R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (137 page)

Nimor stalked toward the thick of the fighting, picking his way past the dead and the dying. Fortunately, he’d readied several spells of invisibility for the day, otherwise he would have been waylaid time and time again by raging tanarukks or grim duergar anxious to slay any drow they encountered. Hundreds of Horgar’s Stone Guards clashed with the Baenre footsoldiers ahead of him, while the Agrach Dyrr barricaded the mouth of the main tunnel on the opposite side. Nimor carefully skirted the fight, catching sight of Andzrel and Zal’therra beneath the Baenre banner.

The Baenre leaders led their soldiers into the thick of the battle against the Agrach Dyrr, slowly but surely cutting their way through the warriors of the treacherous House. A tight knot of bodyguards surrounded them.

The assassin grinned, seeing his opportunity. The Baenre leaders had committed themselves to the fray. If he could destroy them, he would decapitate the Baenre contingent, and if their force disintegrated, there was an excellent chance that nothing of the Army of the Black Spider would survive the day.

Nimor spotted Jazzt Dyrr, who stood back from the melee, directing the Agrach Dyrr soldiers. The nobleman held his hand to a bloody slash across his ribs. The assassin hurried over and released his invisibility.

“A job well done, my kinsman,” he shouted to Jazzt. “Continue to hold the Baenre on this side, and the crown prince’s guard will grind them to nothing.”

Jazzt looked up. Fatigue and pain faded from his face as he surveyed the fight.

“Easier said than done,” he said. “The Baenre fight like demons, and more than a few of our own lads won’t be going home.” He straightened, and offered Nimor his hand. “I had my misgivings about you, Zhayemd, but your plan seems to be unfolding well enough. I’d say we could use you here, but I take it from the blood all over you that you’re keeping yourself busy.”

“The great Houses still hold in the center of the cavern floor, but this is the spot of decision,” Nimor replied. His eyes were fixed on the Baenre banner. “Lend me whatever lads you can. I mean to kill the Baenre commanders.”

“Good, we need the help,” Jazzt replied. He gestured sharply, and brought up a reserve of a dozen seasoned warriors. “You lads, you go with Zhayemd. Take the Baenre banner!”

Nimor readied his rapier and dagger while the fresh fighters gathered behind him. The melee edged closer, as the Baenre continued to claw their way toward escape. He could see the Baenre standard, waving above the center of the fight. Andzrel himself stood near the forefront, surrounded by the best House Baenre had to offer, while Zal’therra hobbled along a few steps back. The priestess was struggling with a bad wound in her hip, and she had her arm around another Baenre as the line advanced.

Nimor waited until the leading Baenre guardsmen were within a spearcast of his soldiers, and shouted, “Up and at them, lads!”

With a ragged cheer the warriors of Agrach Dyrr dashed forward from their hiding places, some firing crossbows into the Baenre before discarding the weapons and drawing blades. Quarrels hissed in the tunnel mouth. Some bounced from the armor of the Baenre guards and priestesses, but other quarrels struck home. The Baenre guards readied themselves for Agrach Dyrr’s charge as best they could. Zal’therra hopped to one side of the tunnel and defended herself with a huge, black, two-headed flail, unwilling to trust her injured leg enough to press into the skirmish but still far from helpless—as an Agrach Dyrr soldier learned when she expertly tripped him and followed up with a blow that pulped the wretch’s skull. In a moment the din of steel on steel and the awful sound of steel in flesh filled the corridor, accompanied by the screams, grunts, and curses of the fighters.

Andzrel, unlike his kinswoman, threw himself into the fight, wielding a double-ended sword with expert skill and lashing out with brutal spinning kicks to hammer his foes to the ground while they parried his flashing blades. Nimor watched in admiration as the furious assault swayed back and forth, then, the Agrach Dyrr making way, he approached the Baenre weapons master.

“Greetings, Andzrel,” he called. “Your master of scouts must report that the duergar seem to have slipped past our line at the Pillars of Woe, and now pose a considerable danger to the Army of the Black Spider.”

Andzrel Baenre fell still as the skirmish swept away from him. Hard anger seethed beneath his disciplined manner.

“Zhayemd,” he spat. “You have made a grave mistake in confronting me. You would have been wiser to savor the fruits of your treachery from afar.”

“We shall see,” Nimor replied.

He leaped forward and aimed a murderous thrust straight for the center of the Baenre’s torso, but Andzrel was not unprepared. The weapons master twisted aside and brought up his double-sword in a spinning parry that deflected Nimor’s blade, and whirled in close to slam his armored elbow against the side of the assassin’s head. Had Nimor been the slight drow he appeared to be, the blow might have fractured his skull. Instead it merely jolted him, hard. He responded by spinning the other way and bringing up his off-hand dagger in a hidden slash that scored Andzrel beneath the breastplate. The weapons master took half a step back and leaped into the air, planting his boot in the assassin’s ribs, but Nimor merely grunted and threw Andzrel back with contemptuous strength. Andzrel rolled and came up with his sword high, his eyes wide. “What in all the goddess’s hells
are
you?” he muttered. Before Nimor could compose a suitable answer, the weapons master’s hand flashed down to his boot and he hurled a knife straight for Nimor’s throat. The assassin threw his arm in front of his face and caught the blade in the meat of his left forearm. He snarled and pulled it out, blood spattering the dusty cavern floor.

Andzrel didn’t wait for him, of course. The Baenre followed his thrown dagger by hurling himself forward and rolling under Nimor’s guard, trying to run him through with a quick jab.

Nimor jumped clear over the weapons master, pulling his feet up close to his body, and landed on the other side. As Andzrel reversed his thrust and came back up, Nimor punched his rapier through the Baenre’s breastplate and scored a deep wound in the weapons master’s side. Andzrel grunted and stumbled, losing his balance. He sprawled to the ground at Nimor’s feet, his two-ended sword flat on the ground below him.

“A good effort,” Nimor said, drawing back his sword to finish off the Baenre.

Before he could strike, a globe of amber energy encased him. Magical force halted the thrust of his blade as surely as if he’d tried to skewer Narbondel, and resisted his knife as well.

“What in the Nine Hells?” Nimor demanded.

The assassin snarled in rage, even as he realized that the sounds of battle in the tunnel had increased threefold at the same instant. He glared out of the sphere, trying to determine where it had come from and what was happening.

Outside, dozens of fresh Baenre troops poured into the fight from the tunnel behind the Agrach Dyrr, catching Jazzt and his footsoldiers between hammer and anvil. The Agrach Dyrr blocking the tunnel were quickly driven away or killed, clearing the retreat for the House Baenre contingent. Nimor watched in cold wrath as the Baenre began to stream past his magical prison, reinforcing their embattled kin. In the space of a few moments, the battle rolled away from him and back into the main cavern.

Nimor glanced back down the tunnel, and found himself looking at a tall, round-bodied wizard in the colors of House Baenre, who studied the amber globe with a smirk of self-satisfaction. Zal’therra and Andzrel both stared at the newcomer as well.

“Nauzhror,” said the priestess. Blood streamed from her injured hip. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“A fortunate accident, really,” the wizard purred. “The matron mother instructed me to obtain news from the field, and so I scried the army, found the battle underway, and noted your difficulties. I made use of a very valuable scroll to raise a gate and bring you some help.” He turned and studied Nimor in the globe of energy. “Isn’t this fierce fellow Captain Zhayemd of Agrach Dyrr?”

“So he says, anyway,” Andzrel gritted. “Can you destroy him in that sphere?”

“Not right away. It simply captures someone for a time, encapsulating the victim in an impervious shield of magical force. It will fade in a short while, after which you may kill him at your leisure.”

“Later, then,” Andzrel said, dismissing the question of the trapped Nimor.

With one hand he groped for a small vial at his belt—a healing potion, Nimor guessed—and drank it down. He glanced back at the fighting, his face expressionless as he studied the savage melee.

Zal’therra limped up beside him and said, “Make ready to charge. With Nauzhror’s reinforcements, we can turn the tables on these cursed dwarves and tanarukks.” She looked over to the wizard. “How many soldiers did you bring?”

“Only a single company, I fear. The matron mother did not want to risk any more of our strength in a lost battle, if things go poorly.”

Zal’therra began to protest, but Andzrel set a hand on her arm.

“No,” he said, “the matron mother was right. Now that we’ve secured our line of retreat, we must withdraw any Houses we can from the fight. The duergar and their tanarukk allies have won the day.”

Nauzhror’s eyes widened and he asked, “Is it as bad as that?”

“If we move swiftly,” Andzrel answered, “we will bring a good portion of our soldiers off the field yet. Once we’ve got the

important Houses out of the fray, we can make a fighting retreat all the way to Menzoberranzan if we have to. There is no time to lose, if we want to save Xorlarrin and Tuin’Tarl. Fey-Branche is all but gone, I haven’t the faintest idea what happened to Barrison Del’Armgo, and Duskryn and Kenafin were swept away by the tanarukks. Menzoberranzan can’t lose any more drow here.”

“Your retreat will only delay the inevitable,” Nimor said. “You can’t stop it now.”

Andzrel leaned on his two-bladed sword and threw a dark look at Nimor.

“On second thought,” the weapons master said, “I’ll detail a few lads to wait for this sphere to fade. I see no reason to let him live a moment longer than I have to.” He met Nimor’s eyes with a cold expression. “Your House will rue the day you betrayed our city, traitor.”

Nimor tried the force globe again, to no avail. Andzrel, Zal’therra, and the Baenre wizard turned away and followed their soldiers into the renewed battle, while several Baenre guards trotted back and took up stations surrounding the sphere of force.

“I’ll see you in Menzoberranzan,” Nimor promised the Baenre.

The Anointed Blade invoked the power of his ring, and disappeared from the force globe into the welcoming shadows.

Four hours later, the company stood again beneath the bronze mask of Vhaeraun in the chapel of Minauthkeep. Battered, filthy mail had been laboriously cleaned, broken links mended, arming coats laundered. Those who had lost their packs, bedrolls, or other gear carried replacements purchased from Jaelre merchants. For the first time since leaving Gracklstugh Halisstra felt clean, rested, and reasonably well prepared for the next step in her journey. She sorely missed the mail she’d worn as First Daughter of House Melarn, and the thundering mace her mother had given her a century past, but she still had her lyre, and Seyll Auzkovyn’s mail and sword were not entirely useless substitutes.

The sword in particular seemed a fine piece of work. It carried a potent virtue of holiness that made it tingle unpleasantly in the dark elf ’s grip, but Halisstra suspected its blade would be unbearable to any fell creature who felt its bite. Considering the fact that she intended to descend into the Abyss itself, where such creatures would likely set upon the company in numbers, she was willing to endure the sword’s distasteful enchantment for a time.

Tzirik had donned a suit of black mithral plate armor decorated with grotesque demonic figures and chased with gold filigree. A wickedly spiked mace hung at his belt, and he wore a great masked helm in the shape of a demon’s skull. He radiated confidence and energy, as if he’d waited a long time for the opportunity to serve his god with worthwhile stakes at hand.

“As you know,” said the priest, “there is more than one way to leave this plane of existence and venture into the dimensions beyond. I have examined the issue at length, and I have decided that we shall travel in astral form. Now, if—”

“That would require us to leave our bodies comatose while our spirits journeyed to the Abyss,” Quenthel interrupted. “Why would you even hope I might consent to that?”

“Betrayal,” Jeggred rumbled. “He intends to have his comrades slit our throats while our bodies lie uninhabited.”

The draegloth took a step forward, baring his fangs at the Vhaeraunite priest.

“I choose to travel in astral form for two reasons, Mistress Baenre,” Tzirik replied, ignoring Jeggred. “First, it is marginally safer, in that if someone’s roving spirit happened to be killed while visiting the Demonweb Pits, that person would not truly be dead—he would awaken here, unharmed. A spirit is a difficult thing to destroy, after all. Second, as far as I can tell, we have no real alternative. I have already attempted to plane shift bodily to the Demonweb Pits, and the spell failed outright. I believe the barrier or seal of which the Masked Lord spoke prevented the direct transference of a physical body into Lolth’s demesnes.”

“Yet you believe you’ll be able to carry our astral forms there, when the realm is still sealed?” Halisstra asked.

“I know of only two ways to take you to the Demonweb Pits, and if one doesn’t work, the other must,” Tzirik said with a shrug. “The Masked Lord himself has instructed me to take you there, so there must be a way. Still, if you happen to know of any permanent gates or portals connecting our world with the Abyss, or the Demonweb Pits itself, I suppose you could make use of such a device.”

“Show me that physical travel will not work,” Quenthel said.

“Step close,” Tzirik said from behind his mask, his voice carrying a certain dry amusement, “and join hands with me.”

The drow shuffled close and joined hands in a circle with Tzirik, who took a place between Quenthel and Danifae, laying his left hand over their joined hands and leaving his right free to make the gestures necessary for the spell. He collected himself, then chanted out a rolling, powerful prayer whose unholy words filled the air with a nearly tangible darkness.