R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (40 page)

The weapons master struggled once again to rise. Someone lashed him over the head with the flat of a blade, and all the strength spilled out of him like wine from an overturned cup.

The next few moments were a blur. Houndaer, Tsabrak, the bard, and another renegade carried their captives to a cell. It had the same grime and air of desolation as much of the rest of the castle, but someone, exhibiting a proper dark elf ’s sense of priorities, had gone to the trouble to refurbish the locks and restraints.

The rogues divested Ryld of his cloak and armor, then chained him to the wall. As he’d expected, the conspirators took more elaborate precautions with the wizard, even though Pharaun had suffered a violent seizure shortly after Syrzan stunned him, had apparently passed from that into complete unconsciousness, and showed no sign of rousing any time soon. In addition to shackling him, the rogues locked a steel bridle around his head, forcing the bit into his mouth to keep him from enunciating words of power or anything else. They inserted his forearms into the two ends of a hinged metal tube, a sort of muff or double glove that would make it impossible for him to gesture or crook his fingers into a cabalistic sign.

By the time they finished, Ryld’s strength had begun to return, enough, at least, to permit him to speak.

“It’ll get you, too,” he croaked.

Houndaer turned, scowling. “What?”

“The lich. It doesn’t want to share power. It’s planning to turn every Menzoberranyr, including you, into its mind-slave. That’s what illithids do.”

“Do you think we trust the beast?” the Tuin’Tarl sneered. 

“We’re not idiots. It’ll serve its purpose, and we’ll dispose of it.” 

“So you intend, but what if Syrzan’s already working on subjugating you, so subtly you don’t even know it? What if, when the time comes—”

Houndaer punched his former teacher in the mouth, dashing his head against the calcite wall.

“Shut up,” the noble said. “You fooled me once and made me look like an imbecile. It’s not going to happen again.”

The rogues made their departure. With his spidery lower body, Tsabrak had to squeeze through the door. The last one out, the bard gave Ryld a wry smile and a shrug. The door slammed shut.

Ryld licked the salty taste of blood from his gashed lower lip.

“Pharaun,” he said in a low tone. “Are you truly unconscious, or is it a trick?”

Slumped with the steel harness clamped around his head, the Master of Sorcere didn’t respond. If not for the rise and fall of his chest, Ryld would have feared him dead.

The swordsman tried to go to Pharaun, but his chains were too short. He undertook an examination of the shackles. The cuffs fit tightly, and the locks were strong. The links were heavy, well forged, and anchored securely in the wall. Ryld had broken free of bonds a time or two in his turbulent early years, but without tools or a miracle, he wouldn’t be sundering these.

Nor, denied the use of his voice and hands, was Pharaun likely to fare any better. Still, Ryld suspected the mage was his only hope. Pharaun was clever. Perhaps he could think of a workable ploy, if only he was conscious.

“
Wake up!
” Ryld roared. “Wake up, curse it. You’ve got to get us out of here!”

To add to the din, he beat a length of chain against the wall.

To no avail. He shouted until his throat was raw, but Pharaun didn’t stir.

“Bleed it!” the weapons master swore.

He hunkered down on the floor and tried to work up some saliva to wash away the dryness in his mouth. As the renegades hadn’t bothered to provide a water jug, spit was the best he could do.

“You have to wake up,” he said in a softer voice. “Otherwise, they’ve beaten us, and we’ve never let anyone do that. Do you remember when we hunted that cloaker lord? We found out too late that it had
sixty-seven
other chasm rays in its raiding party, many more than our little band of third-year students was prepared to confront. But you said, ‘It’s all right, it just takes the proper spells to even the odds.’ First you conjured a wall of fire . . .”

Ryld rambled on for hours, talking his throat raw, recounting their shared experiences as they occurred to him. Perhaps the stories would strike a spark in Pharaun’s unconscious mind, and in any case, it was better than just sitting and wondering what life would be like after Syrzan corrupted his mind.

Finally the wizard’s chin jerked up off his chest. His eyes were wild, and he tried to cry out. The bit turned the sound into a strangled gurgle even as it cut into the corners of his mouth. Beads of blood blossomed from the wounds.

“It’s all right,” Ryld said. “Whatever the lich did to you, it’s over.”

Pharaun took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Rationality returned to his eyes. Ryld got the feeling that if not for the harness, the wizard would have smiled his usual cheery smile. He nodded to the weapons master, thanking him for the reassurance, then he inspected the sheath constraining his hands. He bashed it on the floor a few times to see if he could jolt the catches open. They held with nary a rattle. He shook his head, sat still for a moment, then closed his eyes and settled back against the wall, no doubt pondering their plight.

After several moments, the wizard straightened up. He started scraping the heel of one boot against the side of the other.

Ryld felt a stir of excitement. He could only assume his fellow master had a talisman hidden inside the footwear. It was odd the wizard hadn’t remembered until then, but perhaps it was a result of the seizure.

Like all drow boots, Pharaun’s were high and fit snugly. By the time it slid off the mage’s foot, Ryld was avid with curiosity to see . . . nothing. Nothing but trews and a stocking.

Pharaun set to work shoving off the other boot. Ryld wished he knew what his friend had in mind, but knew it would be pointless to ask. With his hands concealed, the spellcaster couldn’t answer even in the silent drow sign language.

Eventually the second boot slipped free, whereupon Pharaun pushed off his socks. His bare feet were of a piece with his hands, slender and long, the digits included.

The wizard lifted his right foot, stared at it intently, and started curling and crossing the toes. He fumbled through a sequence of moves, then repeated it. It took Ryld another few moments to comprehend, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

In point of fact, the Underdark abounded in creatures, Syrzan included, whose extremities differed notably from a dark elf ’s, yet who worked magic nonetheless. So maybe Pharaun had a chance. Maybe he could cast one of those spells that only required movement, not an incantation or material components.

But only if he could shift his feet and toes through the proper patterns, those precise and intricate passes he’d spent years learning to execute with his hands.

When the toes of his right foot grew tired, he started working with those of his left. After that, he shifted his weight back, lifted his legs, and practiced twining them together. Ryld might have found it quite a comical spectacle had his life not depended on the mage’s success.

Soon Pharaun began to sweat and occasionally to tremble, which always forced him to stop and rest for a bit. After an hour, he moved on to the next phase of his experiment: putting the elements of the spell together, moving everything at the same time with the proper sequence and timing.

Ryld watched the process intently. He was no wizard, but to his untutored eye, it appeared that after a while, Pharaun was producing exactly the same pattern two times out of three. The rest he fumbled in one way or another.

Finally, breathing hard, he looked at the weapons master and shrugged.

“That’s all right,” the swordsman replied. “Two out of three is good odds.”

Pharaun slumped back and spent the next few moments resting. When he sat up and, heedless of the fresh blood that started from the corners of his mouth, he growled through the mask. He banged the box encasing his hands twice against the floor, then looked at Ryld.

“I understand,” the warrior said. “Make noise. Bring someone.”

Pharaun nodded. The cage around his head clinked.

“Ho!” Ryld shouted. “Somebody, come here! I’m a Master of Melee-Magthere. I know secrets about the defenses of the great Houses, secrets you must know for your plans to succeed. I’ll trade them for my freedom!”

He continued in the same vein for a time, clashing his chains against the wall for emphasis. Meanwhile Pharaun lay motionless, as if he were still unconscious.

Finally, eyes appeared at the little barred window in the door.

“What?” the newcomer snarled. It wasn’t a voice Ryld had heard before.

“I need to talk to you,” the weapons master said.

“I heard,” said the other drow. “You have secrets. The alhoon will rip them out of you, no bargain required.”

“Syrzan said it would take time to turn us into mind-slaves,” Ryld replied. “I have information you need before you unleash the undercreatures. Their rebellion will do you no good if the weapons masters strike them all dead before they even get started.”

“How could the masters-of-arms do that?” asked the rogue.

“A secret,” said Ryld, “that we brothers of the pyramid teach to a chosen few.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“We’ve been studying war for millennia. Do you think we impart all we know to every young dullard who enrolls in the Academy, or is it likely we hold greater, deadlier mysteries in reserve?”

The rogue hesitated.

“All right, tell me. If there’s anything to it, I’ll set you free.”

Ryld shrugged, rattling his fetters. They were already rubbing his wrists raw.

“Shout it through a closed door?” the weapons master asked. “Is that what you really want?”

“Wait.”

The contempt in the prisoner’s tone had reminded the rogue of a basic principle. It was best to keep information to yourself, at least until you figured out how to reap a benefit from sharing it. This rogue didn’t want anyone overhearing what Ryld had to say.

The door clacked as a key turned in the lock. It creaked open, and the renegade stepped through. He was stocky, with a broken nose squashed across an angular face. He’d decorated rather nondescript clothing with gaudy ornaments, including a silver fillet set with garnets. His rapier hung from a baldric, the hilt of a dagger protruded from the top of either boot, and a hand crossbow dangled from his belt.

He stopped just inside the doorway, where he had every right to think himself safe. The cell was large enough, and the prisoners’ shackles short enough, that he was beyond their reach. He swung the door shut behind him but didn’t permit it to latch.

“All right,” he said, “now you can tell me.”

“First,” said Ryld, “unchain me.”

He thought he had to keep the renegade occupied for just a few more heartbeats, long enough for Pharaun to cast his spell.

The guard just laughed and said, “Don’t be absurd.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“But you might just listen to the secrets and leave me imprisoned,” said Ryld, watching Pharaun from the corner of his eye.

To his dismay, the wizard wasn’t conjuring. He wasn’t moving at all. Had he passed out again?

“You’re caged,” said the renegade, “and I’m not. Therefore,
you
will have to trust
me
, not the other way around.”

Ryld scowled, meanwhile racking his brains for inspiration. With Pharaun inert, he was going to have to improvise a story to detain the rogue and pray the wizard would make a move before much longer.

“All right, I suppose I have no choice. Not far beyond Bauthwaf lies the entrance to a tunnel leading to the deepest reaches of the Underdark, where even our people do not—”

“What’s this got to do with weapons masters killing slaves?” the guard demanded.

“Listen, and you’ll find out. At the lower end of the passage is a mineral I’ve never seen anywhere else . . .” At last Pharaun moved his feet. Now, if only the renegade didn’t notice. “When you crush the rock to powder . . .”

“Hey!”

Evidently the guard’s peripheral vision was almost as good as Ryld’s, for he pivoted toward Pharaun, but not in time. A disembodied hand made of pale yellow light appeared beside his shoulder and gave him a push.

The impetus sent him staggering closer to Ryld. The weapons master grabbed him and smashed his head against the wall until it left a sticky mess on the stone, then he searched the corpse and found a ring of keys clipped to its belt.

He discovered the one that opened his own restraints, and Pharaun’s. The wizard flexed his fingers, restoring circulation, produced a silken handkerchief from his sleeve, and dabbed at the blood on the sides of his mouth.

“I think I’ll establish a new school of magic,” the wizard said. “Pedomancy—the sorcery of the feet.”

“Why did you wait so long to throw the spell?” Ryld asked.

“I was looking for our friend’s keys. It wouldn’t have done any good to attack him had he not been carrying the means to release us from our fetters. His cape was hanging over them, and it took me a moment to spot them.”

“I was certain something had gone wrong. Are you ready to get us out of here?”

“Momentarily,” Pharaun said as he pulled on his socks and boots. “I think everything’s going splendidly, don’t you? We’ve acquired the knowledge we came for, and now we’ll escape, just as planned.”

“We didn’t plan on having to do it without our gear.”

“Please, don’t harp on the obvious. It makes for a dreary conversation. Where exactly are we, by the way? Where’s the nearest exit?”

“I don’t know. They gave me a knock on the head before they carried us here. I think we’re up inside the cavern ceiling.”

“So we won’t encounter a window or balcony unless we descend a ways, but we might find a door opening on a tunnel.”

Ryld scavenged the dead rogue’s weapons and
piwafwi
. The cloak was much too small for him, but would provide some protection nonetheless. The mail shirt, alas, he simply couldn’t wear.

“No gear for me?” Pharaun asked.

“I’m the fighter, and I’ll be standing in front.”