Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  This time the pain was so blinding, Zollgarza could not find it in himself to scream. He stared at the demon servant of Lolth, begging with his eyes, pleading for answers or for an end to it all.

  “Don’t worry,” the handmaiden purred as Zollgarza’s awareness slipped in and out. “You’re almost there. You’re standing at the edge of the gulf. Remember the sphere, Zollgarza. The sphere is the key to finding what you seek. I will make sure you do not forget this.”

  The pain came again.

  ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

  25 UKTAR

  ICELIN REENTERED THE LIBRARY JUST AS A PIERCING scream filled the air. The cry of pain and anguish ripped from Zollgarza’s throat. He stood up on his knees, his back to the fire, arms raised in supplication. He appeared to be staring at—or through—Icelin.

  Beside him, the seneschal watched the drow with an impassive expression. When Icelin came into the room, she looked up.

  “He is in the grip of The Black Tome,” she explained.

  A chill passed through Icelin. “It’s driving him mad.”

  “I warned him what the outcome could be,” the seneschal said. “Whether he comes back or not is up to him.”

  Zollgarza’s anguished expression as he reached out to clasp the empty air pulled at Icelin’s heart. She took an involuntary step toward the drow.

  “Can he hear me?” Icelin asked. “Zollgarza, can you look at me?”

  “He won’t regard you,” the seneschal said. “His mind—”

  Just then, Icelin stepped closer—too close. Zollgarza swung toward her and snatched her by the wrists.

  Icelin gasped and tried to pull away, but the drow, small as he was, was much stronger. He yanked her down until she, too, was on her knees, at eye level with him.

  “Tell me why,” Zollgarza said. “Beloved servant, demon—” his voice broke. “Tell me who I am!”

  “Zollgarza, it’s me—Icelin.” Icelin’s wrists ached where he held her. They’d be bruised later. Behind her, she heard the clank of armor and weapons bursting free from their scabbards. The guards were coming. “Wait!” Icelin cried as they flanked Zollgarza and pressed their blade tips against his throat. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “Our orders were clear,” said the guard closest to Icelin. “If he harms you, he dies.”

  Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He’s been waiting for this, Icelin realized, maybe praying for it, for Zollgarza to give him a reason to cut him down.

  “He’s done nothing yet,” Icelin said. “Stand down.”

  Zollgarza, for his part, ignored the deadly steel pressed against his throat. His entire being focused on Icelin’s face. What did he see when he looked at her? Love and hate warred on his features. Was he seeing another drow, a woman he’d once loved? It didn’t fit with what she knew of the race or of Zollgarza himself. The drow trusted no one, loved nothing so deeply, except perhaps their Spider Queen. Their faith in Lolth was the driving force behind their society.

  “Hear me, Zollgarza,” Icelin said. She bit her lip, hesitating. Did she dare try to reach him? If something didn’t happen soon, it was clear the guards would act. Icelin had no love for Zollgarza, but she also had no desire to see him slaughtered right in front of her.

  Or maybe you’re just afraid he’ll die before you’re able to fulfill Mith Barak’s request, a small, spiteful voice inside her whispered.

  Steeling herself, Icelin leaned closer to the drow. “Hear your goddess, Zollgarza,” she whispered.

  Zollgarza sucked in a breath. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Icelin didn’t know whether he’d heard her or if the hallucination still trapped him. The dwarves exchanged tense glances, and the seneschal looked on with something that might have been approval in her fathomless eyes.

  “Zollgarza, you must free yourself from this,” Icelin said. “It’s not real. Your goddess calls you. Come back.”

  “I have killed for you—in your name, always,” Zollgarza sobbed. Icelin quelled a wave of revulsion. “But all I want … I want—”

  “To know yourself,” Icelin whispered. “Yes.” Gods give her strength. “It’s all right. Come back now. Come back.”

  Zollgarza uttered a choked, inarticulate cry and pulled Icelin against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. Dwarven sword tips hovered in the air next to Icelin’s head, but the guards seemed at a loss as to what to do. They’d clearly never expected this reaction.

  They weren’t the only ones, Icelin thought. She crouched awkwardly on the floor as Zollgarza crushed her against him and cried into her hair.

  “He seeks the truth of his own identity,” the seneschal murmured. “But it is that very identity that Lolth requires him to sacrifice. Will he choose his goddess or himself?” She raised her hands, and The Black Tome appeared between them. The onyx jewel in the center of the cover winked in the firelight.

  Icelin didn’t have time to wonder at the meaning of the seneschal’s pronouncement. A change swept over Zollgarza’s body all at once. His muscles went rigid, and his sobs cut off abruptly. He’s come out of his hallucination. The thought passed through Icelin’s mind an instant before Zollgarza shoved her violently away from him.

  She landed on her backside on the rug. The cushion softened the impact, but the breath rushed out of her, and Icelin sat, dazed, trying to regain her composure.

  She might have been nonplussed, but Zollgarza was a wreck. Chest heaving, he tried to scramble away—from Icelin, from the dwarves, or from his hallucination, Icelin couldn’t be sure, but he had nowhere to run. The fire blazed hot at his back. Dwarven steel pressed in on him right and left. In the end he simply crouched in their midst like a trapped animal, hatred and defiance radiating from his tear-stained face.

  Icelin rose shakily to her feet. She turned away from the scene and went to the long table. She laid her hands on its surface and breathed in and out to clear her head. “We won’t be needing you now,” she told the guards. “You have my thanks, but please, return to your places.”

  “Aye,” said one of the guards. “We’ll need to tell the king what happened here,” he told his partner as they sheathed their weapons.

  “No need,” said a voice from across the room.

  Icelin looked up sharply to see the king standing in the doorway. Mith Barak stared at them all, his face a stone mask, unreadable. Icelin wondered how much of the scene he had witnessed.

  “Are you all right?” the king asked, gazing at Icelin.

  “I’m fine,” Icelin replied.

  Mith Barak nodded curtly and backed out of the doorway.

  He’s going to leave, Icelin thought. The king of Iltkazar would retreat to his hall to do … what? Hide from the world and ignore the war that descended upon them all? His people were dying. Ruen was …

  Something snapped inside Icelin. “Coward!” she yelled.

  Mith Barak froze in the doorway. Dead silence took over the room, broken only by the shifting logs in the fireplace.

  Ruen was right, Icelin thought. My tongue will be the death of me. So be it. “Why do you retreat?” she demanded. “Do you know how many folk are counting on you? Do you care? Where is the king of Iltkazar? What happened to him?”

  Mith Barak stared at her. For an instant, his expression distorted, offering a glimpse of pain that smote Icelin’s heart. But before she could speak, Mith Barak turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  It was the last reaction she’d expected. The guards obviously thought so as well, for they exchanged uneasy glances as they returned to their posts by the door.

  The seneschal glided up to Icelin. Icelin thought for a moment the dwarf woman was going to touch her, but she did not. She placed The Black Tome carefully on the table. “You’ve seen now what this can do,” she said calmly, as if Icelin’s outburst with the king had not taken place. “Will you use it to seek your answers?”

  Tearing her thoughts away from the king, Icelin glanced at the book. The cover and spine were
beautiful, the supple black leather and the gem nesting within. There was nothing threatening about that cover, but Icelin knew better. For some reason, she was terribly weary. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a tenday.

  “What will I gain from that book?” she said, not really addressing the seneschal. “Will I discover truths I didn’t want to face? I’ve already done that. Will I find the answer to what I’m seeking? I thought I wanted the Arcane Script Sphere, that Mystra or whatever piece of her is left in the artifact, was the answer, but it’s not.” She looked at the seneschal and felt a pain pierce her. “It’s not.”

  “What is it you want?” the dwarf woman asked gently.

  “I want to stop.” Icelin said. Her voice was calm and cold, remote. “Ruen is lost to me, maybe dead. All he wanted was to find a cure for my spellscar. I told him I would get the Arcane Script Sphere, but I don’t want it anymore.” Icelin closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “How can I worry about one life when an entire city stands on the brink of destruction? So much of my life has been taken up with that godsdamned spellscar, and I’m tired of it! Whether I die tomorrow or live another twenty years, I don’t want to give another breath or thought to that spellscar. I want to put that part of my life away and start anew. Yet, Ruen—” after all he’d done for her, she felt like every word she spoke was a betrayal of him. “Am I a terrible person for wanting that?”

  “I can’t answer your question.” The seneschal lifted her hand and let it hover over the tome. The book disappeared, sent back to whatever high, hidden shelf from which she’d pulled it. She smiled approvingly at Icelin. “You have wisdom beyond that of many your age and older. It will serve you well.” Her voice and form faded, and Icelin was alone in the room, with only Zollgarza and the guards.

  Icelin straightened. She had to leave. There was nothing left in this library for her, except … she turned to Zollgarza, but the drow stood with his back to her, staring at the fire.

  He was never more dangerous than he is right now, Icelin thought. I can’t approach him, even with the guards standing watch. She’d invaded the most private spaces of his mind, places Mith Barak had not even seen. He might want to kill her now as much as he wanted to kill the king.

  She turned and quietly walked to the door. Her hand on the knob, she heard the drow call out to her.

  “Where are you going?” he asked. “You’ve got what you came for, have you?” The hatred in his voice pressed on Icelin like a physical weight, a sickness. “Well, enjoy your bit of peace. I hope for nothing now except that my people slaughter every dwarf in this city. They will kill your protector slowly and make him scream for mercy they will never show.” He paused. “And if they do not, I swear on my faith to the Spider Queen that I will kill him myself.”

  Icelin didn’t reply. She opened the library door and went out, closing the door behind herself like a shield.

  THE HALL OF LOST VOICES

  26 UKTAR

  RUEN AWOKE IN THE DARK, IN UNBEARABLE PAIN.

  At first, he didn’t realize how badly he was hurt. He was too surprised and relieved at being alive to appreciate the large, solid weight pressing down on his right arm. Ruen tried to shift to see if he could pull himself free. A white-hot bolt of pain shot up his arm, and darkness swirled up to claim him again.

  He floated between consciousness and oblivion, dreaming little half dreams that ran together in his mind. In his dreams, he crouched on the ground as a bugbear came for him, raining blows down upon his head. The punches burned where they struck his flesh, hotter and hotter, until Ruen looked up and saw the creature was on fire. Its flesh melted and reshaped into Sull’s bright face and red hair.

  The butcher shouted at him, laughing, but Ruen couldn’t hear what he was saying. He raised his hands imploringly, trying to tell Sull to slow down. Couldn’t he see Ruen was hurt? Ruen tried to grab Sull’s arm, but the butcher pulled back, and a spasm of fear twisted his face.

  Sull was afraid of him. He didn’t want Ruen to touch him. Ruen moaned and turned away from the butcher. The scene faded, and he was in the dark again.

  When he opened his eyes, he beheld a wall of moving green. His vision focused on oak tree branches stirring in the breeze. He sat up and saw that he was in a grove of the tall oaks. And he wasn’t alone.

  Icelin sat with her back against one of the tree trunks. She wore the same plain linen dress he’d seen her wear in Waterdeep. A book lay open in her lap.

  “It’s all right,” she said, speaking to him without taking her eyes off the page she was reading. “You’re not broken.”

  “I …” Pain shuddered through his body. He was hurt, maybe dying. Why wouldn’t she look at him? “Help me, Icelin.”

  “I can’t.” She turned the page.

  “Why?” He crawled to her, reaching out to lay his trembling hand over hers. He wasn’t wearing his glove.

  “Don’t!” Icelin jerked her hand away. She stared at him as if he’d stabbed her. Tiny fires kindled in her eyes. “You’ve ruined everything!” Heat radiated from her body, suffusing her skin with a hellish glow.

  “No!” Ruen screamed an instant before she burst into flames. He screamed and screamed, but he couldn’t look away as Icelin burned to death in front of his eyes. The darkness came for him again.

  When he awoke from the dreams, cold sweat stood out on his face, and he was shivering. Ruen licked his dry, cracked lips and smiled bitterly into the darkness. The expression pulled at cuts and bruises all over his face. Learned my lesson. He wouldn’t try to move his right arm again, but his left arm was free.

  Ruen lifted it, flexed his fingers and twisted his wrist. He reached up and felt for his neck pouch—seeking the small steel vial that he kept there, the healing potion he saved for the worst, most debilitating wounds. This one certainly qualified.

  His fingers closed around the vial. Ruen worked the stopper free and put the rim to his lips. The liquid stirred up stone grit in his mouth. He swallowed it all, wincing. Dust burned in his eyes, so he kept them closed while he waited for the potion to take effect. There was nothing to see anyway. Darkness lay over the cavern like a shroud.

  The pain in his arm slowly ebbed, and the dark cloud around his thoughts receded. With clarity came purpose. Lying quietly and listening, Ruen began to make out other signs of life around him. Whimpers, coughing, cursing, and the scrape of boots on stone told him he wasn’t alone.

  As far as he knew, he was still in the Hall of Lost Voices—what was left of it. Thinking back, Ruen remembered the explosions, the falling stone as the cavern collapsed around him. The drow had planned it all, sacrificing their own soldiers and slaves to decimate the dwarf forces.

  But why engineer a cave-in? Why not occupy the tunnels and press forward, begin the siege of Iltkazar in earnest? After this victory, what were the drow waiting for?

  Unless they didn’t intend to take the city. Ruen considered the drow’s strategy. So far, they’d struck at Iltkazar in a series of small-scale engagements, harrying the dwarves and dwindling their numbers, never committing too large a force to any single attack. What if it was all a ruse to distract from their true objective?

  Zollgarza and the Arcane Script Sphere. Mith Barak was right. Somehow, they were the key, important enough that the drow sent their wizards with a sacrificial army.

  And we fell right into their trap.

  Fury brought renewed energy to Ruen’s body. He had to get out of here, get back to Iltkazar—and Icelin.

  First, he had to free himself. Luckily, whatever had crushed his arm initially wasn’t what pinned it now. Wedged between two large boulders, his arm had healed enough from the potion that he could move it with very little pain. He worked it carefully free from the stones’ grip, tearing his sleeve and earning a dozen smaller cuts and bruises in the process.

  When he was free, he sat up. Lights had kindled at various points around the cavern as the survivors found torches, and Ruen could begin to see the shadowy remnants of the
Hall of Lost Voices. Bodies lay everywhere, though there was very little left of those corpses that had been closest to the enspelled bugbears.

  “Garn.” Ruen spoke the name in a hoarse whisper. The runepriest had been near him when the blasts started. Ruen looked around but saw no sign of him. He got gingerly to his feet and moved through the dark cavern, keeping his eyes on the ground. Every few feet, he encountered a body. He knelt next to the still forms and felt for a heartbeat. None that he touched were alive. Grateful for the wavering darkness so he would not have to see the full extent of the mutilation inflicted on the dwarves, Ruen kept moving, searching for Garn.

  He worked his way to a wall, leaning against a pile of rubble. The healing potion had mended his arm and taken away the greater share of the pain, but he was still exhausted from the fighting, the squinting and creeping in the dark, and the stench of death that blanketed the cavern.

  His leg bumped against a solid object. Ruen heard a soft moan then the hiss of a weapon cutting the air as a dark shape lunged at him.

  Ruen threw his hands out blindly—better to lose his fingers than his head—and got lucky. He caught a wooden axe handle, but the weight of the blow knocked him to his knees.

  Flashing eyes and a dirty brown beard filled his vision. Ruen didn’t recognize the dwarf at first, but the axe blade had three familiar black horns jutting off it.

  “Obrin,” he said. “It’s me—Ruen.”

  It took Obrin a long time to recognize him. Ruen’s arms ached from holding back the axe, but finally the dwarf eased back. Ruen expected a stream of curses in Dwarvish to follow, but Obrin did the last thing he ever expected.

  He burst into tears.

  Ruen caught the dwarf at the shoulders before he fell. It was as if he’d used the last shreds of his strength for the blow with his axe. He sobbed quietly, barely making a sound, but his shoulders trembled violently under Ruen’s hands. Looking over his shoulder, in the dim light, Ruen saw the reason for Obrin’s tears.