R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (89 page)

The uprising had taken a decidedly different twist than the insurrection in Menzoberranzan, though. The insurgents involved in the upheavals in Ched Nasad were the noble Houses themselves. Their own infighting was the flash point. Pharaun counted himself fortunate that the Houses of Menzoberranzan had proven less prone to petty backbiting. If they had, there might not be a city for him to return to. The mage grimaced, thinking of Gromph’s attempts on Quenthel’s life, and his own sister Greyanna’s failed efforts to kill him.

There might not be anything left, he thought, before this is completely finished.

As he neared the section of the city where the inn was located, the wizard noticed that the damage was less severe there. In fact, the Flame and Serpent was thus far unscathed. Immediately he saw the reason why. A horde of mismatched drow and other creatures, probably residents of the inn, self-reliant mercenaries, and whatnot had formed a perimeter defense around the place. It didn’t appear that they were under fire at the moment, but an intense battle must have raged there earlier, judging by the number of bodies present.

Not wanting to be either attacked or drawn into the midst of the siege, Pharaun elected to circle around to the back side of the inn and enter it that way. He recalled the window of the room he shared with Valas and Ryld, the one that looked out on the wall of the massive cavern that Ched Nasad called home, and he made for that. He approached from the roof and settled down between the wall of the building and the wall of the trench. It was just wide enough for him to levitate down between the two, and he hovered there while he contemplated how best to get through the opening without attracting attention.

He had just the spell, the Master of Sorcere realized, a minor incantation that would open the window from the inside, so that he wouldn’t have to break it to get through. Reaching into his
piwafwi,
he fumbled around in three or four pockets before he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a brass key and tapped it softly against the window as he uttered the words that would complete the spell. The window opened without resistance, and Pharaun squirmed inside the room.

The wizard, the weapons master, and the scout had taken all of their belongings when they’d left the inn upon being summoned to attend the “party” in their honor. That seems almost a lifetime ago, Pharaun mused as he made his way out the door and down the hall to Quenthel’s chambers.

Upon reaching the door, the mage hesitated, wondering if the high priestess had placed some sort of protective enchantment on it before leaving, but then he remembered that Ryld and Valas had invaded the room when they came seeking healing magic. Chuckling, he tried the door and found it locked.

Of course, Pharaun silently muttered. Leave it to Valas to put it back the way he found it.

Shrugging, the wizard dug around in the pockets of his
piwafwi
yet again, drawing forth a pinch of clay and a small vial of water. Sprinkling the water over the clay, he invoked the Weave and completed the spell. A portion of the wall next to the door began to sag, transforming from solid stone to thick, viscous mud. The wall oozed down into a puddle, and Pharaun stepped back to avoid soiling his boots. When the opening was wide enough, the Master of Sorcere nimbly leaped through into the room beyond, avoiding the mess he’d made.

Pharaun spied Quenthel’s backpack, filled with extra supplies, on a table near the Reverie couch. Some of Faeryl’s things, including the ambassador’s haversack, were on the other table. The wizard hefted the high priestess’s pack and grunted.

So, the mage thought with a wry grin, she finally figured out a way to make me carry her possessions.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed up the second one, Faeryl’s, and turned to go.

A crossbow bolt smacked into Pharaun’s chest, somehow managing to slip through the part in the
piwafwi
’s fabric, and embedded itself in his shoulder. The Master of Sorcere grunted and stumbled back into the room, spinning away so that his back was to his assailant and he was more completely protected by the
piwafwi.
He looked down to see that it was a drow bolt, and he realized his magical invisibility had worn off.

Pharaun staggered over to the opposite side of the room, dropping the two satchels as he scrambled to find cover. There were really only two good places he could go: behind the Reverie couch or into an armoire. As he rushed past the armoire, he grabbed the door and yanked it open, then shoved it shut again as he slumped behind the Reverie couch. The door to the oversized cabinet slammed shut just as two pairs of boots darted into the room, which Pharaun observed from beneath the couch. The mage stayed low, on his knees, watching under the couch as the two pairs of boots spread apart, both slowly headed toward the armoire, their owners presumably covering the room.

“He went into the cabinet,” one of the creatures said in the language of the drow.

The crossbow bolt set his shoulder throbbing, but Pharaun quietly watched for his assailants to appear. He blinked, unable to focus clearly, and he suddenly began to feel lightheaded. He kept thinking that if he could just cast a spell, this would all be over, but a decision about which one or how to go about doing it eluded him. The crossbow bolt wound had begun to burn, and Pharaun realized that he was growing weak. The bolt had been coated with poison. He would have to hurry to get back to the others before it overwhelmed him, and he only hoped they had a means of treating the toxin.

As his foes both came into Pharaun’s line of view, crossbows held up and ready, he could see why they’d attacked him on sight. They were both dark elves, and they wore the livery of House Zauvirr. Mentally kicking himself for not considering the possibility that Ssipriina might send someone to their inn on the expectation that he or others in the group might return, Pharaun tried to phrase the arcane words of a spell, but they wouldn’t come. The two drow were grinning as they sighted down their crossbows at him.

Pharaun closed his eyes, wondering if it would hurt much to die, and pondered whether or not he could work his rapier free, when he heard a noise. The expected twang of crossbows being fired it was not. Instead, he heard a woman’s voice—a familiar voice—uttering a quick phrase. The wizard squinted, his vision blurry, as a spray of intertwined, multicolored beams of light cascaded over his two foes.

Both drow reeled backward from the sudden, bright assault, crying out and flinging up their hands to cover their eyes. The first one spasmed as crackles of electricity raked over his body from the yellow ray of light, while the second drow was engulfed in flames upon coming into contact with the red beam.

Pharaun watched as the two soldiers crumpled to the ground. Whether either or both of them were dead or not, he didn’t know, nor did he care. He was growing intolerably weak from the effects of the poison.

“Hello, Pharaun,” the voice purred.

With an effort, Pharaun opened his eyes again and looked up, realizing who it was.

“Aliisza,” he slurred, relaxing as the alu came around the couch toward him. “How did you find—”

The fiend’s slap across Pharaun’s face stung immensely and he jerked, alert, his eyes watering.

“What the—” the wizard grunted, rubbing his cheek as Aliisza squatted down beside him, her hand upraised. “What’s the matter with you?”

He again wondered if he could produce the rapier.

“How dare you!” the alu growled, one eyebrow arched, but without the accompanying smile. “How could you be interested in that trollop after sharing
my
bed?”

Pharaun blinked, thoroughly confused. Trollop?

“Who in the blazes are you talking about?” he demanded, feebly raising his good arm to ward off the impending slap.

“Don’t you play dumb with me, you wretched excuse for a dark elf. You know the one I mean. The pretty you pulled from that collapsing house. I should have gouged her eyes out!”

“Oh, by the Dark Mother,” Pharaun muttered, understanding at last. “It’s not what you think. . . .”

“Ooh! You males
always
say that. According to your gender, it never is. I don’t want to hear it.”

Aliisza reached down, grabbed the wizard by both lapels of his
piwafwi,
and drew him up to her. She crushed his mouth to hers in a rough kiss, biting his lip so hard he was sure she drew blood. In fact, he decided, it felt not so much like a kiss as like the fiend was marking her territory.

“That’s so you won’t forget me so easily. If you stray, I’ll know it. I’ll smell her on you, and I will not be happy. I’m not through with you yet, wizard,” Aliisza warned, looking him in the eyes.

She blinked, and that sardonic smile was back.

“Well, I guess I’d better get you to some help,” she said lightly, hefting Pharaun up and slinging him over her shoulder, careful of his chest, where the crossbow bolt still protruded.

The wizard felt the utter fool, being toted like a sack of mushrooms, but he could hardly protest. His entire body felt . . . well, “fuzzy” was the best word he could think of to describe it.

“The satchels,” he mumbled into the alu’s shoulder. “Don’t forget the satchels.”

Scooping up both Quenthel’s and Faeryl’s bags, Aliisza carried Pharaun across the room, out the hole he’d made in the wall, down the hallway, and back into his own room. She set the wizard down on the Reverie couch. Taking the satchels, she moved to the window and leaned out, bracing her feet against the rock wall of the chasm. Pharaun watched helplessly as she tossed the packs onto the roof.

The alu returned and scooped the wizard up once more and hauled him out into the gap between the building and the wall, shoving him upward above her. He felt the bolt in his shoulder ram against the side of the inn, but the pain was strangely diminished. Still, it was forceful enough to make him grunt.

“By the Abyss, can’t you help at all?” she puffed, working the mage to the roof.

Pharaun didn’t answer. His face was going numb, and everything was fading to black.

Ryld was sitting on the roof of a building that bordered the alley, with his legs dangling over the side, his crossbow in his hands, watching parts of Ched Nasad burn. Finally having a chance to really study the layout of the city, he could see what was happening with greater clarity. The fighting had diminished in the highest reaches, though he could still hear the sounds of combat from a couple of streets over. It was mostly the lower sections of the city that seemed to be receiving the worst of it, those areas where the lesser races were most numerous. He supposed that the violence down there took the form a general rioting, just a byproduct of the tensions of the city coupled with the more severe military maneuvers that had played out higher up. Of course, he supposed, having a large chunk of the city fall from above wasn’t going to help calm things.

Halisstra sat down beside the weapons master and stared forlornly out at her homeland.

“Valas has gone to see what chance we have of getting out through any of the city gates,” she told Ryld. “I told him about one or two places where we might be able to depart unseen, and he’s going to see if they’re secure.”

Ryld only nodded. If anyone could sneak through the city unchallenged, it was the Bregan D’aerthe scout. He doubted seriously if any exits had been left unguarded, though.

“How could this have happened?” Halisstra muttered softly. “So much destruction.”

“We have grown complacent,” the Master of Melee-Magthere answered. “The drow race has been squabbling in a controlled manner for so long, we never expected that our own little games would get out of hand. And they—” the weapons master gestured downward, in the direction of the slums—“just feed off of it, now.”

“But the fire. How is it possible to burn down a city made of stone?”

“Alchemy, I suppose. We saw the same thing in Menzoberranzan. It’s more devastating here, because your whole city is suspended on stone webbing. They were very clever to bring the firepots here.”

“Of course,” the drow maiden breathed. “Set the webs on fire, and everything attached to them falls to its destruction. Including House Melarn.”

Ryld glanced over at the dark elf beside him. Her face was one of sorrow, and her red eyes glistened with uncharacteristic tears. It was not often that he saw a drow cry. It was considered a sign of weakness. He found it refreshingly honest in the priestess.

“I am sorry for your loss. Perhaps we will learn from this. If we survive.”

Something caught Ryld’s eye, and he had his crossbow up and was sighting down the shaft in an instant. A winged figure, bobbing and weaving haphazardly, emerged from the smoke, coming for their position. It was a drow, possibly, though it had wings, and it bore a rather large bundle. The warrior could tell something was wrong by the erratic way it was flying. Suddenly, he recognized it—the demon from Ammarindar!

He had his finger on the trigger, ready to fire a bolt through her heart, before he realized she was carrying Pharaun.

As the demon closed in on the edge of the building, she seemed to lose her balance, and Ryld literally had to reach out and grab her as she went by. All three of them tumbled to the stone in a heap at Jeggred’s feet. The draegloth stepped between the beautiful creature and the rest of the team.

“You!” Quenthel hissed, her scourge raised, ready to strike. “What are you doing here?”

The fiend, whom Pharaun referred to as Aliisza, Ryld remembered, eyed both Jeggred and the high priestess warily as she panted where she’d fallen. She made no move to defend herself.

“Bringing your precious wizard back to you, drow,” she muttered. “I know how fond you are of him.”

“He’s hurt,” Ryld said, turning the mage over.

Everyone but Jeggred gathered around as the weapons master began to examine Pharaun. It didn’t take him long to find the puncture wound in the wizard’s shoulder, a portion of a crossbow bolt still lodged in it. Most of the shaft had snapped off during his crash landing.

“The bolt is poisoned,” Quenthel said, standing over Pharaun’s prone body. “Healing him won’t do a bit of good unless we get the poison out of his blood first. If we don’t, he’ll die.”