[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
War Of The Spider Queen
Book 1
Dissolution
It was a flicker of clarity in the foggy realm of shadowy chaos, where nothing was
quite what it seemed, and everything was inevitably more treacherous and
dangerous. But this, the crystalline glimmer of a single silken strand, shone
brightly, caught her eye, and showed her all that it was and all that would soon be,
and all that she was and all that she would soon be.
The glimmer of light in the dark Abyss promised renewal and greater glory and
made that promise all the sweeter with its hints of danger, mortal danger for a
creature immortal by nature. That, too, was the allure, was, in truth, the greatest
joy of the growth. The mother of chaos was fear, not evil, and the enjoyment of
chaos was the continual fear of the unknown, the shifting foundation of everything,
the knowledge that every twist and turn could lead to disaster.
It was something the draw had never come to fully understand and appreciate,
and she preferred that ignorance. To the draw, the chaos was a means for personal
gain; there were no straight ladders in the tumult of draw life for one to climb. But
the beauty was not the ascent, she knew, if they did not. The beauty was the
moment, every moment, of living in the swirl of the unknown, the whirlpool of true
chaos.
So this, then, was a movement forward, but within that movement, it was a
gamble, a risk that could launch the chaos of her world to greater heights and
surprises. She wished she could remain more fully conscious to witness it all, to
bask in it all.
But no matter. Even within, she would feel the pleasure of their fear, the hunger
of their ambition.
That glimmer of the silk edge, cutting the gray perpetual fog of the swirling
plane, brought a singular purpose to this creature of shifting whims and reminded
her that it was time, was past time.
Never taking her gaze off that glimmer, the creature turned slowly, winding
herself in the single strand. The first strand of millions.
The start of the metamorphosis, the promise.
Richard Lee Byers
1
War Of The Spider Queen
Book 1
Dissolution
C h a p t e r
O N E
Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, flicked a long, obsidian-
skinned finger. His office door, a black marble rectangle incised all over with
lines of tiny runes, swung noiselessly shut and locked its self.
At least certain that no one could see him, the drow wizard rose from the
white bone desk, faced the back wall, and swirled his hands in a complex
pattern. A second doorway opened in the stippled calcite surface.
His dark elf vision unimpaired by the lack of light, Gromph stepped into the
blackness beyond the new exit. There was no floor there to receive his tread,
and for a moment he fell, then he invoked the power of levitation granted by the
House Baenre insignia brooch that he was never without. He began to rise,
floating up a featureless shaft. The cool air tingled and prickled against his skin
as it always did, and it also carried a rank, unpleasant smell. Evidently one of
the creatures native to this peculiar pseudoplane of existence had been nosing
around the conduit.
Sure enough, something rattled above his head. The rank smell was suddenly
stronger, pungent enough to make his scarlet eyes water and sting his nose.
Gromph looked up. At first he saw nothing, but then he discerned a vague ovoid
shape in the darkness.
The Archmage wondered how the beast had gotten inside the shaft. Nothing ever
had before. Had it torn a hole in the wall, oozed through like a ghost, or done
something stranger still? Perhaps—
It plummeted at him, putting an end to his speculations.
Gromph could have effortlessly blasted the creature with one of his wands, but
he preferred to conserve their power for genuine threats. Instead, he coolly
dismissed the force of levitation lifting his body and allowed himself to drop back
down the shaft. The fall would keep him away from the beast for long enough to
cast a spell, and he didn't have to worry about hitting the ground. In this reality,
there was no ground.
The bejeweled and sigil-adorned Robes of the Archmage flapping around him, he
snatched a vial of venom from his pocket, set it alight with a spurt of flame from
his fingertip, and recited an incantation. On the final syllable, he thrust his arm at
the creature, and a glob of black, burning liquid erupted from his fingertips.
Richard Lee Byers
2
War Of The Spider Queen
Book 1
Dissolution
Propelled by magic, the blazing fluid hurtled straight up the shaft to splash
against the descending predator. The creature emitted a piercing buzz that was
likely a cry of pain. It floundered in the air, bouncing back and forth against the
walls as it fell. Its body sizzled and bubbled as the spattered acid ate into it, but it
resumed diving in a controlled manner.
Gromph was mildly impressed. A venom bolt would kill most creatures,
certainly most of the petty vermin one encountered in the empty places between
the worlds.
Manipulating an empty cocoon, he cast another spell. The beast's body
crumpled and folded into itself, and for a heartbeat, it was a helplessly tumbling
mouse—then it swelled and rippled back into its natural form.
All right, thought Gromph, then I'll cut you up.
He prepared to conjure a hail of blades, but at that moment, the creature
accelerated.
Gromph had no idea the creature could descend any faster than it had hitherto,
and he wasn't prepared for the sudden burst of speed. The creature closed the
distance between them in an instant, until it was hovering right in his face.
It had the melted or unfinished look common to many such beings. Rows of
blank little eyes and a writhing proboscis sat off center in its bump of a head,
only vaguely differentiated from its rubbery blob of a body. The monster
possessed no wings, but it was flying—the goddess only knew how. Its legs
were the most articulate part of it. Ten thin, segmented members terminated in
barbed hooks, which lashed at Gromph again and again and again.
As he expected, the frenzied scratching failed to harm him. The enchantments
woven into Gromph's piwafwi—not to mention a ring and an amulet—armored
him at least as well as a suit of plate. Still, it irked him that he had allowed the
beast to get so close, and he felt more irritated still when he noticed that the
creature's exertions were flinging tiny smoking droplets of his own conjured acid
onto his person.
He growled a final spell and snatched hold of the malodorous predator, seizing
handfuls of the blubber on its torso. Instantly the magic began its work. Strength
and vitality flowed into him, and he cried out at the shocking pleasure of it.
He was drinking his adversary's very life, much as a vampire might have done.
The flying creature buzzed, thrashed, and became still. It withered, cracked, and
rotted in his grasp. Finally, when he was certain he'd sucked out every vestige of
life, he shoved it away.
Focusing his will, he arrested his fall and drifted upward again. After a few
minutes, he spied the opening at the top of the shaft. He floated through,
grabbed a convenient handrail, pulled himself over onto the floor of the
workroom, then allowed his weight to return. His vestments rustled as they
settled around him.
Richard Lee Byers
3
The large circular chamber was in most respects a part of the tower of
Sorcere—the school of wizardry over which the Archmage presided—but
Gromph was reasonably certain that none of the masters of Sorcere suspected its
existence, accustomed to secret and magical architecture though they were. The
place, lit by everlasting candles like the office below, was well nigh
undetectable, even unguessable, because its tenant had set it a little apart from
normal space and conventional time. In some subtle respects it existed in the
distant past, in the days of Menzoberranzan the Kinless, founder of the city, and
in another way, in the remote and unknowable future. Yet on the level of gross
War Of The Spider Queen
Book 1
Dissolution
mortal existence, it sat firmly in the present, and Gromph could work his most
clandestine magic there secure in the knowledge that it would affect the
Menzoberranzan of today. It was a neat trick, and sometimes he almost regretted
killing the seven prisoners, master mages all, who had helped him build the place
in exchange, they imagined, for their freedom. They had been genuine artists, but
there was no point in creating a hidden refuge unless one ensured it would remain
hidden.
Dusting a few specks and smears of the flying vermin from his nimble hands,
Gromph moved to the section of the room containing an extensive collection of
wizard's tools. Humming, he selected a spiral-carved ebony staff from a
wyvern's-foot stand, an onyx-studded iron amulet from its velvet-lined box, and a
wickedly curved athame from a rack of similar ritual knives. He sniffed several
ceramic pots of incense before finally selecting, as he often did, the essence of
black lotus.
As he murmured an invocation to the Abyssal powers and lit a brazen censor
with the tame little flame he could conjure at will, he hesitated. To his surprise,
he found himself wondering if he truly wanted to proceed.
Menzoberranzan was in desperate straits, even though most of her citizens
hadn't yet realized it. In Gromph's place, many another wizard would embrace the
situation as an unparalleled opportunity to enhance his own power, but the
Archmage saw deeper. The city had experienced too many shocks and setbacks in
recent years. Another upheaval could cripple or even destroy it, and he didn't
fancy life in a Menzoberranzan that was merely a broken mockery of its former
glory. Nor did he see himself as a homeless wanderer begging sanctuary and
employment from the indifferent rulers of some foreign realm. He had resolved
to correct the current problem, not exploit it.
Except I am about to exploit it in at least a limited way, aren't I? He thought.
Give in to temptation and seize the advantage, even if so doing further
destabilizes the already precarious status quo.
Gromph snorted his momentary and uncharacteristic misgivings away. The
drow were children of chaos—of paradox, contradiction, and perhaps even
perversity. It was the source of their strength. So yes, curse it, why not walk in
two opposite directions at the same time? When would he get another chance to
so alter his circumstances?
He moved to one of the complex pentacles inlaid in gold on the marble
floor and traced the tip of the black staff along its curves and angles, sealing
it. That done, he swept the athame in ritual passes and chanted a rhyme that
returned to its own beginning like a serpent swallowing its tail. The cloying
sweetness of black lotus hung in the air, and he could feel the narcotic vapors
lifting his consciousness into a state of almost painful concentration and
lucidity.
He lost all track of time, had no idea whether he'd been reciting for ten
minutes or an hour, but the moment finally came when he'd recited long
enough. The nether spirit Beradax appeared in the center of the pentacle,
seeming to jerk up out of the floor like a fish at the end of an angler's line.
Richard Lee Byers
4
His centuries of wizardry had rendered Gromph about as indifferent to
ugliness and grotesquerie as a member of his callous race could get, yet even
he found Beradax an unpleasant spectacle. The creature wore the ap-
proximate shape of a dark elf female or perhaps a human woman, but her
body was made of soft, wet, glistening eyeballs adhering together. About half
War Of The Spider Queen
Book 1
Dissolution
of them had the crimson irises characteristic of the drow, while the rest were
blue, brown, green, gray—a miscellany of the colors commonly found in
lesser races.
Her body flowing, her shape warping, Beradax flung herself at her
summoner. Fortunately, she couldn't pass beyond the edge of the pentacle.
She slammed into an unseen barrier with a wet, slapping sound, then re-
bounded.
Undeterred, she lunged a second time with the same lack of success. Her
resentment and malice infinite, she would spring a million times if left to her
own devices. Gromph had caught her, trapped her, but something more was
needed if they were to converse. He shoved the ritual dagger into his belly.
Beradax reeled. The eyeballs comprising her own stomach churned and
shuddered. A few fell away from the central mass to fade and vanish in the
air.
''Kill you.
1
" she screamed, her shrill voice unnaturally loud, her gaping
mouth affording a shadowy glimpse of the eyeball bumps lining the interior.
"I'll kill you, wizard!"
"No, slave, you will not," Gromph said. He realized the chanting and
incense had parched his throat, and he swallowed the dryness away. "You'll
serve me. You'll calm yourself and submit, unless you want another taste of the
blade."
"Kill you!"
Beradax sprang at him again and kept springing while he pulled the athame back
and forth through his abdomen. Finally she collapsed to her knees.
"I submit," she growled
"Good." Gromph extracted the athame. It didn't leave a tear in his robes or in his
flesh, which was to say, the knife's enchantments had worked precisely as
expected, hurting the demon rather than him.
Beradax's belly stopped heaving and shaking.
"What do you want, drow?" the creature asked. "Information? Tell me, so I can
discharge my errand and depart."
"Not information," the dark elf said. He'd summoned scores of nether-spirits over
the past month, and none had been able to tell him what he wished to know. He
was certain Beradax was no wiser than the rest. "I want you to kill my sister
Quenthel."
Gromph had hated Quenthel for a long time. She always treated him like some
retainer, even though he too was a Baenre, a noble of the First House of
Menzoberranzan, and the city's greatest wizard besides. In her eyes, he thought,
only high priestesses deserved respect.
His antipathy only intensified as the two of them attempted to advise their
mother, Matron Mother Baenre, the uncrowned queen of Menzoberranzan.
Predictably, they'd disagreed on every matter of policy from trade to war to mining
and had vexed one another no end.
Gromph's animus intensified still further when Quenthel became Mistress of
Arach-Tinilith, the school for priestesses. The mistress governed the entire
Academy, Sorcere included, and thus Gromph had found himself obliged to
contend with her—indeed, to suffer her oversight—in this one-time haven as well.
Still, he might have endured Quenthel's arrogance and meddling indefinitely, if
not for their mother's sudden and unexpected death.
Richard Lee Byers
5
Counseling the former matron mother had been more an honor than a treat. She
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]