Things started spilling out of the madly writhing animal. Long ropes of intestines, things that must have been its kidneys, and other organs rode a torrent of steaming blood onto the spongy moss. Jeggred held the animal close to him and squeezed until more came out and kept squeezing until the cat was dead.
Ryld stood a few paces away, watching, ready. He thought back on his training and the single overriding principal of defending against claws. Things with claws—any number of demons, trolls, and the like—stabbed then pulled down. Claw attacks always came high and ripped down. All he had to do was be ready for that. There was the fact that anything that attacked with claws would never parry. If Ryld set his blade against Jeggred’s attack, the draegloth would avoid contact with the keen edge or risk dismemberment. Ryld could use that to his advantage simply by defending against the draegloth’s arms as if they were swords. Jeggred would be put on the defensive by being unable to defend, and he wouldn’t parry Ryld’s attacks, but he would dodge.
The draegloth looked up from his still-quivering kill and bared his knifelike fangs at Ryld. The weapons master stood his ground. He wasn’t as strong as Jeggred, and he might not be as fast, but he was smarter and better trained.
That might be enough.
“Why are you here?” Ryld asked the draegloth. “Surely you didn’t come all this way just to save me from that cat.”
The half-demon, covered in the animal’s still-hot blood, was steaming.
“I was told things about you, weapons master,” Jeggred growled. “Disturbing things.”
Ryld held Splitter in both hands in front of him and said, “I can only imagine.”
“The priestess I can understand,” said the draegloth. He took a wide, slow step sideways, moving away from the dead animal. “They’re feeling particularly betrayed by Lolth. They seek power and communion, so it seems only fitting that if one goddess turns her back on them, they might seek the embrace of another, but you?”
“I can’t seek the embrace of a goddess?” asked Ryld, stalling as he examined the half-demon for wounds and weaknesses.
“Why would you,” asked the draegloth, “when you can have the embrace of a flesh and blood female?”
“You have me all figured out,” the weapons master said, surprised that the draegloth seemed to have done just that.
“My mistress has,” Jeggred said with a shrug. He stepped to the side again, beginning to circle Ryld. “She even now stands over the corpse of your traitor priestess. I get the pleasure of ending your life.”
“It’ll be a particularly painful and violent death, no doubt,” Ryld said, irony absent from his voice.
The draegloth smiled, coughed out a laugh, and charged.
The big claws came in first, high, aimed for his chest. Ryld whirled Splitter in front of him then abruptly stopped the blade’s spin and sliced up to parry the draegloth’s right arm. As he expected, Jeggred drew his arm back sharply in an effort to avoid the enchanted greatsword. Ryld quickly changed direction, tucking the blade in, stepping back, and stabbing at the dodging half-demon. The tip of Ryld’s sword penetrated the draegloth’s furred hide under his shoulder blade to a depth of an inch or two. The half-demon, bleeding, hopped back, sliding off the blade.
Ryld stepped back too, rolling the greatsword in both hands in a slow figure eight in front of him.
Soon, one of them would be dead.
chapter
seventeen
“Where is he?” Quenthel asked, her red eyes wild with barely contained fury.
“He’s gone to kill them,” Danifae answered.
Pharaun watched the exchange from a distance. He had sat cross-legged in the exact center of the deck, right in front of the mainmast, precisely where Aliisza had told him to sit. He could feel the ship of chaos vibrating beneath him, reacting to the power he was exerting over it.
“On whose command?” the high priestess asked.
“On yours, Mistress,” Danifae answered, “through me.”
“Through you?” Quenthel repeated. “Through you?”
Pharaun pressed one of his hands against the deck and felt the pulse in a cluster of veins that was growing there.
The high priestess slapped Danifae across the face, but the battle-captive stood her ground.
“Halisstra Melarn and Ryld Argith are traitors,” Danifae said. “They are traitors to this expedition, traitors to Lolth, and traitors to drow civilization. You know that, I know that, and Jeggred knows that. That’s why he’s there.”
“On your command,” the Mistress of the Academy pressed, “not mine.”
“He’s doing what has to be done,” Danifae replied, her voice finally showing some emotion: anger and impatience. “You weren’t able to give him the order, so I did it for you.”
Pharaun laughed at the exchange and at the thrill of the ship reacting to his thoughts and touch. He found Danifae’s hijacking of the draegloth fascinating.
“We have the time, Mistress,” Pharaun offered in Danifae’s defense—if only for the sport of it. “Why not let the draegloth clean up some messes? If Mistress Melarn is indeed a traitor, and after watching her in the face of Lolth’s temple that’s hardly a surprise, consider it a favor from a loyal young priestess in your service. Master Argith, on the other hand, is likely not a traitor to the City of Spiders. He lacks the necessary spark for rebellion, I’m afraid. If you wish to be concerned with anything it should be that the weapons master might actually kill your nephew.”
Quenthel looked over at Pharaun, who met her gaze for a moment then returned his attention to the ship. The high priestess glanced at Danifae, who stood tall and resolute, giving no ground. The Mistress of the Academy held her scourge in one hand, and the vipers curled around the fingers of her other. She looked down at the vipers then back at Danifae. Pharaun watched the whole thing while feeling the ship’s pulse momentarily quicken.
Quenthel took a step away and turned her back on Danifae, who sighed. Pharaun thought the battle-captive might have been disappointed.
“That,” Danifae said to Quenthel’s back, “is why Jeggred serves me now.”
They began to circle each other, testing their steps on the spongy, uneven moss. Jeggred looked down and considered the puncture wound. He lifted one eyebrow in a sort of grudging salute then let his tongue unroll from his mouth. The black, rough tongue slowly licked the wound. When he smiled next, Jeggred’s own blood stained his razor-sharp fangs.
Just keep your distance, Ryld told himself. Keep your distance and go for the hands.
The draegloth charged again, and again his claws came in high at first. Ryld had the wide, heavy blade of Splitter parallel to the ground. All he had to do was bend his knees, step in, then stand, and he met the draegloth’s descending rake.
The weapons master stepped into the attack and parried precisely as if the huge claw was a sword blade. Jeggred brought his smaller claws down fast and hard so that Ryld barely had to press the parry. The draegloth drove his own arm down onto the blade. Ryld felt a tug, then release. Blood sprayed. Jeggred’s right, smaller hand tumbled through the air and bounced once when it hit the moss.
Ryld didn’t allow himself the time to celebrate having cut off one of the draegloth’s hands. He stepped back away from the blood that was spraying from the half-demon’s stump. Jeggred screamed—an unsettling, ear-rattling sound—and he started backing quickly away.
Well aware that the half-demon could change direction very quickly, Ryld stepped back too, though not quite as far.
“You will pay for that with your hands and feet, whelp,” Jeggred hissed around clenched teeth. “I was following orders when I came here to kill you, but now—” he held up the stump from which blood was still pumping—“it’s personal.”
A refreshing cycle of darkness had passed during which Gromph alternated between brief periods of Reverie, infuriating sessions with the same handful of winged halflings, and the casting of powerful divinations.
The da
rkness was a welcome comfort to the archmage’s light-ravaged eyes. He had spent nights under the open sky before—though not many—and he had seen stars. The stars in the Green Fields seemed a little brighter than those visible from Faerûn. Gromph wasn’t familiar enough with either to sense any difference between the number and positions of the stars there and Faerûn’s, but he knew they were different. The Green Fields was a separate reality all together.
The needle-like plant that covered the rolling hills was something he’d seen before as well. In the trade language of the World Above it was called “grass.” The halflings of the Green Fields called it “ens.” There were other things he’d seen before in the World Above: “flowers,” “trees,” and things like that. It made Gromph wonder if there was an Underdark of sorts somewhere beneath his feet—then he reminded himself that he wouldn’t be there long enough to find out.
The halflings he’d first encountered had all but adopted him. A few of the little folk seemed genuinely happy to receive him. The one who called himself Dietr and who claimed to have been from Faerûn was suspicious but wanted something—something he wouldn’t or couldn’t ask for. However they approached Gromph, all of them were easy and casual with each other. They had a sense of hospitality and were determined to help him. They brought him food that fell into one of two categories: heavy and swimming in fragrant cream sauces or a confusing variety of sweet, fresh fruit. Neither appealed much to Gromph, but he ate enough to give him the energy he needed to prepare spells and collect himself for his return to Menzoberranzan.
Gromph hadn’t moved far from the spot at which he’d first appeared. The Green Fields seemed to be exactly that: an endless open landscape of green grass and other plants. Gromph hadn’t seen a building of any kind, and it appeared as if the halflings lived out in the open, slowly but constantly moving.
When the light returned, Gromph knew he would have to be on his way. He cast the last in a series of divinations that would help him not only return to the Prime Material Plane but go back to Toril, back to the Underdark below Faerûn, and back to Menzoberranzan herself. It was no mean feat, and certainly Dyrr hadn’t expected him to be able to accomplish it, but then Dyrr hadn’t expected him to break free of the imprisonment either. The lichdrow’s insistence on underestimating him would, possibly, allow Gromph the luxury of beating him.
The archmage stood, shielding his eyes from the pervasive light and watched Dietr and one of the females approaching with another tray of fruit. Dietr held a waterskin.
“We thought you might want breakfast,” Dietr said.
The halfling looked at Gromph with that same expression of vague hopefulness and fear. The female barely seemed to notice him at all.
“I’ve had enough of your food,” the archmage said, “and I’m taking my leave of your pointless expanse.”
“Pointless expanse?” the female repeated, her ambivalence all at once replaced by anger. “Who are you to dismiss the Green Fields?”
“Who are you to speak to me at all?” Gromph asked.
He waited for an answer, but all he got was a squinting sneer from the winged female. Dietr’s eyes bounced back and forth between them, and his breathing grew shallow and expectant.
“Leave me in peace,” Gromph commanded.
When the two halflings didn’t immediately turn to leave, the archmage raised an eyebrow. The female did her best to stare him down, but her best wasn’t anywhere near good enough.
“You were alive once,” Gromph asked her, “weren’t you?”
Neither of the halflings responded right away.
“This one”—Gromph indicated Dietr with a wave of his hand— “was a living, material being on Faerûn. Where did you live before you went to your Great Beyond?”
Again the female said nothing.
“I’ll admit to being curious,” Gromph went on. “If you died on whatever world you came from and your soul came here to rest in peace for all eternity, what happens when I kill you here? Does your soul go somewhere else, or are you consigned to oblivion? Will one of your weakling halfling godlings stop me? Even a halfling god on his home plane can be an inconvenience I’m sure, but it might be amusing to make the effort anyway.”
“If you think you can kill me, interloper,” the female sneered, “try it now or shut up.”
Gromph smiled, and it must have been that expression that made Dietr finally step forward, his hands held out in a gesture of weak conciliation.
“Easy,” he said. “Easy there, everybody.”
Gromph laughed.
“That’s better,” said Dietr, a grin plastered across his cherubic face. “If the venerable drow would like to leave, then he’s certainly free to go on his way.”
“There will be no violence here,” the female said, her voice even and strong. “If I have to blast you to pieces to ensure that . . .”
“We’ve all been blasted to pieces at least once, haven’t we?” Dietr said. “No one wants to do that again, so let’s all be friends.”
Gromph took a deep breath and said, “I will be leaving, but there will be residual effects from the gate, and you won’t want to go where I’m going. Back away or not, I’ll leave that up to you.”
The female continued to stare daggers at him, but still she drifted the slightest bit back from the archmage.
Gromph looked her up and down. She was half his size, and she looked ridiculous. The whole world looked ridiculous—the whole world was ridiculous. Dyrr had sent him there on purpose, and looking at the winged halfling in her grass-infested setting made Gromph angrier and angrier by the second. Dyrr was trying to get rid of him, was trying to dismiss him by sending him to that pastoral universe, and Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, would not be dismissed.
“Fine,” Gromph said, and he began to cast his spell.
He was only vaguely aware of the female moving farther away, and he assumed that Dietr was doing the same thing. The words of the spell came easily enough, and the gestures went smoothly from one to another. There was a part of the spell that few of the experienced casters who’d ever done it knew could be manipulated, and Gromph began to maneuver it. He wove into the spell a subtle modification that would take him precisely where he wanted to go.
He finished and could feel himself falling backward out of the Green Fields—and he felt a hand on his arm.
There was light everywhere but it wasn’t too bright.
There was sound coming from all around him but it wasn’t too loud.
There were colors in the air but they weren’t too vibrant.
They were moving in every direction at once but not too fast.
They appeared in Menzoberranzan, their feet on solid rock, their eyes comforted by the gloom lit by faerie fire.
Gromph turned and looked at the halfling. He was naked, shaking, his wings were gone, and he looked older, smaller, and weaker. His eyes were red, his skin dry and yellow. His face, twisted in a rictus of suffering, revealed gray, decaying teeth.
With a sigh, the archmage turned to survey his surroundings. It was Menzoberranzan—the Bazaar. He’d made it. There weren’t many drow in the streets, and the few who were there recognized the archmage immediately. The smart ones scattered.
Nauzhror, Gromph thought, sending the name along the Weave to the Baenre wizard.
After a tense moment of silence a voice echoed in Gromph’s mind: Archmage. It is gratifying to hear you again. Welcome back to Menzoberranzan.
It was Nauzhror.
Before he could reply, Gromph was distracted by a highpitched whine. He looked down at the desiccated halfling.
“You are a fool,” Gromph said to Dietr.
The halfling cowered from his gaze and quivered.
“I didn’t ask you to come with me,” Gromph added, “and you don’t belong here any more than I belonged in the Green Fields.”
“I wanted . . .” the halfling began then coughed. Dust puffed from his throat. “I wanted to live again.”
>
“Why?” Gromph asked.
“My mother. She has been attending seances to contact me. She has no other family and needs me to support her.”
Gromph laughed.
“It’s not funny,” Dietr said.
Gromph laughed more then cast a spell.
“An amusing diversion, traitor,” he said into the air, “but a temporary one. We’ll finish it in the Bazaar. Now.”
He still had ten words left in the spell but had nothing more to say.
The lichdrow has been hiding in House Agrach Dyrr, Nauzhror sent. The siege continues at a stalemate.
“I don’t understand,” Dietr said.
Gromph turned to look down at the halfling again.
“Can you get me home?” Dietr asked. “Can you send me back to Luiren?”
Gromph raised an eyebrow at the little creature’s audacity then slid his tongue around a quick divination. Obvious as it was by the halfling’s appearance, it didn’t hurt to be certain. The spell revealed a telltale glow around the slight humanoid.
Where have you been? Nauzhror asked.
Nowhere I’d like to visit again, he replied, but someone’s come back with me.
I see, said Nauzhror. The gate effect seems to have given him some kind of physical form.
But he died on this plane, Gromph added, so when he came back . . .
“Yes,” the archmage finally answered the halfling. “I can take you anywhere you want to go. Of course, I won’t.”
The halfling shook, and Gromph thought he could actually hear the creature’s bones rattle.
“Please . . . ?” the halfling whimpered.
“Your mother will not be happy to see you, Dietr,” Gromph said. “You died. Remember? You came back to this world unbidden. You came back as a . . .”
It is a huecuva, Nauzhror provided.
“An undead creature,” Gromph said to the halfling. “You’re a huecuva. Do you know what that is?”
The halfling shook his head, terror plain in his bloodshot eyes.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 52
