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

by Lisa Smedman; Phillip Athans; Paul S. Kemp

  “You’re going alone?” the mage asked. “Shouldn’t you take someone with you?” He glanced past Quenthel as if anticipating someone else to materialize behind her, then he sighed. “What about Jeggred?”

  “No!” Quenthel barked, the vipers in her whip lashing. “Jeggred stays with me.”

  Sensing her anger, Jeggred scrambled over to crouch at her side.

  “He can take Danifae,” Quenthel said.

  Before Valas could shake his head in protest, Pharaun butted in.

  “Danifae will only slow him down—and I don’t want to waste my time and talents preparing the same spells twice.”

  Valas glanced between Quenthel and Pharaun. Valas had to tread carefully, so as not to tip the scales—a balancing act that was growing wearisome. It would be a relief to get away on his own for a while.

  “I’ll go alone,” he told them.

  The Bregan D’aerthe scout took off his piwafwi, then set his haversack, bow, and quiver beside it. He also shed his chain mail—its weight would only drag him to the bottom of the lake—and his boots. He carefully removed from his enchanted vest any of his many talismans that might be harmed by the water, then put the vest back on. Next he lashed his daggers into their sheaths. The thread he used would prevent them from falling out when he was underwater but was thin enough to be broken easily in an emergency.

  When he was done, he looked up at Pharaun and said, “Ready.”

  The mage nodded and pulled a small sheet of mushroomskin paper from his pocket. Unfolding it, he handed its contents to Valas: a small blob of a black, tarry substance.

  “Eat it,” the wizard instructed.

  Without asking what it was, Valas popped it into his mouth. It had a bitter taste, and it stuck to his teeth. With an effort, Valas forced his jaws apart, unsticking his molars.

  Pharaun laughed and said, “You don’t have to chew it. Just swallow.”

  Valas swallowed the substance, then stood waiting as Pharaun chanted the words to his spell. The mage ended by fluttering his fingers against Valas’s chest, like a mother imitating a spider in a child’s nursery rhyme. When Pharaun was done, the scout’s fingers and toes felt gummy. He lifted one hand from the rock, and sticky strands of web followed it.

  Pharaun reached into a pocket of his piwafwi a second time and pulled out a short length of some kind of dried surface plant.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Valas nodded.

  The mage grinned and said, “Then take a deep breath.”

  Valas did, and Pharaun blew through the stick at him, completing his second spell.

  Valas’s chest felt heavy, and water trickled from his nostrils.

  “Go!” Pharaun shouted.

  Valas didn’t need any urging. The pressure of the water that filled his lungs was incentive enough. Scrambling over the edge, he scurried down the cavern wall like a spider, his sticky hands and feet allowing him to crawl along the sheer cliff face. Headdown, he hurried toward the water, eyes squinted against the spray. Above him, the waterfall arced out and over, obscuring his view of the tunnel he’d just left. It hit the water below in a thundering roar that grew louder as he descended.

  The scout was still a pace or two above the surface of the lake when the urge to breathe overcame him. Expelling the water in his lungs like a vomiting man, he tried to draw air—and nearly drowned.

  Sputtering, he at last reached the lake. As his head plunged beneath the cold, choppy surface he drew in a great lungful of water and felt relief.

  He continued down, following the wall of stone until the churning water washed the stickiness from his hands and feet. Pushing off from the wall, he swam, allowing the current caused by the waterfall to carry him deeper. The water was cold—and dark. He swam through it for some time without seeing anything, relying on his keen sense of direction to keep him oriented toward the middle of the lake. Pharaun’s spell would enable him to keep breathing water for more than a cycle—he could rest on the bottom of the lake, if he needed to—but he hoped it wouldn’t take him that long to find some sign of where the aboleth city was.

  After he swam, and rested, and swam a while longer, Valas saw a glow in the darkened water ahead. As he made his way toward it, the glow resolved itself into a pattern of tightly clustered, greenish-yellow globes that brightened and dimmed, brightened and dimmed.

  Are those the lights of Zanhoriloch? Valas thought as he stroked toward them, only to be disappointed as he drew near enough to see the lights more clearly.

  The glowing globes turned out not to be the lights of the aboleth city but a school of luminescent jellyfish. There were hundreds of them, each the size of Valas’s palm. They moved together, their tendrils contracting, then pulsing in unison, each pulse pumping up their light from greenish-yellow to yellow.

  Valas started to turn away, disappointed, when he spotted a silhouette swimming between him and the jellyfish. The scout froze, not wanting to betray himself with movement. Drifting with the current, he hung in the water, watching.

  The silhouette was the same size as a drow and had two arms and two legs, each of which ended in a wide webbed hand or foot. It also had a fluked tail—but no tentacles. Definitely not an aboleth then . . . but what race was it?

  The creature swam beside the jellyfish, herding them with a staff it held in one hand. The head of the staff emitted crackling bursts of light whose frequency matched the pulsing of the jellyfish. Valas could just barely hear the sound that came from it, a low-pitched thum, thum, thum, like the sound of a muted drum.

  Intent upon its glowing flock, the creature hadn’t spotted Valas, which left the scout with a decision to make. He could approach and try to communicate, in the hope that the creature would tell him where Zanhoriloch was, or exercise his usual caution and swim away.

  He touched his star-shaped talisman, reassuring himself that it was still pinned to his shirt. If necessary, he could always use its magic to escape.

  He swam toward the creature.

  As he drew nearer he could see that it had skin as dark as a drow’s. Its head was bald, and its body glistened in the light of the jellyfish. A layer of greenish slime covered its skin. When Valas was perhaps ten paces from it, the creature must have sensed his presence. It turned with a sudden, whiplike flick of its tail. Seeing its face, Valas gasped. The high cheekbones and pointed jaw gave the creature a distinctively drow appearance. It even had red eyes, but no ears—or at least, only gnarled ridges around holes in its head that looked like the melted remains of ears. The thing’s hands—one sculling back and forth, keeping the creature in place; the other holding the staff—had a thumb, but only two fingers, with a wide web of skin between them.

  Valas opened his mouth, then remembered he was breathing water and was unable to speak. On a whim, he tried drow sign language instead. He chose a carefully neutral message.

  He still didn’t know if the creature was a friend or foe of either the drow or the aboleths.

  This is the lake of the aboleth, is it not? he asked. Is their city nearby?

  He didn’t expect an answer. The scout who’d told him about Lake Thoroot had said that only a handful of drow had ever ventured that way.

  Valas was shocked, then, when the creature replied in sign—albeit a sign that was made clumsy by his awkward, webbed fingers, You seek the aboleth? Are you insane? Go back, before they—

  The drow-thing convulsed as if it had been struck a blow. Releasing its staff it curled into a fetal position, webbed hands clutching its head, mouth open in a silent scream. Valas twisted around, reaching for his daggers as he searched for the threat, but before he could draw them a high-pitched scream pounded in through his skull.

  Louder than any noise he had ever experienced, the scream shattered thought and forced his body into spastic jerks. He found himself curled in the same fetal position, eyes squeezed shut in a pained grimace and hands pressed over his ears.

  It didn’t help. The scream continued, echoing against the
inside of his skull until he was certain the bone would shatter like crystal. Then, mercifully, silence and darkness claimed him.

  chapter

  eleven

  Halisstra sat cross-legged on the wet stone floor of a cave whose only exit was far overhead. The walls of the cave were covered with pictures, the paint daubed onto the stone itself, the lines following the natural contours of the rock. Life-size figures of drow strained toward the ceiling, hands extended overhead and eyes glowing with rapturous desire. All of the figures were adult, but each had an umbilical cord that snaked down toward the floor of the cavern like a root.

  Halisstra’s wrists were no longer bound, but she could no more escape the cave than the painted figures could step away from the rocky canvas that held them. The walls were at least three times her height and curved inward to meet the hole in the ceiling, making climbing impossible without the aid of magic. She had been carefully and thoroughly stripped of all magical devices and weapons, and the curse the priestess had placed on Halisstra prevented her from singing or even humming—from using any of her bae’qeshel magic.

  After Ryld had gone, the priestess who’d slain the troll teleported Halisstra into the cave, then disappeared. The First Daughter of House Melarn had remained there for an entire day, at first restlessly pacing the cave, looking for a way out. When she finally accepted the fact that she was trapped, she sank, cross-legged, into Reverie. Once she’d emerged from her meditations, she’d watched the circle of sky above grow gray, then black. The rain had stopped but the sky was still overcast. Neither the stars nor the moon could be seen. Looking up, Halisstra could almost imagine that she was in the Underdark—that above the cave was a tunnel or passage. But the earth-and-bark-scented breeze blowing in through the hole destroyed that illusion, as did the low rumble of thunder in the distance. So too did the ferns that surrounded the opening like a fringe of hair. Beads of rain dripped from their sodden stems.

  From outside came the sound of singing. The voices were those of the priestesses who’d gathered to decide Halisstra’s fate. Their song was accompanied by the silvery tones of a flute and the rapid clash of swords, a staccato of metallic clangs marking the beat. Halisstra thought it might just be her imagination, but it sounded as if the song was reaching a crescendo. She assumed that one of Eilistraee’s followers would appear in another moment and announce how Halisstra was to die.

  Halisstra braced herself for the inevitable. One way or another—by the magic of their traitor goddess or the cold steel of a sword—she was going to be put to death. The priestesses would have come to their senses and realized that Halisstra had only been buying time when she swore fealty to Eilistraee. The time had come for Halisstra to pray and prepare for entry into the next realm—but pray to which god?

  Halisstra knew hundreds of prayers to supplicate Lolth— prayers she could recite with her hands, using the silent speech—but they would go unheard, unseen. Lolth had vanished and was no longer listening to prayers. She wasn’t even punishing blasphemers. The Demonweb Pits had been devoid of the souls of the dead, and Halisstra had to presume that Lolth’s faithful were disappearing into oblivion, just as their goddess had.

  Should Halisstra pray instead to Selvetarm, Lolth’s champion? For all she knew, he might be locked in battle with Vhaeraun still and unable to hear her—or worse, slain. Was there any god who was still listening?

  Halisstra shivered and drew her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them. At least Ryld was safe. Her surrender had saved him. She started to rest her chin on her knee, then winced as it touched the cut from Ryld’s sword. The wound was a tiny one, no bigger than the crescent of her thumbnail, but it burned like a fresh brand. It had broken open and was bleeding again, even though Halisstra’s chin had barely touched it.

  Outside, the singing stopped. Halisstra heard a rustling above and glanced up to see Feliane, kneeling in the ferns and staring down at her. The priestess had scrubbed her face clean of the black dye, and her skin was an unhealthy looking mushroom-white. Looking at it, Halisstra decided she must have been wrong about the sky being overcast; the moon must have been peeking through the clouds, because for a moment a faint, silvery radiance illuminated Feliane. Then it was gone, and Halisstra could see the priestess’s face clearly again.

  Well? Halisstra asked in sign. What is my fate to be? The song—or the sword?

  “The song,” Feliane answered.

  Halisstra nodded grimly and stood. She wanted to meet death on her feet.

  I’m ready, she signed, fingers moving in tense, sharp jerks.

  Feliane’s round face broke into a grin. On a drow, it would have been a gloat of triumph, but so innocent and naive looking was Feliane that for a moment it appeared like a warm smile. Halisstra pushed that foolish notion from her mind and stood, rigid, waiting.

  Feliane began to sing in High Drow. From behind her, Halisstra could hear a chorus of women’s voices, though Feliane’s was the strongest.

  “Climb out of the darkness, rise into the light.

  Turn your face to the sky, your elf birthright.

  Dance in the forest, sing with the breeze;

  Claim your place in the moonlight among flowers and trees.

  Lend your strength to the needy; battle evil with steel.

  Join in the hunt; to no other gods kneel.

  Purge the monster within and the monster without;

  Their blood washes you clean, of this have no doubt.

  Trust in your sisters; lend your voice to their song.

  By joining the circle, the weak are made strong.”

  Feliane extended her hand down into the hole, as if inviting Halisstra to take it. Her pale skin had taken on a moonlit glow.

  It took Halisstra a moment to realize the import of the song and gesture. It wasn’t an execution but an invitation. And not just to life, but to join the circle. To join the priestesses of Eilistraee.

  Halisstra’s eyes narrowed. It had to be a trick of some kind.

  “Trust?” she said—out loud, surprised to find that her ability to speak had returned.

  She didn’t need to let the scorn she felt creep into her voice; the word already held a negative connotation in the drow tongue, implying weakness, naiveté. She thought of the alliances she’d tried to build among her own sisters and how those alliances had been betrayed. She’d tried to reach out to Norendia, telling her sister about the bard who’d been teaching her darksong. A few cycles later, that bard had “fallen” from one of the city walkways to her death. Later that same cycle, Jawil, second oldest of the Melarn daughters after Halisstra, had made an attempt on Halisstra’s life. When Halisstra had rushed to Norendia for help, she had been stabbed in the back. Literally. Thankfully, Halisstra’s magic had proved strong enough to save her—and to kill her two sisters.

  “Trust,” she muttered again.

  Behind Feliane, she could see the priestess who had slain the troll. The woman looked down, smiled, then stepped back out of sight.

  Ideas flashed through Halisstra’s mind, quick as lightning strikes. She could use bae’qeshel magic to charm Feliane into lowering her a rope then stun the rest of Eilistraee’s priestesses with a painful burst of sound and escape. But each flash of inspiration left behind it a rumble of doubt, disturbing as the distant thunder.

  Was escape really what Halisstra wanted—or had there been a faint echo of truth in the oath she’d sworn earlier? She’d been drawn to the World Above, though she hadn’t been able to articulate the reason, either to Ryld or to herself. But now she was starting to understand. She’d always thought treachery and selfishness to be indelible hallmarks of the drow, but she was beginning to see that there could be another way.

  The drow who lived on the surface not only trusted one another, they were also willing to extend that trust to her. Even knowing that she had killed one of their priestesses—that she might do the same to any of them. Their faith in her capacity for redemption was strong, even though t
here was only the word of a dying priestess to base it on.

  Or was there?

  From somewhere above came the sound of a flute, playing a few soft, tentative notes. It reminded Halisstra of the sounds Seyll’s sword had made when she was fighting the stirges. And of that single, piercing note that had at last knocked them from the sky. Had that been Eilistraee’s magic at work? Had Halisstra already been accepted by the goddess, even then?

  Feliane waited patiently, hand still extended, as Halisstra wrestled with her doubts. The elf priestess’s entire body was glowing silver. Her hair seemed alive with sparkling stars, her smile was as bright as a crescent moon. The goddess had filled her, transformed her. She stared down at Halisstra with a mother’s love, urging her to accept it.

  Trembling, Halisstra raised her hands above her head, just like the figures painted on the cave walls.

  “I accept, Eilistraee,” Halisstra said. “I will serve you.”

  She felt a tear streaking down her cheek, and angrily told herself it was just a drip from the ferns above—then she realized it didn’t matter.

  Feliane, too, was weeping.

  The elf priestess began to chant, and Halisstra felt her body grow lighter. The stone floor dropped away from her feet as she floated upward, drawn by Feliane’s spell. The fringe of ferns made the hole in the ceiling look too narrow to fit through, so Halisstra crossed her arms tightly against her chest, making herself smaller. As she rose through the opening, wet ferns brushed against her face, forcing her to close her eyes. Her body squeezed through them, slipping out of the cave, and she felt dozens of hands touching her, guiding her. The priestesses were all around the opening, lifting her from the cave, hugging her, singing.

  “Climb out of the darkness, rise into the light . . .”

  Opening her eyes, Halisstra looked up and saw the full moon through a break in the clouds. The goddess’s face smiled down at her, weeping raindrops of joy.

  “Eilistraee!” Halisstra cried. “I am yours!”

  “The goddess welcomes you into her embrace,” Feliane whispered in her ear. “Now you must prepare yourself for the trial she has set you.”