R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (94 page)

But then Pharaun saw that it was teetering. The construct took a step back to steady itself, and had the floor been level, it probably would have worked, but the weight of the golem, coupled with the slope of the floor, caused it to overbalance. Another step backward brought the toppling construct near the edge of the floor, and the room shifted more, sinking and increasing the slope. Then, with one final off-balance step, the golem shifted forward again, falling up the slope rather than down. It dropped to one knee and reached out for Q’arlynd, who was shaking his head as he returned to consciousness.

The fractured stone could no longer hold the construct’s weight, and it gave out beneath the golem. Even then, the construct latched on to the wizard, gripping him tightly. Q’arlynd screamed in agony. Ryld took two steps forward to save the wizard, but both Q’arlynd and the golem slowly, ponderously went over, slipping from sight.

Halisstra cried out, “
No!
” from the other side of the room.

She ran to the edge, but the weapons master grabbed her and held her back, shaking his head.

Disheartened, Pharaun turned back to the portal. He thought he’d it figured out and reached forward, ready to activate the magic of the portal, and stopped. Something felt . . . wrong. The room shifted over some more, and the wizard was forced to begin levitating to maintain his position. Behind him, he heard one of the females give a startled scream, but he ignored it. Peering at the magical emanations, he realized that he was seeing something illusory. He hadn’t noticed it before, but understanding what to look for, it was much clearer.

“Pharaun,” Quenthel yelled as everyone gathered around him, “if you can make that thing work, do it! The whole city is going down!”

Shaking his head at what he’d been about to do, the mage began to cast a spell, one that he’d not expected to need that day but was thankful for. He fished an ointment from one of his many pockets and dabbed a bit on each eyelid. Suddenly, everything about the archway became plain to his vision. He could see the runes that had been hidden from his view before, scribed into the stone around it. He cast a second spell, one to decipher the script, and found what he was looking for. The writing contained the trigger word.

“I’ve got it!” he shouted. “Get ready!”

Pharaun stepped back, uttered the triggering word aloud, and the portal shimmered to life, glowing with a deep purple hue. The whole thing took on a sense of depth, of distance. The stone in the center of the arch faded and was replaced by a shimmering curtain of light.

Pharaun turned back to his companions and shouted, “It’s ready! Step through!”

Quenthel was the closest, but she hesitated.

“Where does it go?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Pharaun admitted. “The script inscribed on the perimeter mentions something about a city, but I don’t recognize the name. We’ll find out on the other side.”

Quenthel shook her head.

“No. Someone else must go through first.”

Ryld, Halisstra, and Danifae were gathered around, with the weapons master helping to keep Danifae from sliding down the floor to her death. The rest of them were levitating.

Ryld pushed Danifae toward the opening and said, “I’m right behind you!”

The master of Melee-Magthere nudged the battle captive into the arch. Danifae cast one last, aggravated look over her shoulder, nodded, and leaned forward into the archway. In a flash, she was gone. Ryld lunged forward a heartbeat later, followed by Halisstra.

Pharaun looked at Quenthel.

“Well?” he said.

“You first,” she replied, still gazing at the gate in trepidation.

“I can’t,” the Master of Sorcere explained. “I must go last. Because I opened it, the portal will shut behind me.”

“What about Jeggred?”

“I will wait for them as long as I can,” Pharaun said as another groan emanated from the stonework around them.

The remains of the building tilted some more, and Quenthel’s eyes widened.

“There is no more time. Go through!” Pharaun said, and he pushed Quenthel toward the opening.

In a fury, the high priestess spun around, her hand reaching for the whip at her side. The five snakes were writhing madly, lashing at the mage even from where they hung, but the building lurched and tipped and Quenthel couldn’t hold on. She stumbled against the wizard, and the snakes snapped ineffectually against his
piwafwi.

Pharaun caught her and set her on her feet again.

“Please,” he said to her. “We don’t have time for this.”

Quenthel’s scowl faded slightly, and she looked at the wizard with a slight smirk.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re getting soft, wizard.” With that, she backed into the archway and was gone.

Pharaun shook his head in wonder and turned to see if there was any sign of Jeggred and Valas. The floor was slanted at a fairly steep pitch, and the mage slid down its surface toward the edge to peer over the side. Below, he could see the two of them, rising as rapidly as Jeggred’s levitation would allow. Chunks of stone and other debris was falling into the void beyond them, and Pharaun knocked a fragment loose from the edge of the crumbling floor. He cringed as he watched it tumble toward them, but it shot past, barely missing them.

Finally, almost excruciatingly slowly, the draegloth and his charge reached what was left of the structure. Together, the three of them worked their way toward the archway, which still glowed with an intense light.

“The others are waiting on the other side,” Pharaun explained, motioning to the doorway. “I have to go last. Hurry!”

Without hesitating, Jeggred leaped through the archway and vanished. Valas scrambled to go after him just as there was one final, bone-rattling tremor, and the remains of the room began to free fall. Pharaun gave the scout a good shove and dived in after him.

The portal sealed up and its light faded. A heartbeat later, what was left of the Dangling Tower, including the wall where the portal had been anchored, shattered into a million fragments as it struck a web street below.

Aliisza cringed when she saw the fury in Kaanyr Vhok’s eyes. He was displeased that she had neglected to keep him apprised of the situation in the drow city, and even her explanation of her troubles, the difficulties she had encountered with the drow, did little to soften his mood.

“So you say the entire city is ruined?” the cambion growled, pacing. “Brought down by a horde of miserable gray dwarves?”

“Not just gray dwarves, darling, but the drow themselves. They squabbled among themselves so much that they lost control. It destroyed them.”

“How could this have happened? Not that I bear any regret at the fall of the overly proud dark elves, but they do not seem to be the type who would allow such a travesty to occur to their great city. The forces of the Underdark are clearly out of balance.”

“I know,” the alu-fiend said, moving close to her mate, “but there is a reason.”

“You know what it is?”

“Yes, love, but your pacing is putting me on edge. Sit down, and I will tell you.”

Kaanyr Vhok sighed, but turned and plopped himself down in his throne.

“All right,” he said, patting his lap. “Tell me.”

Aliisza sashayed over to Vhok and settled herself into his lap. She had missed him, she realized, more than she’d thought she would. She leaned around and began to nuzzle his ear.

“Mmm,” he said, “I missed you,” echoing her own thoughts. “But before we get to the ‘welcome homes,’ tell me what you found out.”

Aliisza giggled as his fingers stroked her arm.

“They’ve lost contact with their goddess,” she whispered, blowing the words softly into his ear.

“What?” the cambion rumbled, sitting up straight and nearly dumping the demon on the floor. “Are you serious?”

The alu-fiend folded her arms beneath her breasts in a huff.

“Of course I’m serious,” she sniped. “Lolth has vanished from their sight, and they’re trying to figure out why, but of course, them being—what did you call them? Oh, yes—‘overly proud dark elves.’ Them being overly proud and set in their ways, they warred with one another to the point of bringing about their own extinction.”

“I see. Well, with Lolth out of the picture, I suppose if you wanted to gain a little retribution for some wrongs inflicted upon you in the past, now would be the time to do it,” the cambion said, staring absently into the distance.

“So, are you thinking of exacting a little revenge?” Aliisza said, nuzzling against her lover’s neck again.

“Maybe,” Vhok replied. “We’ll have to see. I guess it won’t be against Ched Nasad, hmm?”

“Mmm,” Aliisza purred, squirming, as Kaanyr Vhok’s fingers began to roam over her body again. “I guess not.”

All thoughts of the ruined City of Shimmering Webs left her then, for a good, long while.

High above the ruined City of Shimmering Webs, a single dark elf sat upon a perch of stone near the roof of the great cavern and watched. The smoke was heavy there, thick and acrid, but it didn’t bother him. He stared down at the destruction and smiled.

He was not attractive, not by drow standards, certainly, and few of any other species would look on him and think him handsome in the least, but he didn’t mind that either. What he sought was much more substantial than beauty.

They will be pleased, Zammzt thought, watching as fires slowly burned away, as whole sections of the city crumbled and collapsed, dropping into the murky depths of the cavern below. It is a good first step. There is still much to be done, but it is a good first step.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, the drow stood and stretched. I must go, he thought, somewhat regretfully.

He was proud of what he’d wrought, and he wished to stay and observe it a bit longer, but the others would be waiting. Sighing, he turned his sweeping gaze over the ruins of Ched Nasad one last time, then stepped into the darkest recesses of the shadows and vanished.

The food was gone and with it the warmth. All was hollow and empty, save the call to break free. That came most insistently, a subtle urging growing into desperation.

Eight tiny legs answered that imploring call. Eight tiny weapons struck at the concave wall. Battering and tearing, following the lighter shade of gray in this dark place.

A hole appeared in the leathery surface and the eight legs coordinated their attacks at that very spot, sensing weakness. Weakness could not be tolerated. Weakness had to be exploited, immediately and without mercy.

One by one, ten by ten, a thousand by a thousand, a million by a million, tiny legs waved in the misty space between universes for the first time, tearing free of their circular prisons. Driven by hunger and ambition, by fear and an instinctive vileness, the millions of arachnids fought their first battle against a pliable, leathery barrier. Hardly a worthy adversary, but they fought with an urgency wrought of knowing that the first to emerge would hold a great advantage, knowing that they—all of them—were hungry.

And knowing there was nothing to eat but each other. The warmth of the egg sac was gone, devoured. The quiet moments of solitude, of awakening, of first sense of consciousness, were past. The walls that had served as shelter and protection became an impediment and nothing more. The soft shell was a barricade against food, against necessary battle, against satiation on so many levels.

Against power.

And that, most of all, could not be tolerated by these blessed and cursed offspring. So they fought and tore and scrabbled and scrambled to get out.

To eat.

To climb.

To dominate.

To kill.

To become. . . .

Streams of dust and sand hissed over old red stone. Halisstra Melarn drew her
piwafwi
close around her, and shivered in the bitter wind. The night was cold, colder than the deeps and caverns far below the world’s surface, and the wind moaned mournfully through the weathered ruins, crouching dead and silent in arid hills. Once a great city stood there, but no more. Shattered domes and tottering colonnades whispered of a proud and skillful race, long gone. Vast ramparts still stood against the desert wind, and the broken stumps of towers reached for the heavens.

In different circumstances Halisstra might have spent days wandering the silent ways of the mighty ruins and pondering their long-lost tale, but at the moment a far greater and more terrifying mystery held her rapt with awe and horror. Above the black silhouettes of crumbling towers and crooked walls, a sea of stars glittered like cold hard ice in a black and limitless sky.

She’d heard of such things all her life, of course. Intellectually she understood the concept of an open sky in place of a cavern roof, and the ludicrously distant pinpricks of light overhead, but to sit out in the open beneath such a sight and gaze on it with her own eyes . . . that was something else indeed. In her two hundred years she had never ventured more than a few dozen miles from Ched Nasad, and she had certainly never come within miles of the surface. Very few dark elves from the City of Shimmering Webs had. Like most drow, they largely ignored the world outside the endless intrigues, scheming, and remorseless self-interest of life in Ched Nasad.