R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (119 page)

“Perhaps you would have placed yourself in peril by betraying us in either Gracklstugh or the Labyrinth,” Pharaun observed. “Still, you raise a cogent point in your own defense.”

“Nothing more than the glib lies of a traitor,” Jeggred snarled. He glanced at Quenthel. “Command me, Mistress. Shall I rend him limb from limb for you?”

Valas lowered his hands to the hilts of his kukris, and licked his lips. He was gray with fear, but his eyes sparked with anger. Each of the others in the company turned their eyes to Quenthel, who still leaned against a boulder, her whips quiescent at her waist. She stayed silent, as rain splattered down in the forest and birds chirped and called in the distance.

“I withhold judgment for the moment,” she said, looking at the scout. “If you are loyal, we shall need you to find Tzirik—if the Vhaeraunite priest exists, of course—but you would be well advised to produce the Jaelre and their high priest quickly, Master Hune.”

“I have no idea where they might be,” Valas said. “You might as well condemn me now, and prepare yourself for Bregan D’aerthe’s response.”

Quenthel exchanged a long look with Jeggred. The draegloth smiled, his needle-like fangs gleaming in his dark face.

Halisstra wasn’t sure what to think, as she hadn’t known the scout for more than a tenday, and couldn’t say what might or might not have happened in Menzoberranzan before the Menzoberranyr came to Ched Nasad. She was, however, certain that they would all regret it if Quenthel had Valas killed and it turned out that the guide’s services were still required, or that his powerful mercenary guild decided to seek vengeance for the death of their scout.

“What is the best means of locating the Jaelre from here?” Halisstra asked, hoping to deflect the conversation into a less dangerous course.

Valas hesitated, then said, “As Mistress Quenthel pointed out, they are unlikely to have moved far. We can search in an expanding spiral until we come across better information.”

“A plan that sounds wearying and tedious,” Pharaun commented. “Marching aimlessly through this blinding woodland does not appeal to me.”

“Find a surface dweller and pry information from him,” Ryld said. “Assuming, of course, that any are nearby, and that they know anything of the whereabouts of House Jaelre.”

“Again, we would have to march off in order to locate a surface dweller, as none conveniently present themselves here,” Pharaun observed. “Your plan differs in no significant respects from Master Hune’s.”

“Then what would you propose?” asked Quenthel, her voice icy.

“Allow me to rest and study my spellbooks. In the morning, I can prepare a spell that may reveal the location of our missing House of heretical outcasts.” He raised his hand to forestall the Baenre’s protests and added, “I know, I know, you would like to continue this very moment, but if I can successfully divine the goal of our search, it is likely to save us many hours of marching in the wrong direction. The delay will also give the lovely Lady Melarn a chance to regain her own magical strength, and perhaps heal us of the worst of our wounds.”

“You may learn nothing from your spells,” Quenthel said. “Magic of that sort is notoriously fickle.”

Pharaun simply looked at her.

Quenthel looked up at the sky, blinking in the merciless gray light that permeated the clouds above. She sighed and looked back down at the others, her eyes lingering overlong on Danifae. The battle captive tilted her head down in a single, almost imperceptible nod that Halisstra wasn’t even certain she saw.

“Very well,” the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith said finally. “It would be wise for us to wait for the cover of darkness in any event, so we will set up camp in the cave below, where this accursed sunlight will not trouble us so much. Master Hune, you will stay close by me until we find this Tzirik of yours.”

Nimor Imphraezl made his way swiftly along the wide ledge, passing a long line of marching duergar on his right hand while skirting the edge of a black abyss on his left. Moving an army of several thousand through the dark and lightless ways of the Underdark was a formidable challenge, and many of the smaller, more direct routes were simply impassable to a body of so many soldiers. That left only the most capacious caverns and tunnels, and those routes frequently passed through dangers that the stealthier ways avoided.

The road clung to the shoulder of a great subterranean canyon, winding in a northerly direction forty miles from Gracklstugh. The day’s march was not more than two hours old, and the gray dwarf army had already lost a fully laden pack lizard—and five soldiers unlucky enough to be close to the beast—to a flight of hungry yrthaks, raking the high trail with their sonic blasts.

No tremendous loss, Nimor reflected, but every day brought its own mishap or accident, and so the army’s attrition began. In all truthfulness, the Jaezred Chaulssin assassin had not really grasped the enormous effort required to move a large, well-equipped army a hundred miles through the Underdark. He was quite familiar with journeying the dark ways by himself or in the company of a small band of merchants or scouts, traveling light, making use of the secret byways and known refuges that lay hidden along the main routes of travel. Having marched several days alongside an army, with ample opportunity to observe minor setbacks, difficulties, and challenges he hadn’t even imagined, Nimor appreciated the scope of the expedition. The duergar were anxious indeed to strike a mortal blow at a neighbor in distress, if they were willing to tolerate the vast expense in beasts, soldiers, and materiel required to put an army in the field.

The assassin rounded a precarious bend, and came upon the crown prince’s diligence: a floating hull of iron, perhaps thirty feet long and ten wide, ensorcelled not only to levitate itself above the ground but also to move as directed by the gray dwarves controlling the thing. Its ugly black form bristled with spikes to repel attackers and armored slits through which the occupants could fire missiles or work deadly spells on anyone outside. The diligence was pierced with several large, shuttered windows that were propped open, and through these Nimor glimpsed the quiet and orderly bustle of the duergar leaders and their chief assistants. The whole construct functioned as command post, throne, and bedchamber for the crown prince while in the field with his army. It was the perfect embodiment of the dwarf approach to things, Nimor reflected, a device displaying skillful craftsmanship and powerful magic, but no grace or beauty.

With a light bound he hopped up onto the running board of the diligence and ducked through a thick iron door. Inside, dim lights gleamed from blue globes, illuminating a great table that held a representation of the tunnels and caverns between Gracklstugh and Menzoberranzan. There the lords and captains of the gray dwarves studied their army’s march and planned for the battles to come. The assassin took in the various officers and servants with one quick glance then turned to the elevated center portion of the diligence. The lord of the City of Blades sat at a high table with his most important advisors and watched over the planning below.

“Good news, my lord prince,” Nimor said, sweeping into the circle of captains and guards surrounding Horgar Steelshadow. “I have been advised that the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, old Gromph Baenre himself, has been removed from the
sava
board of our little game. The matron mothers do not yet suspect our advance into their territory.”

“If you say so,” the duergar lord replied gruffly. “In dealing with the dark elves I have found it prudent not to rule out the presence of an archmage until I see him dead under my own hammer.”

The assembled gray dwarves around Horgar nodded, and glared at Nimor with undisguised suspicion. A drow turncoat might have been a useful ally in a war against Menzoberranzan, but that did not mean they considered Nimor a reliable partner.

Nimor spied a gold pitcher standing by the high table and poured himself a great goblet of dark wine.

“Gromph Baenre is not the only skilled wizard in Menzoberranzan,” growled Borwald Firehand. Short and stocky even for a gray dwarf, the marshal gripped the table with his huge, powerful hands and leaned forward to glare at the assassin. “That cursed wizard school of theirs is full of talented mages. Your allies played their hand too quickly, drow. We’re still fifteen days from Menzoberranzan, and Gromph’s death will provoke alarm.”

“A sensible notion, but not entirely correct,” Nimor said. He drained off a large gulp from his goblet, savoring the moment. “Gromph will be missed soon, I’m sure, but instead of casting their arcane gaze out into the Underdark to search for approaching foes, every Master of Sorcere will be searching fruitlessly for the archmage and scheming against his colleagues. While the crown prince’s army approaches, the most powerful wizards in the city will have their eyes firmly fixed on each other, and more than a few will seek to murder their colleagues to win the archmage’s vacant seat.”

“The Masters of Sorcere will surely set aside their ambitions once they come to realize their peril,” the crown prince said. He cut off Nimor with a curt gesture and added, “Yes, I know you say they may not, but we would be wise to plan on meeting an organized and well-directed magical defense of the city. Still, that was a well-struck blow, well-struck indeed.”

He rose, and shouldered his way past the clan lairds and guards to approach the map table, beckoning Nimor to follow. The assassin circled to the other side of the table to attend the duergar ruler’s words. Horgar traced their route with one thick finger.

“If the wizards of Menzoberranzan do not note our approach,” Horgar said, “then the question becomes, at what point will they perceive their danger?”

The clan laird Borwald thrust his way to the tableside and indicated a cavern intersection.

“Presuming we don’t encounter any drow patrols, the first place we’ll meet the enemy is here, at the cavern called Rhazzt’s Dilemma. The Menzoberranyr have long maintained a small outpost there to watch this road, as it’s one of the few large enough for an army to use. Our vanguard should reach it in five days’ time. After that, our path forks and we must make our first hard decision. We can choose to go north, through the Pillars of Woe, or circle around to the west, which adds at least six days to our march. The Pillars are likely to be held against us, and so could delay us indefinitely.”

“The Pillars of Woe . . .” Horgar said. The prince tugged at his iron-gray beard as he studied the map. “When the drow learn we’re coming, they’ll certainly move troops there and hold the pass against us. That way is no good, then. We’ll want to follow the other branch to the west, and circle around to approach the city from that side. The time it adds to our march cannot be helped.”

“On the contrary, I mean for you to take the straighter path,” Nimor said. “Passing through the Pillars of Woe will save you six days, and once you’re on the other side, you will be on Menzoberranzan’s doorstep. If you go through the western passes, you’ll find the terrain there much less favorable.”

The duergar lord snorted and said, “Perhaps you have not traveled this way before, Nimor. It is a difficult road you’ve chosen, if you plan to force the Pillars of Woe. The canyon becomes narrow there and climbs steeply. Two mighty columns bar the upper end, with only a narrow way between them. Even a small force of drow can hold it indefinitely.”

“You can beat the Menzoberranyr to the Pillars, Crown Prince,” the assassin said. “I will deliver the outpost of Rhazzt’s Dilemma to you. We shall allow the defenders of the post to report a duergar force on the march, but even as the message speeds back to the matron mothers, your forces will race ahead to lay a deadly trap at the Pillars of Woe. There, you will destroy the army the rulers of the city send to hold the gap.”

“If you can give us the outpost, drow, why allow the soldiers there to send any warning at all?” growled Borwald. “Better to cling to our secrecy as long as possible.”

“The pinnacle of deceit,” said Nimor, “lies not in depriving your foe of information, but in showing your foe the thing that he expects to see. Even with the stroke we have engineered against the city’s wizards, they cannot help but note our approach soon. Best for us to control the circumstances under which the crown prince’s army is reported to Menzoberranzan’s rulers, and perhaps anticipate their response.”

“This intrigues me. Go on,” Horgar said.

“The soldiers of Menzoberranzan expect that an army approaching along this road must be delayed by the effort to take Rhazzt’s Dilemma, giving the city time to man the choke point at the Pillars of Woe in sufficient strength to defeat any further attack. I suggest you allow the outpost to make its report and alert the rulers of Menzoberranzan to the presence of your army. Before the matron mothers can muster an army to face you, we will take Rhazzt’s Dilemma by storm. We will be waiting to intercept the drow march at the Pillars of Woe.”

“Your plan has two fundamental flaws,” said Borwald, sneering in contempt. “First, you presume that the outpost can be taken whenever we wish. Second, you seem to think that the matron mothers will choose to send out their army instead of standing fast to await a siege. I would give much to know how you intend to engineer these two feats.”

“Easily done,” the assassin replied. “The outpost will fall because much of its garrison has been withdrawn to keep order in the city. Of those soldiers that remain, many are Agrach Dyrr. That is why I urged you to choose this road for your attack. The outpost will be betrayed into your hands when the time is right.”

“You knew this before we set out,” Horgar said. “In the future, you will share such information in a more timely manner. What would we have done if you’d met some accident of the march? We must know exactly what kind of help you will lend us, and when you will be able to do so.”

Nimor laughed coldly and said, “It would be good for our continued friendship, Prince Horgar, if you find yourself wondering from time to time exactly how helpful I might turn out to be.”

Halisstra roused herself from her Reverie to find that she was cold and wet. During the night, a light dusting of wretched stuff that she guessed must be snow had fallen over the forest, bedecking every branch with a thin coating of brilliant white. The novelty of the experience had worn off quickly for her, particularly after she realized that it had soaked her clothing and
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with frigid water. The reality of snow on the surface was far less appealing than any account of the phenomenon she’d read in the comfort of her House library.