When he finished the incantation, the magic formed a wall of stone over the cave mouth. Its borders melded with and into the surrounding rock, blocking the light from Lolth’s sun. The brewing storm and the seething Teeming disappeared behind the wall. The cave fell into welcome darkness, to which his eyes quickly adjusted.
He put the granite back in its place and descended the rest of the way down the shaft. It wove a bit here and there, but moved ever downward. He heard no sounds coming from below and assumed that nothing dangerous lurked there—other than his companions. To be prudent, he pulled another chip of flakefungus from his pocket and readied himself quickly to cast the flesh-flensing spell. He thought of an ancient drow adage: Keep allies within reach of your sword, but keep enemies within reach of your knife. He saw the wisdom of it. Pharaun never felt more uncomfortable than when Jeggred and Danifae were out of his sight.
It was clear to him that Danifae was trying to undermine Quenthel’s claim that she was the Yor’thae. Perhaps she thought to take that title for herself? As absurd as it sounded, Pharaun thought it to be true.
For his part, he was beginning to think that neither priestess was or would be Lolth’s Chosen.
chapter
seven
Amidst the smoking ruins of Ched Nasad, Nimor stood on the cracked balcony of a once luxurious noble manse. The house’s structural wards had saved much of it from destruction when it had fallen to the bottom of the chasm, but it still lay broken and askew on the rocky floor.
Most of Ched Nasad rested in ruins around him. Heaps of rubble and chunks of stone lay scattered and broken about the chasm’s bottom like the grave markers for a race of titans. Once, the city had hung over the chasm on thick calcified webs. Then the duergar had come, the webs had burned under the gray dwarves’ stonefire bombs, and the city had fallen.
Nimor smiled at the destruction. He had returned from Chaulssin to look once more upon what his people had wrought.
High above him hung those few of the city’s webs that had survived the duergars’ attacks bombs. A number of intact
buildings dangled in the broken, calcified strands like trapped caveflies, twisting helplessly over the abyss. A handful of minor noble houses, built into the chasm’s walls rather than on the webs that once had spanned the abyss, remained largely intact.
Nimor knew that the Jaezred Chaulssin had begun to rebuild the city in their image. Drow in service to the Jaezred Chaulssin worked at the bottom of the chasm, along its walls, and in the surviving webs near the top. The beat of shadow dragon wings whispered in the cavern’s depths, and many of the ruined buildings that lay at the bottom of the chasm had already been melded into the Shadow Fringe. Oily, impenetrable clouds of darkness shrouded the areas that existed simultaneously in both planes.
The transformation would go on for decades, Nimor knew, centuries perhaps. But when it was complete, Ched Nasad would be another Chaulssin. The resurrected Ched Nasad would be one drow city that contained nothing of the Spider Queen or her servants.
Nimor smiled, but softly. The sting of his failure lingered still, overwhelming whatever satisfaction he otherwise would have felt. He had hoped to see not only Ched Nasad transformed but also Menzoberranzan.
He eyed the magical ring of shadow on his fingers, a band of liquid black that wrapped his digit like a tiny asp. Of his many magic items, only his ring and his House brooch had retained their enchantments after Gromph Baenre had cast his spell of disjoining during their combat over Menzoberranzan’s bazaar. Nimor had not yet replaced any of his lost items. He regarded his penury as penance for his failure.
Menzoberranzan. He saw the city in his mind’s eye, imagined it lying in ruin about him like Ched Nasad . . .
He shook the image from his head. Menzoberranzan stood, and Lolth had returned. Nimor had failed, and he was no longer the Anointed Blade.
He sighed, fingering his ring.
Patron Grandfather Tomphael had ordered Nimor to return to Ched Nasad and Menzoberranzan one final time, to look alternatively upon the scene of the Jaezred Chaulssin’s success and the scene of their failure. Nimor, of course, would obey the patron grandfather.
Besides, certain matters in Menzoberranzan—a certain bald matter and a certain half-devil matter—required his attention.
“Here is success,” Nimor said to himself, taking one final look around. “Now, on to failure.” Without further ado, Nimor called upon the power of his shadow ring to remove him to the Fringe. When the magic took effect, ruined Ched Nasad vanished, replaced by a shadowy ghost of itself. Only those portions of the city that had been removed to the Plane of Shadow appeared substantive.
Nimor willed open a path along the Fringe to Menzoberranzan, and it opened before him. He stepped onto it, beat his wings, and took to the air. Unbound by the physical rules of the Prime Material Plane, the Shadow Fringe allowed rapid travel. Swirling ribbons of shadow surged past and through Nimor. The power of the ring and the nature of the Fringe turned a journey of days into a journey of less than an hour.
Presently, he found himself within the shadow correspondent of Menzoberranzan, a ghostly, dead image of spires, towers, and stalagmite structures. With an effort of will, he pierced the veil between the Fringe and the Prime and found himself hovering in darkness near the top of Menzoberranzan’s cavern. Darkness enshrouded him, rendering him invisible even to the otherwise discerning eyes of any drow who might look up. He gazed down on his failure.
The Jaezred Chaulssin had scried the city, to keep tabs on events even after Nimor had fled. He knew what those scryings had shown: The forces that he had so meticulously marshaled to conquer Menzoberranzan were falling into disarray.
Vhok and his Scourged Legion were beginning to withdraw, fighting retreating actions through the caverns east of the fungus gardens. No doubt the tanarukks would flee back to their warrens under Hellgate Keep with their hides, if not their dignity, intact. Horgar and his ridiculous duergar forces would not be so fortunate. The duergar had left the rock of Tier Breche a pockmarked, melted, blackened waste, but they had failed to break through—Melee-Magthere, Arach-Tinilith, and Sorcere all remained in the hands in the Menzoberranyr. The battle there continued still. Explosions and blasts of magical energy denoted the ferocity of the ongoing fight. Nimor knew it to be futile. Lolth had reawakened; the opportunity to conquer the city had passed. The Spider Queen once again answered the prayers of her priestesses, and when Arach-Tinilith spat out her daughters and they bolstered the Menzoberranyr forces with their newly regained spells, the duergar would be routed. Few of them would ever leave Menzoberranzan. Unlike Vhok, Horgar was too blind or too stupid to see it.
Nimor let his eyes linger long on the high plateau of Tier Breche, in particular on the soaring spires of Sorcere. Somewhere within, he knew, was Gromph Baenre. Thinking of the Archmage caused Nimor’s blood to seethe. Gromph had destroyed the lichdrow Dyrr—the bazaar was still a smoking ruin from their spell battle—and had been instrumental in thwarting the entire invasion. Nimor both hated and respected him.
Nimor beat his wings and looked to his right, to the great spire of Narbondel. Its base glowed red in the darkness, a defiant beacon proclaiming to the whole of the Underdark that Menzoberranzan remained standing. Nimor wondered if Gromph Baenre himself had lit the beacon’s fires.
With startling suddenness, Nimor’s emotional control slipped. An unbearable wave of frustration washed over him. He clenched his fists and swallowed down the roar that threatened to escape his throat.
He had fought well, schemed his best, and nearly—within a rothé’s hair—conquered the most powerful drow city in the Underdark. The trophy of Ched Nasad would have paled in comparison to the jewel of a conquered Menzoberranzan.
Of course, he knew that nearly was insufficient, almost a paltry substitute for success, both for him and for the Jaezred Chaulssin. Nearly won him nothing. Nearly had lost him his place of honor as the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin.
That was the lesson the patron grandfather had wanted him to learn in returning—Nimor was to taste of failure, to gag on its flavor so much that he would never allow it to happen again. A tiny amount of humility took root in him and tempered his habitual arrogance.
You promised to cleanse Menzoberranzan of the stench of Lolth, Patron Grandfather Mauzzkyl had said to him. Have you done that?
Nimor had answered truthfully—he had not done it. He had only nearly done it, and the bitter taste of nearly had all but choked him.
There will be other opportunities, Patron Father Tomphael had promised. If you learn wisdom.
Lesson learned, Tomphael, Nimor thought.
He fixed his gaze on Tier Breche, where the battle still raged, on the quiet Donigarten, where drow soldiers prowled amongst the giant mushrooms. He thought of Horgar, of the little princeling’s failings . . .
Nimor had a lesson of his own to teach. Horgar would be his student.
With his mind made up, he looked down upon Menzoberranzan a final time. He stared at the soaring, elegant spires, the tall towers, the twisting architecture of the great manor houses—all of it a silent testimony to the unbearable arrogance of the Menzoberranyr. Perhaps they too had learned to temper their arrogance with humility.
Or perhaps not.
Nimor looked down on the city and offered it a grudging nod of respect.
It had beaten him.
This time.
With a minor exercise of will, he moved into the bleakness of the Shadow Fringe.
The chwidencha shaft dropped down a spearcast before ending in a round chamber from which a wide horizontal tunnel extended. Old webs covered the walls, and the dried husks of dismembered spiders lay cast about here and there, no doubt the remains of the chwidenchas’ meals. Jeggred kicked at them absently. The dry air stank of must and decay.
Pharaun lowered himself to the ground beside Quenthel. Her whip flicked its tongues at him.
Danifae and Jeggred stood apart, eyeing them. Danifae ran her fingers over her holy symbol.
Pharaun could not help but think that not all of them would be returning to the surface. As a precaution, he still held the piece of flakefungus hidden in his palm.
To Quenthel, he said, “The tunnel is sealed above us, Mistress.”
She nodded, looked down the horizontal tunnel, and said, “We will continue on for a bit longer. Find a more suitable spot to rest.”
No one protested, and Quenthel started down the tunnel. The rest of them fell in beside her. The cavern was wide enough to accommodate the four of them walking abreast, and they did exactly that. None wanted to show their backs to the others.
Here and there, smaller tunnels branched off of the main corridor and extended away into the darkness. Pharaun wondered if all of Lolth’s plane was hollowed out with tunnels, possessed of an Underdark of its own. He thought they might have escaped the chwidencha and the Teeming only to find themselves facing something worse in the depths.
Nothing for it now, he thought, but he kept his hearing attuned for sound from ahead.
He heard nothing other than Jeggred’s respiration and the scrape of their boots over the rock. The draegloth shouldered aside any carcasses in their way, but they encountered nothing alive. With the chwidencha pack on the surface, it appeared that at least the main horizontal tunnel was empty.
After a short time, they came to another roughly round chamber, one littered with more desiccated spider husks and the hollowed out molt shells of the chwidencha. The shells, each as thin as fine parchment, looked like dozens of chwidencha ghosts. Jeggred clutched one of them by its leg, and the entire shell crumbled away in his grasp.
A few small pools of green acid dotted the chamber and bubbled smoke and stink into the air. It vented through cracks in the low ceiling. A natural archway in the far side of the chamber opened onto another large tunnel.
“Perhaps here, Mistress?” Pharaun ventured. “We are not vulnerable to attack from behind—” at least not from the chwidencha, he thought—“and can set a watch in the tunnel ahead. A rest would allow me time to study my spellbooks and replace those spells I’ve cast.”
He knew that it would also allow the priestesses, after a brief Reverie, to refresh their own spells from Lolth. He could use the benefit of one or two of Quenthel’s healing spells.
Quenthel eyed him with cool disdain, obviously displeased that he had offered yet another “suggestion.” Still, she said, “Here is as good a place as any. We will eat, rest, and pray to Lolth.”
Hearing no protests, Pharaun found a choice rock and collapsed atop it.
“Jeggred will take the first watch,” Quenthel said.
The draegloth, crumbling yet another chwidencha molt, looked to Danifae, who nodded.
“Very well,” Jeggred said to Quenthel and stalked across the chamber to take a position at the mouth of the tunnel before them.
Quenthel watched him go with anger in her eyes. When he seemed situated, she said, “Not there, nephew. Up the tunnel a ways. It does me no good to learn of danger after it is already upon us.”
Jeggred offered her an irritated growl and looked again to Danifae. The former battle-captive hesitated.
“Are you concerned to be alone with me?” Quenthel asked Danifae, letting contempt drip from her tone.
Danifae looked at Quenthel with a challenge in her startling gray eyes. “I have yet to see a reason why I should be,” she replied.
Quenthel smiled. Still holding Danifae’s attention, she waved dismissively at Jeggred and said, “Be off, nephew.”
Jeggred held his ground until Danifae gestured him up the tunnel with a flick of her fingers.
“I will not be far,” Jeggred warned, for the benefit of everyone.
Even after the draegloth had prowled up the tunnel, Quenthel continued to stare at Danifae. The former battlecaptive studiously ignored Quenthel, examined her wounds, shook out her gear, and stripped down to a tight-fitting tunic and breeches. Scratches, cuts, and bruises from the battle marred her skin but did nothing to diminish her attractiveness.
Pharaun again was struck by the sheer physicality of the woman. Men had fought and died for things much less beautiful than Danifae’s form.
It was unfortunate she would have to die. Hopefully, soon.
After a time, Quenthel too began to tend to her gear while her serpents eyed Danifae. Pharaun took that as a truce and settled in himself.
Each of the three rested as far from the others as the chamber allowed, their backs pressed against the web-covered tunnel wall. They ate in silence from the stores Valas Hune had procured for them long ago and brooded in silence amongst the chwidencha molts.
To occupy himself, Pharaun inventoried and organized his spell components in the many pockets of his piwafwi. Afterward he took one of his traveling spellbooks from the extradimensional space contained in his pack and replaced the spells he had cast by committing to memory the arcane words to new spells. Thinking that he might have to use his magic against Jeggred and Danifae, he chose his spells with care.
By the time he had finished, both priestesses had closed their eyes and entered Reverie. Pharaun assumed that both had surreptitiously cast alarm spells around them to warn of anyone approaching too near. He activated the power of his Sorcere ring and saw the soft red glow of a ward spell in the area around both priestesses. He smiled.
For creatures of chaos, he thought, drow certainly were predictable.
Unlike their mistress, Quenthel’s whip serpents remained awake and alert. Two of them—K’Sothra and Yngoth, Pharaun believed—extended outward and kept their eyes on the tunnel in which Jeggred hulked. Two others kept their eyes on Danifae, while one of them, the female Qorra, kept her eyes on Pharaun.
Vaguely offended that he warranted only one watch-serpent, Pharaun stuck his tongue out at Qorra. She flicked her own in answer.
Pharaun ignored it, stretched out his legs, and settled more comfortably on his rock. He was tired but not yet
ready to enter Reverie. For a while, he watched the rise and fall of Danifae’s breasts. He did not allow himself to fantasize about her overmuch—he knew how well she played male lust to her advantage. Besides, it was only a matter of time before Quenthel disposed of her.
Pharaun finally decided that he too should spend an hour or two in Reverie. But first, he would cast a ward on his person similar to that which the priestesses had cast. It would alert him should any creature get closer than five paces.
Just as he began to whisper the arcane words to the spell, Pharaun felt a familiar tingle in his mind. He recognized it immediately, and a more pronounced tingle coursed through his flesh. He aborted the casting, delighted that the alu-fiend had tracked them down again.
Well met, Master Mizzrym, Aliisza purred, her mental voice like velvet in his brain.
Despite himself, Pharaun grinned like a first-year apprentice at the gentle touch of her mind on his. While he knew she had her own reasons for tracking him and his companions, he could not deny that he enjoyed her attentions.
Aliisza, my dear, he projected back. We do meet in the strangest locales.
The times are strange, dearest, Aliisza replied. And strange times make for strange bedfellows.
One can only hope, he answered, and grinned still more widely.
Quenthel’s watch serpent hissed at his smile. Pharaun let it fade from his face, turned, and looked past the serpent.
Up the forward tunnel a stone’s throw, he saw the outline of Jeggred’s muscular form. The draegloth sat in a crouch, watching up the tunnel, his broad back to Pharaun and rising and falling with each stinking breath. Pharaun could not tell whether the draegloth was awake or asleep. Unlike the drow, Jeggred required actual sleep.
Quenthel and Danifae both were in Reverie, though both wore scowls. Pharaun was pleased. He would have only to deal with Quenthel’s whip serpents.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 78
