R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (26 page)

The demon turned into a miniature green tower shaped according to the uncouth architectural notions of some inferior race. A force surrounding it tugged at the sword as if the keep were a magnet and the conjured weapon, forged of steel. Quenthel found it easy to compensate for the pull. She slashed away chunks of masonry.

The tower opened lengthwise like a sarcophagus. It lurched forward, swallowed the sword, and closed up again.

The entity had caught Quenthel by surprise, but she didn’t see why it should matter. It might even be more effective to cut and stab her foe from the inside. She used the blade to thrust, felt the point bite, and her psionic link with the weapon snapped.

Startled, she nonetheless reflexively reached for another scroll. The demon spread out into a low, squirming red and yellow mass. A hole dilated in the midst of it, and it spat the sword out. The weapon retained its shape but rippled with shifting colors just as the intruder did, and Quenthel still couldn’t feel it with her mind.

She backed away, the blade followed, and, rattling and growling, the demon brought up the rear. The sword swept back and forth, up and down, while she ducked and dodged. So far, she was evading it, but it hampered and hurt her simply by being near. Her mail turned to moss and crumbled away. Her flesh throbbed with sudden pains as the demon’s power sought to transform it. One leg turned numb and immobile for a moment, and she nearly fell. Itchy scales grew on her skin then faded away. Her eyes ached, the world blurred to black, white, and gray, and the colors exploded back into view. Her identity itself was in flux. For one instant, she thought the thoughts and felt the soft, alien emotions of an arthritic human seamstress dwelling somewhere in the World Above.

Somehow, despite all such disconcerting phenomena, she managed to read the spell on the scroll and avoid the radiant blade at the same time.

She wasn’t sure how this particular parchment had found its way to Arach-Tinilith. She questioned that a dark elf had scribed it, for it contained a spell that few drow ever cast. Indeed, some priestesses would disdain to cast it, because it invoked a force regarded as anathema to their faith. But Quenthel knew the goddess would want her to use any weapon necessary to vanquish her foe, and it was remotely possible that this magic would prevail where even the supposedly invincible black blade had failed.

Bright, intricate harmonies sang from the empty air. A field of bluish phosphorescence sprang up around her. Within it, she could make out intangible geometric forms revolving around one another in complex symmetrical patterns.

The cool radiance expressed the power of order, of law, the antithesis of chaos. The sword that had become an extension of the demon’s will froze inside it like an insect in amber—and the demon was equally still. For a moment, at least. The creature began hitching ever so slightly forward, working itself loose of the restricting magic.

The Mistress of Arach-Tinilith was essentially a creature of chaos as well, but mortal and native to the material plane, and thus the spell had no power over her. She wheeled and dashed to the body lying in the doorway. Only the spider part of it was moving, chewing and slurping on the rest.

The dead girl turned out to be Halavin Symryvvin, who’d had the surprisingly good sense to remove all that gaudy, clinking jewelry before attempting to attack by surprise. The novice had managed the arbalest rather deftly, considering her sore, mutilated hands.

Quenthel stooped to pick up the weapon and the quiver containing the rest of the enchanted quarrels. She moved warily, but the feasting arachnid paid her no mind.

She turned, laid a dart in the channel, and shot. When the shaft hit it, the demon shuddered in its nearly immobile form, but didn’t die.

It occurred to her that she could get away from it while it was trapped, muster any loyal minions who hadn’t partaken of the poisoned supper, and fight the thing at the head of a company, just as she’d originally intended. After the recent harrowing events, the idea had a certain appeal.

But after what she’d endured, she wanted to be the one to teach this vermin a lesson about molesting the clergy of Lolth. Besides, the appearance of strength was vital. So she kept shooting as fast as the cocking action of the weapon would allow. The demon inched its way toward her as if it was made of half-cooled magma.

Four bolts left, then three. She pulled the trigger, the dart struck the demon in the middle of its horned, triangular head, and it winked out of existence.

She could still hear its voice, but knew that was just because it had shrieked so long and loudly. She gave her head a shake, trying to quell the phantom sound, then glimpsed yet another shadow watching her from some distance away.

“You!” she shouted, cocking the arbalest to receive the penultimate quarrel. “Come here!”

The other dark elf bolted. Quenthel gave chase, but she was still a little winded from the struggle with the demon, and her quarry outdistanced her and disappeared.

The Baenre stalked on through the labyrinthine chambers and corridors until she rounded a bend and came face to face with three of her minions. The goddess only knew what their true sentiments were, but confronted with her leveled arbalest and the obvious fact that, while her gear was much the worse for wear, she herself was unscathed, they hastily saluted.

“I killed tonight’s intruder,” she said, “and a homegrown enemy as well. What do you know of our situation? Is anyone else dead?”

“No, Mistress,” said a priestess. The lowered visor of her spidercrested helmet completely concealed her features, but from her voice, Quenthel recognized Quave, one of the senior instructors. “Most of those who ate and drank the tainted meal are waking. I think the poisoner only wanted to render us unconscious, not kill us.”

“Apparently,” said Quenthel, “she was willing to let the demon administer the coup de grâce to me. What of those who encountered the entity before I did?”

Quave hesitated, then said, “When they tried to hinder it, it hurt them, but not to the point of death. They should recover as well.”

“Good,” Quenthel said, though she took no joy in knowing she was the unknown enemy’s sole target.

“What are your orders, Mistress?” asked Quave.

“We’ll have to sort out the living from the dead, and deal with each accordingly. We’ll also look for the place where the demon got in, and seal it.”

These were tasks that would doubtless keep her occupied for the rest of the night, but she knew she had to find a way to stop the intrusions, and pull the fangs of another crisis as well.

It would all for make an arduous day’s labor, with the outcome uncertain enough to depress even a high priestess. Still, her mood lifted slightly when her vipers began to stir.

“I have a healing potion,” said Ryld. He took a small pewter vial from his pouch, unstoppered it, and held it to Pharaun’s lips. The wizard drank the liquid down.

“That might be a little better,” Pharaun said after a moment. “But it’s still bad. I’m still bleeding. On the inside, too, I think. Do you have any more?”

“No.”

“Pity. A wretched little goblin did this. I can’t believe it.”

“Can you walk?” asked Ryld.

Pharaun would have to move or be moved, somehow. He couldn’t just lie in the street, not in the Braeryn, not on a night when the hunt was out. It was far too dangerous.

“Possibly.” The mage strained to lift himself up with his hands, then slumped back down. “But apparently not.”

“I’ll carry you,” said Ryld.

He gathered the mage in his arms, and bidding Pharaun do the same, called upon the magic of his House insignia. They floated slowly upward, and swung onto a rooftop.

The view from that vantage point was far from encouraging. Screaming undercreatures ran through the streets and alleys of the Braeryn with whooping riders in pursuit. The dark elves killed the goblins with the thrust of a lance, the slash of a sword, or simply by trampling them under the clawed feet of their lizards. They tended to find intimate mayhem more amusing. Some, however, had no qualms about loosing a quarrel or conjuring a blast of magic.

Still other drow wheeled above the scene on foulwings, wyverns, and other winged mounts. Ryld saw danger on every side.

He hauled Pharaun up against a sort of gable in the hope that it would provide cover against the scrutiny of the flyers.

“It’s bad,” the swordsman said. “A lot of drow are hunting. There’s no clear path out of the district.”

The wizard didn’t reply.

“Pharaun!”

“Yes,” sighed his friend, “I’m still conscious. Barely.”

“We’ll hide here until the hunt ends. I’ll cover us with a patch of darkness.”

“That might w—”

Pharaun gasped and thrashed. Ryld held on to him for fear that he’d roll off the roof.

When the seizure ended, the Mizzrym’s face seemed gaunt and drawn in a way it hadn’t been before. More blood seeped from his wounded stomach.

“This isn’t going to work,” said Ryld, “not by itself. Unless you have some more healing, you’re going to die.”

“That would be . . . a profound tragedy . . . but . . .”

“We have plenty of dark elves in the Braeryn tonight. One of them surely brought some restorative magic along. I’ll just have to take it from him, or her. Here’s that darkness.”

Ryld touched the roof and conjured a shadow that covered the Master of Sorcere and not much else. With luck, the effect was localized enough that no one would notice the obscuration itself.

The weapons master rose and raced away. Whenever possible, he ran along the rooftops, bounding from one to the next. Often enough, however, the houses were far enough apart that he had to jump down to the ground and skulk his way through the slaughter.

It was at such a time that he saw another hunting party. Unfortunately, the group was too large to tackle. He had to hide from it instead. Crouched low, he watched a mage on lizard-back lob a yellow spark through the window of one of the houses. Booming, yellow flame exploded through the room beyond. A moment after it died, the screaming began. Ryld winced. As a child of six, he’d survived precisely such a massacre, and, severely blistered, lain trapped for hours beneath a weight of charred, stinking bodies, the luckier ones dead, the live ones whimpering and twitching in their helpless agony.

But it wasn’t him burned nor buried tonight, and he spat the unpleasant memory away. He glanced about, checking to see if anyone was looking at him, then broke from cover and floated upward.

He dashed on along a steeply sloping roof engraved with web patterns and defaced, he noticed, with another slave race emblem. He sensed something above and behind him, and pivoted. His boots slipped, and he levitated for an instant while he found his footing amid the carvings.

He looked up and spied a huge black horse galloping through the air as easily as the common equines of the World Above could run across a field. Fire crackled around its hooves and pulsed from its nostrils. The dark elf male on its back held a scimitar, but wasn’t making any extraordinary effort to lift it into position for a cut. Apparently he was counting on his demonic steed to make the kill, and why not? What goblinoid could withstand a nightmare?

Ryld froze as if he were such a hapless undercreature paralyzed with fear. Meanwhile, he timed the speed of the nightmare’s approach. At the last possible moment, hoping to take the phantom horse and its master by surprise, he whipped Splitter out of its scabbard and cut.

And missed. Somehow the demon arrested its charge, and the blade fell short.

Its fiery hooves churning eighteen inches above the rooftop, the nightmare snorted. Thick, hot, sulfurous smoke streamed from its nostrils, enveloping Ryld, stinging and half blinding him. He heard more than saw the black creature lunging, striking with its reptilian fangs, and he retreated a step. The move saved him, but when he counterattacked, the nightmare too had taken itself out of range.

Through the stinking vapor, he glimpsed the infernal horse circling. It sprang at him again, this time rearing to batter him with its front hooves. He crouched and lifted Splitter. The point took the steed in the chest, and for a moment, he thought he’d disposed of it, but, its legs working frantically, it flew upward, lifting itself off the blade before it could penetrate too deeply.

The next few moments were difficult. Ryld could barely make out his foes, while the nightmare could apparently see through its own smoke perfectly well. He stood and turned precariously on the crest of the roof, in constant danger of losing his balance, whereas the flying horse could maneuver wherever it pleased. Just to make life even more interesting, the rider started swinging his curved sword. Fortunately, like most denizens of the Underdark, he had little notion of how to fight on horseback, but his clumsy strokes still posed a danger.

Ryld wanted to end the confrontation quickly, before someone discovered Pharaun’s hiding place. Unfortunately, in light of all his disadvantages, the weapons master thought the only way of doing that was to take a risk. The next time the demon reared, he let one of the blazing hooves slam him in the chest.

His dwarven breastplate rang but held. The blow hurt cruelly but didn’t break any ribs or otherwise incapacitate him. He fell backward, banged down on the east pitch of the roof, and started to tumble. Kicking and scrabbling, negating his weight, he managed to catch himself and twist around into a low fighting stance.

The nightmare was rushing in to finish him off. He swung Splitter, and this time the demon was too committed to the attack to halt its forward momentum. The greatsword slashed through its neck, nearly severing the head with its luminous scarlet eyes. The steed toppled sideways and rolled, leaving a trail of embers. The rider tried to jump free, but he was too slow. The nightmare crushed him on its way to the ground.

Ryld tore open the dead male’s purse, then floated down to the demon horse and checked the saddlebags. There were no potions or any other means of mending a wound.

Why, he wondered, should he expect to find such a thing among the noble’s effects? The noble had come to the Braeryn for some lighthearted sport. He hadn’t believed the goblins couldn’t hurt him or that he was in any other danger, so why bring a remedy for grievous harm to the festivities, even if he was lucky enough to possess one?