the senior officers of that House. Matron Mother Yasraena and I are . . . allies. As much as any two matron mothers can be.”

  “Yasraena Dyrr is of no consequence.”

  Triel stiffened and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “A male rules House Agrach Dyrr—the lichdrow. Vhaeraun has re-established the natural order of things, just as he will in all of Menzoberranzan, once this war is won.”

  Triel heard a slight intake of breath beside her, and remembered her lieutenant. Quick as a striking snake, she cracked her whip in his direction. Gleefully hissing, the five vipers sank their fangs into his dark flesh. The male officer stiffened, then gurgled faintly as his eyes rolled back. He crashed to the floor like a broken stalactite.

  His lizard sniffed him once, then immediately began to feed, chewing on the head with loud crunching noises.

  Triel glanced at Maignith.

  “Not a word of this to anyone,” she hissed.

  Maignith bowed, then stared meaningfully at each of the guards on either side of Triel and said, “You can count on our silence, Matron Mother.”

  Triel returned her attention to the captive. She was delighted that he had at last succumbed to her magical suggestion—he was giving her even more information than she’d dared hope for. Wetting her lips like a lizard scenting blood, she probed further.

  “Was it the lichdrow who sent you here? Was it his magic that got you inside?”

  “No . . . and no.”

  “Who got you inside, then?”

  “Nimor himself. And though I have failed, he will not. Your defenses are as weak as cobwebs against him. He escorted me through the shadows and into your ‘stronghold’ with ease.”

  “Nimor is within these walls?” Maignith gasped.

  The assassin smirked and answered, “He was.”

  Triel’s eyes narrowed. Not at the fact that Nimor had been able to creep into the heart of House Baenre—the massive stalagmite that had been hollowed out to form the Great Mound—but that, having accomplished such a feat, he would have left it again. Why hadn’t he stayed to attack her himself? Why leave a weaker vassal behind to do his bidding? Certainly he would have known that this man would be caught.

  The assassin interrupted her musings with a pained laugh.

  “You will see Nimor’s power and majesty yourself soon enough, when he leads the final assault against this House. That is, if you live to—”

  Triel realized that the glare of defiance—and self-will—had never left the assassin’s eye, the entire time he was speaking. And his gaze had slid down to her chair more than once—but only when he thought she wasn’t looking at him.

  “Guards!” she shouted. “Shields!”

  Instantly, the women on either side of her sprang into motion, thrusting their shields between Triel and the only visible threat: the assassin.

  Even as the two shields clanged together, the audience chamber filled with a blast of magical energy. Searingly hot flame exploded outward from where the assassin lay, the roar of it slamming against Triel’s eardrums with such volume that it nearly blotted out the screams of the guards whose bodies were blackening like overcooked meat.

  The magic of their shields held fast, and the blast was deflected over, under, and around the chair on which Triel cringed. She felt the wash of its heat as little more than a flush of warmth; felt nothing of its blast save for the shields that were forced back against her chair. The throne itself had not reacted to the blast of the fireball the assassin had carried within himself. Triel could guess the reason. The attack was directed at the assassin who’d carried it into the room, not at the matron mother herself. Nimor’s information—and his guess as to where Triel would question the failed assassin—had been flawless.

  All this Triel realized in the instant of ear-ringing silence that followed the blast.

  Maignith and the other two guards crumpled to the floor, burned beyond recognition. The lizard, too, was dead, curled and immobile in one corner of the room, its skin no longer glowing.

  Of the assassin’s body, nothing remained but bones, glowing red like coals and sending up wisps of oily black smoke.

  Triel shivered, aware that she had come within a heartbeat of death. For a moment, she knew fear. No wonder the assassin had been so willing to talk. He had needed to keep her within range until the spell went off.

  Triel heard running feet in the hallway outside, approaching the audience room door. She gripped the legs of her chair, clenching tightly to subdue the trembling of her hands. She stared over the blackened husk of her guard, wincing at the burned-meat smell, as a captain of her House guard ran into the room. The woman’s eyes widened at once as she took in the blackened bodies on the floor.

  “Matron Mother,” she gasped. The captain was panting, as if she’d run some distance. “The enemy approaches the city!”

  “From which direction?”

  “Through the caverns to the southeast. Our patrols have skirmished with them at the Cavern of Severed Tentacles and at Ablonsheir’s Cave.”

  “Was it tanarukks the patrols encountered or duergar?” Triel asked.

  “Both, but most tanarukks”

  “In what numbers?”

  The captain shrugged and said, “Impossible to tell. But the armies seem to have combined and are making their way swiftly through the Dark Dominion. They’ll reach the outskirts of the city at any moment.”

  Triel ground her teeth. Was it a feint—or an assault in force? Judging by their approach, the tanarukks and duergar were aiming to enter Menzoberranzan through one of the nine tunnels that lay between Donigarten Lake and the edge of the plateau, but which would they emerge from? And, should they succeed in entering the great cavern, what would their target be? Under ordinary circumstances, Triel would have expected the attackers to push north across the great cavern, cutting off Donigarten and the moss beds, the city’s main water and food sources, to ensure that Menzoberranzan would have nothing to sustain it during their siege. But given the timing of the assassination attempt— which, had it succeeded, would have thrown her House into chaos—perhaps there was another target. House Baenre would be the first stepping stone to an assault on Qu’ellarz’orl itself. If she was right, the main force of the attack would come through the tunnels closest to the plateau.

  Was there still time to plug the gap? She dared not commit the House guard. It would be needed to defend the Baenre compound if the enemy made it into the city. There was only one other House Baenre company close enough.

  “Pull our troops back from the siege of House Agrach Dyrr,” Triel ordered. “Send them into the caverns immediately below the eastern end of the plateau. Order them to hold them at all cost. And tell the other Houses to send their troops to defend the other caverns leading into Narbondellyn. House Barrison Del’Armgo especially. Our troops will be first to bear the brunt of the assault, but Del’Armgo must reinforce us. Leave Agrach Dyrr to the Xorlarrin.”

  The captain bowed and said, “As you order, Matron Mother.”

  As the captain hurried away, Triel chewed her lip, praying she’d made the right decision.

  Where in the Nine Hells was Gromph when House Baenre needed him most?

  chapter

  eight

  Glass.

  Curved glass.

  And outside it . . .

  Gray stone.

  Tunnel walls.

  Close.

  Outside curved glass.

  Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, stared, unblinking, at the rough stone that lay just outside the wall of his prison. He was trapped inside curved glass. In utter silence. Inside a hollow sphere that lay on the floor of an unknown tunnel. Unable to move, unable to breathe, only sluggishly able to think.

  He stared at his own reflection, distorted by the concave surface of the glass. Hi
s face was coarse but unlined despite his seven centuries, thanks to the amulet of eternal youth pinned to his piwafwi. His silver-white hair floated loosely around his head, unaffected by the gravity that existed only outside the sphere. His eyes were open and unblinking.

  Growing weary of his own face, he stared at the tunnel walls instead, noticing a bright vein of quartz. Noticing how wide it was, how large the crystals.

  Time passed.

  A while later—ten cycles, a year?—Gromph felt something tickle his mind. An awareness. A presence. Turning his mind toward it, Gromph sought it out. Struggling like an exhausted man trying to lift his head, he concentrated his will.

  Kyorli?

  Nothing.

  More time passed.

  He stared at the vein of quartz, picking out a crystal within it. By concentrating on its facets—blurred though they were by the concave glass in front of his eyes—he could focus his thoughts.

  What he knew was that he was inside a sphere of glass, the product of an imprisoning spell.

  A spell cast by the lichdrow Dyrr.

  He was far beneath the city, in an unknown tunnel, encased in a spell that prevented even divination magic from finding him.

  Trapped.

  More time passed. As it trickled by, Gromph tried to open his mouth, to force his eyelids to blink, to twitch his fingers.

  Nothing.

  Had he been able to draw a breath, he would have sighed. But even had he been able to move and speak—to cast a spell— it wouldn’t have helped. The spell the lichdrow had cast on him was a powerful one, and Gromph knew it well. The only way it could be reversed was if a counterspell of equal power was cast on the sphere. And that spell could only be cast from outside the sphere, by someone else. If that wasn’t difficult enough, the spell would only work if it was cast in the same location that the original imprisonment spell had been cast.

  Gromph recoiled from the irony of it. He was the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, the most powerful wizard in all of the City of Spiders, privy to the arcane workings of more spells than most mages dared dream of. Yet even if he had been able to cast a wish spell, it wouldn’t have done him any good.

  After another length of measureless time had gone by, Gromph felt the tickle in his mind return. It felt closer, more insistent.

  As before, it took an excruciating effort for Gromph to concentrate his will.

  Kyorli? he sent. Help!

  The mind-tickle disappeared. Had his body been capable of it, Gromph’s shoulders would have slumped.

  All at once the world spun in a crazy arc. The vein of quartz disappeared and Gromph found the position of his head and feet reversed—though in his state, up and down were concepts that had little meaning. He found himself staring into the eyes of an enormous brown rat twice the size of the sphere, its face distorted by the curvature of the glass. Pink paws rested lightly on the top of the sphere, and whiskers twitched as the rat sniffed the cold glass.

  After a sluggish moment, Gromph realized his error in perception. The rat wasn’t enormous, the sphere was tiny. The spell had shrunk him to less than rat size. His thoughts still sluggish, he at last noticed the kink at the end of the rat’s hairless tail.

  Kyorli! Help me. Take me home.

  Go? the rat replied, more of a feeling than a word.

  Yes, go. To the city. Go.

  The world spun crazily by. Gromph could see stone walls spinning past, could see them bump crazily up and down as the sphere, propelled by Kyorli’s nose and paws, rolled along the uneven floor of the tunnel.

  No, not a tunnel but a tiny fissure in the rock. No more than a rat-sized crack.

  The walls continued to spin past. For a moment, the world opened up into looming darkness as Kyorli rolled the sphere across the floor of an enormous cavern. In the distance, Gromph saw a flash of lavender light: the visible spectrum of a faerzress. Then the patch of magical radiation was behind them, swallowed by darkness.

  The sphere rattled on, Gromph suspended unmoving at its center, enclosed in absolute silence.

  A short time later, the sphere bounced to a stop against a wall.

  What’s wrong? Gromph asked.

  Kyorli’s paws scrabbled against the sphere, turning it. Gromph found himself looking up at the wall of the cavern, where—several paces overhead—the tunnel continued through a wide crack.

  Up! Kyorli “said.” City.

  The rat scurried up the wall, then down it again. Gromph’s world tilted wildly as paws scrabbled uselessly against the outside of the sphere, spinning it around. After a moment, Kyorli scrambled back up the wall, entering the tunnel briefly, then came down again.

  Gromph realized he’d been overestimating his familiar. Kyorli was only a rat—with no more than a rat’s intelligence.

  Try a different way, he suggested.

  Kyorli stared at him, whiskers twitching. Then, bobbing her head in a rat’s equivalent of a nod, she began moving the sphere again. Gromph found himself rolled back down the tunnel they’d just come along, across the cavern with the glowing faerzress, and down another tunnel.

  When the sphere stopped rolling again, Gromph found himself staring at a river. Only a dozen paces wide but swiftly flowing. Gromph’s hopes rose as he recognized it. He’d traveled through that tunnel once before, years past. The waterway was one of the subterranean tributaries of the River Surbrin. It eventually flowed into Donigarten, the lake that was Menzoberranzan’s water supply.

  But it flowed through an airless tunnel. If Kyorli tried to follow the sphere, she would drown. She could roll the sphere into the river and let the water carry Gromph to the city, but by the time she found her own way back to Menzoberranzan, the sphere might have been carried out of the lake again, down into the river’s lower reaches. Gromph might wind up in an even worse position than before.

  He considered the problem, though slowly. His thoughts were still a near-stagnant puddle. After several long moments, during which Kyorli disappeared from sight and reappeared again half a dozen times, a thought came to him.

  The faerzress. The magical energies emitted by a faerzress were unstable, unpredictable in their effect. They might do strange things to Gromph, even kill him. But perhaps, if luck was with him, they might first mutate the effects of the spell that bound him.

  Take me back to the cavern. The one with the glow.

  The world spun around him as Kyorli complied. The glow reappeared, and the sphere rolled to a stop.

  Closer.

  The lavender glow grew larger, brighter.

  Closer.

  The glow expanded until it filled Gromph’s peripheral vision.

  Closer.

  Kyorli hesitated, nose twitching.

  Danger, she sent. Too bright. Hurts.

  Yes, Gromph answered. I know. Then, giving his thought all of the authority of his will, he added one word more: Closer.

  Kyorli gave the sphere a final shove, then scampered away, terrified.

  As the sphere rolled and bumped along the uneven cavern floor, the glow spun closer. When the sphere came to rest, the glow surrounded it on every side. Still rigid, Gromph basked in the wash of magical radiation. The faerzress would either kill him or . . .

  His muscles exploded with agony as sensation and movement returned. Chuckling with delight, he rose to his feet. The sphere rocked beneath him, forcing him to catch his balance. He reached into the pocket of his piwafwi and pulled out a small chip of mica. Tossing it casually at his feet, he spoke the word that should have activated a shattering spell. Nothing happened. He might be able to move and speak, but spellcasting was impossible while he was trapped within the sphere. He’d have to rely upon brute force to get to where he needed to be.

  Experimenting, he threw his weight forward against the smooth surface—and wound up tumbling in a clumsy somersault as the sphere rolled in that direction.

  It took some doing, but at last Gromph figured out how to coordinate his hands and feet, scrambling forward like a rat a
nd maintaining his balance as the sphere rolled across the floor. More than once, a bump or crack in the floor sent him spinning in the wrong direction, but gradually, acquiring several painful bruises along the way, he made his way back down the tunnel that led to the river.

  Kyorli, having overcome her fear now that her master was no longer inside the bright wash of the faerzress, scampered along behind, from time to time correcting the course of the sphere with a nudge of her nose or paws. When they reached the swiftly flowing river, she fretted, running back and forth on its bank.

  Master. Deep water. Swim?

  No, Kyorli. Only I will swim. You return to Menzoberranzan the way you came, through the tunnel that leads up. Go to Sorcere, fetch any of the wizards there, and lead them to the shore of the lake.

  The rat thought about that a moment, whiskers twitching. Gromph raised his hand, pressing his palm lightly against the inner surface of the sphere. Kyorli pressed her nose briefly to the spot, then turned and was gone.

  Gromph drew a deep breath, preparing for the plunge into the river. Then he chuckled. No need to hold his breath—the magic of the sphere was obviously still sustaining him, or he’d have suffocated long ago in the tiny, confined space. Rocking the sphere forward, he plunged into the river.

  Once again the world spun around him, then there was water, the bump of stone walls that sent him reeling, and the occasional flash of a luminescent fish. After some time underwater—how long, Gromph still had no way of measuring, but several miles of tunnel must have swept past—he was thrown against the bottom of the sphere. It was rising rapidly, like a bubble, then it burst up through the water, bobbing on the surface of a large lake.

  He’d done it! He’d reached Donigarten!

  Righting himself, Gromph attempted to continue as he had before, by rolling the sphere across the surface of the lake. But the sphere only spun in place. Realizing that he’d made a potentially fatal error, Gromph cursed. Unless Kyorli made it back to Menzoberranzan in time and swam out into the lake to help him, he would be at the mercy of the current. Gromph sent out a silent call but heard no answering voice. With a heavy sigh, he braced himself inside the rocking sphere, waiting to see where the current would carry him.