Paul Kidd - Queen of the Demonweb Pits

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Queen of the
Demonweb
Pits
Paul Kidd
The Beginning…
CY583
. This time, it had all gone wrong.
Deep in the heart of conquered territory, a resistance war raged. Harsh, pitiless, and savage, a war
without rest, without honor, without glory. A war where small bands of men made the minions of Iuz pay
for their deeds in blood.
The hordes of Iuz had swept over villages, towns, and cities, obliterating those who fled from them. Men,
women, children, and animals had been butchered, then raised as rotting, shambling legions of the
damned. Iuz had stormed forward with his undead monsters, slaughtering everything in his path, but in the
lands behind him, he had unknowingly left a cancer that gnawed at his heart.
The roving bands of freedom fighters were good at slaughter. They had been formed from the hard, silent
men of the wilds, the rangers who had failed to protect the borders and the sacred wilderness, the men
who had been guardians but who had been helpless against the demon hordes. The armies of Iuz had
come— demons and rotting corpses covered by vast clouds of carrion flies—leaving the once-fertile
lands covered in slime and ash. The armies had moved on, and behind them a scattered handful of
rangers rose to fight.
They were few, and they were terrible. The homeless warriors tore into Iuz's supply columns, slaughtered
his couriers, and assas-sinated his scouts. Blades killed sentries in the night. Wells were poisoned and
roads strewn with traps. Soon it took entire regi-ments to escort a single messenger, and supply columns
were con-voyed by legions of guards. Iuz stripped troops from the conquering armies to try to stamp out
the enemies within, and still the killers struck. They fought endlessly, viciously, with infi-nite cunning and
utterly without mercy. Leaving nothing but corpses in their wake, they mutilated even their own dead to
render them useless to Iuz's necromancers. They had failed to pro-tect their own people—and now they
paid for it with their suici- dal struggle.
The tide had finally turned against them. Iuz had abandoned his plans of conquest to hunt for the roving
bands of freedom fighters. Half their numbers had died in a few short weeks. The rest fought with ten
times the fury, morning, noon, and night.
Iuz turned inward, pruning his conquering armies of men, and the humans, elves, and dwarves from the
surrounding nations began to hammer the demons back, step by step. Iuz had lost the war. Exhausted,
harried, and dying man by man, the freedom fighters continued to fight, knowing they had won. They had
paid their debt.
These were the last days of the war, a time when a man could lay low and know that the horror soon
would pass. But for some, the fight and slaughter had been sweet. There was a power that came with
action, an intensity that became a drug, intoxicating and addictive.
Of all the war band leaders, the most savage, the most daring, was Recca—swordmaster and last lord of
the grass elves. He had taught the art of the blade for three hundred years, taking only the most
dedicated, most cunning, and most perfect students. His blade struck faster than thought, and he moved
through a fight as if it were a dance. His sword, jet black with a wolf skull pommel, was sharp enough to
carve a war-horse in two.
As Iuz's war ground to an end, Recca had eleven followers remaining—rangers and battle-mages
hardened in this thankless war. He also had a single student, an apprentice as unlike him as iron was to
silk: brooding, massive, humorless, a man who no longer had a name.
Recca was charismatic, a cavalier, dapper and sly, cunning and adored. He had taken on this apprentice
because the boy looked like he had the devotion to listen and learn. Recca had taught the boy to fight, to
track, to hunt, and above all to think. They had been companions through many long, silent missions—
teacher and student, leader and learner. The apprentices devotion was based on a strange sense of honor
that he cherished deep inside his soul. Recca despaired of ever teaching the boy proper practicality.
Master and apprentice lay in the heather, side by side. Recca's armor, though bearing scrapes and
scratches from many battles, still had a worn flamboyance about it, and his steel helmet was fashioned
like a screaming eagle. Next to his master, the apprentice was in gear rugged, tested, and unadorned.
Where Recca was thin and rakishly handsome with amber eyes and golden hair as soft as silk, his
apprentice, almost invisible in the weeds beside him, was huge and unappealing. When they'd first met,
Recca had thought the boy too big and too powerful to move in stealth, yet the human was always
somehow silent as a cat. No, not a cat, a bear—dark, terrifying, and immense.
The war had taught the boy failure, hate, and emptiness. He had a stark brilliance with the sword, which
Recca found annoying. No flamboyance, no style—merely a brutal, unforgiving efficiency. Recca's
reputation had been founded on his brilliance, his merciless speed, and his raffish charisma. But in dark
times, men looked to tireless, efficient men for comfort. Men like Recca's apprentice.
With the turning of the war, decent targets had become fewer and fewer. The only troops of Iuz to be
seen were armies in retreat, and the small band of freedom fighters could do little but harry their scouts.
But here, all of a sudden, a mistake had been made. A general was bringing troops to build field
fortifications. Besides the general, there would be officers and officials—and they were guarded only by
shambling, rotting zombies armed with shovels and stakes. There were no abyssal bats, no demons. A
general of Iuz would fall, the greatest coup achieved by any band through the entire war. Recca's
reputation would be immortalized.
The war was ending, and it was time to look to the future. A new generation would be searching for
heroes—for kings. As the hero of the resistance, Recca's name would ring upon a hundred thousand
tongues…
Recca thought the new attack would be easy, but his apprentice failed to agree. The big human studied
the scattered parties of zombies digging ditches and hauling rocks. He looked at the general's tents and
the few guards set on hills and ridgelines, and he drew back into cover.
"Withdraw." His voice was bass—quiet, grim, definite. "It's a trap."
The elf rolled to look at his apprentice and raised one brow. "And we know this how?"
"It smells wrong."
"What? Have you become part man, part hell hound?" Recca slid an amused sidewise glance at his
apprentice. "The problem with humans is that they cannot accept being clever! There is a superiority that
comes with intelligence and training. I have trained you superbly. Every movement you make is properly
honed." Recca smiled. "Remember—evil may have cunning, but it never has wit or style."
If the apprentice had been a bear, he would have growled. The big man made to speak, but Recca had
already slithered back down from the ridge to give orders to his men.
They collected there under cover—painted men, camouflaged and almost invisible. Eleven of them sat
and listened, trusting their leader to give shape to their lives. Recca looked about the empty wilderness
and filled his mind with images of his victory— his glory.
"They're coming! More Iuz vermin to kill! A general, and without an escort in sight!" The elven warlord
infected his men with his confidence. "We'll slaughter a general!"
An Iuz general. The only demonic warlord to be slain in this war, and his head would fall to Recca!
Recca parted the weeds and showed his men his plan for victory.
"They're fortifying this valley. That means their army is coming, so we must work fast." Recca looked the
scene over with all the care of a true artist at work. "They'll survey this ridge. This is the obvious point to
use as the crest of their line. So we hide, and when the general comes, we fight. I want you all to attack
the workers in one group. This will draw attention to your position. I will then slay their general. We flee
down the gully, here into the trees, so lay traps to kill the pursuit—usual mix. Rendezvous at broken pine
an hour after dusk." He slapped his men on the shoulders and bade them go. "Good hunting!"
The apprentice did not leave. He hovered, huge and unsmiling, beside his teacher. He never smiled, never
laughed, and never tired. His sword jutted through his belt, always poised for a lightning-draw.
"I will cover your back. Master Recca."
"I do not need you." The elf rested one hand languidly on his sword—the black sword of the
swordmaster of the elves. "My blade and I have work to do."
The apprentice was unmoved. "Then I will make sure you are free to do it."
The apprentice led the way into the best possible cover—not the obvious place to hide, it was a place in
which only a ranger could disappear. He used his sword to slit a thin carpet of the dead, dry grass, and
he slid beneath it, disappearing totally from view. Unwilling to follow a mere student's lead, Recca stood
proud and alone on the hilltop until prudence dictated that he hide at last.
Soon, shambling footfalls sounded on the turf. The undead servants came to build their masters wall.
With them came their overlords—a general, his scribes, and advisors—all feeling perfectly safe so far
behind their lines. Soon the sounds of the attack came—rangers' war cries and the sounds of spells.
Recca saw his target standing and staring at the commotion. The elf rose in silence, sliding forward to
strike from behind—
And then everything went wrong.
Eleven of Recca's men engaged the undead in battle, and the air rang to the sound of piercing screams.
Shambling, rotting corpses on the hillside split open as shapes inside the dead flesh exploded into the air.
The zombies burst and took shape as filth-spattered, howling monsters with dead grey skin, fangs, and
claws. Carnivorous and mad with rage, they flung themselves on the freedom fighters, fighting in a frenzy
of speed.
Wights!
Recca swiped with his sword, but his target was merely an illusion—a spell sent by an enemy that
mocked him. From within the enemy tents, more shapes exploded into the sky—abyssal bats and huge
rotting demons, skull-headed and spewing acid as they flew. A blast of fluid ploughed through Recca's
men, turning three into skeletons and scattering the others.
A laughing toadlike demon lurched up the hillside toward Recca. The huge demon was covered in
pustules and bristled with fangs. It struck sparks from the boulders with its daws. Towering over the elf,
the demon leaped and capered on the hill, bellowing in lust and glee.
As the monster drew near, three of the wights attacked Recca. He spun past one, cut, spun, cut again.
The sole surviving monster threw itself at him. Recca ran and jumped, twirling like an acrobat. He landed
behind his prey, lanced backward with his sword, and felt it strike home. He jerked his blade free,
turned, and decapitated his enemy in a single blinding stroke.
Behind him, he heard a blade striking with incredible speed— once, twice, thrice—strokes that hit home
with massive force. Recca saw his apprentice standing, smeared with soil and dust. Two wights lay dead
at his feet, each one almost sheared in two. Seeing the abyssal bats and wights charging into the other
men, Recca turned and lunged toward the valley with its gully and its traps.
"Retreat!" Recca bellowed. "Now!"
Recca ran. He sped as only a grass elf could—the swiftest runners of the Flanaess. Amongst thick brush
and boulders too thick for the titanic bats to penetrate, Recca ducked past traps, reached safety, and
then looked back up the hill.
His apprentice had obeyed him, running with the heavy, lumbering stride of a big man. He reached the
boulders, turned, and saw his comrades fighting not far away. There were now only five survivors, but
they were making for the gully, and the enemy had left themselves open to attack. The apprentice flicked
an eye over the fight, then moved forward.
"Master, I'll go left. You can hit from behind once they see me charge."
Recca looked at the fight and sheathed his blade. "No."
His apprentice stared, his eyes searching Recca for an answer, unable to comprehend. "Why?"
Honor.' Men like Recca and his marauding rangers could not afford the luxury of honor. Survival was a
practical art, and only survivors returned to fight and kill and win. Recca raked his apprentice with a
glance that despaired of the humans petty intellect.
"You suffer from an overdeveloped sense of justice."
"We can save them!"
"We can't save them!" Recca shoved his apprentice onward. "We've lost, so we go while we still can,
and we live to avenge them!"
The apprentice stared, shocked and lost. "They did what you asked them to!"
"Because they were sworn to!" Recca's voice rose in anger at his student looming over him in the gully.
"People are tools! You leave them when you're done with them!"
Recca turned to go. His student watched him leave, turned… then charged.
He was young, but he had a violence in him that could detonate mountains. The big man burst through the
weeds and ploughed his sword through an abyssal bat, cleaving off its wing. The bat screamed and
spurted out a column of acid. The apprentice dived and rolled, and the acid missed him, blasting a
second bat off its feet. The huge man lifted a hand, and a spell made.grass burst into life and grapple a
bat to the ground. He stabbed down with his sword in one swift blow—and two bats were dead and
down.
The other rangers fled, fighting their way back to the gully. Wights sprang like javelins from the grass, but
the apprentice cut them down, sheltering injured comrades as they helped each other walk. He fought as
he had never fought before—swift, punishing, and precise. He was death. Swift, pitiless, and unyielding.
Recca watched his student fight, and he simply stared.
His apprentice was holding them back. He was holding them! If survivors returned with tales of Recca
fleeing the battle, his ambitions of leadership would be dead. Recca snarled and charged into the fight. He
spun in a spectacular acrobatic flip over the enemy, spinning to cut a shapeshifter through the spine.
Far beyond its warriors, the toad demon watched the fight. The beast reared, its great yellow gut swelling
as it roared in challenge. It was a demon none would dare to fight except a swordmaster. Recca sped
away from the combat and ran at his chosen foe. He gave an ululating scream, feeling the glory of the
eagle in his veins. He was Recca, he was a blademaster, and he was invincible!
The demon had a sword of its own, but the monster never bothered to draw. It blinked out of sight.
Recca stopped, looking wildly about, then staggered as something tore into his back. The demon stood
behind him, bawling with joy. Recca spun and cut, but the monster had gone, and again claws ripped him
from behind, tearing through his armor and gouging his flesh. Recca lurched, lashed out—then had the
sword smashed from his grasp.
The demon croaked, its throat pouch puffing. Recca dragged a dagger from his belt and blundered
forward, screeching in hatred as the demon laughed.
The demon struck, punching through armor, ripping Recca's heart out of his chest. The elf collapsed to
his knees, staring in horror. The demon held the heart above its head, screaming in victory—and then
suddenly it fell back with a roar. A sword hacked at the creature. The demon dodged, only to be caught
by a kick from a massive boot. The demon staggered, and suddenly Recca's apprentice was there, huge
with rage.
The toad flickered out of sight. The apprentice whirled and swung, but the screaming monster had
appeared behind him. It caught the human's sword and snapped the blade in two. Snarling, the
apprentice turned and tore the black blade out of Recca's dying grasp. He cut, the blow fast and vicious,
but the demon disappeared an instant before the blade struck home.
The apprentice reversed and jammed his sword behind him, striking the demon as it reappeared. Black,
steaming blood burst from the fat toad's guts. The monster screamed, wrenched free, then flashed out of
sight again. Whirling, the apprentice brought his sword down in a massive blow aimed at empty air
behind him.
The demon flickered back into view, and the blow smashed the demon in two, plowing through skull and
chest.
Other monsters backed away as the bisected monster fell aside. The warrior bellowed, and his enemies
fled into the gloom.
Somehow, Recca still lived. He lived long enough to see his apprentice win the fight that he had failed.
The apprentice worked in silence. Stone-faced, he hacked off Recca's hand and foot to prevent the
corpse being animated as a weapon. He buried the body in the same shallow scrape of dirt that had
hidden him before the attack. He placed the heads of Recca's kills at his head and feet. He made no
prayers, for the gods were a mockery who enslaved the weak.
Recca was gone. It was as if the swordmaster had been judged and found wanting. The apprentice took
Recca's sword to honor him, letting the blade go on to do its work.
It was growing dark. There were wounded survivors to get to safety, and soon the monsters would
return. The apprentice—a warrior who had no name—took one last glance at his masters final battlefield.
He looked once, turned his back, and left the place behind.
CY589
Chapter 1
"Bastards!"
Three malformed slaves hopped back through a palace door, only to be blown apart, their guts and
bones spattering on the walls. Demonic servitors dared not flee. They abased themselves, utterly cowed,
as their dark mistress stormed by.
Lolth the Demon Queen, Mistress of Spiders, Queen of the Draw, Dark Empress of abyssal hordes was
not pleased. A throne of skulls, a lake of blood, a palace lined with the screaming bodies of the
damned… all the pleasures of being a demon queen had turned dull and pale. Orgiastic rites lacked
flavor. Torturing victims seemed a pointless bore. Even breeding mutant spider legions had become a
total waste of time.
Lolth stormed into her rooms, flung herself onto her couch of living flesh, and seethed.
The world of Oerth had caused her absolute humiliation. Her major temple there had been destroyed.
Her drow priesthood had been decimated. Hundreds of years of careful planning had been blown apart
in a matter of hours. Primal energy had exploded through a magical gate, destroying Lolth's underground
temple, her high priestesses and acolytes, and the flower of the drow nobility. Caves had cracked, and
the vast underground city that her minions had labored upon was now buried beneath untold megatons of
rock. Worst of all, Lolth's body upon that world had been destroyed—a good body, a powerful body, a
titanic spider so huge it made kings and demons tremble. All gone. All burned to ash!
The shame of it! Her enemies had made her drunk on faerie wine, mocking her pure magnificence! She
was now the laughing stock of the Abyss, with tanar'ri lords sending presents of wine and hangover cures
to her palace day after day! Lolth flopped listlessly and muttered. She detonated minions and brooded
endlessly. Fury and frustration made her universe seem dim and tasteless.
Oerth…
The place preyed on her night and day. There were other worlds, other campaigns. She had armies of
evil conquering continents all across the planes. Oerth was a nothing. A speck! A tiny bauble amongst a
universe of treasures—
Yet it had mocked her! It had humiliated Lolth the beautiful, the perfect! It had dared to laugh at the
majesty of the Spider Queen!
Lolth's bedroom was in a palace, and the palace was mounted inside a mechanical spider fortress a
hundred feet tall. The juggernaut strode through the nexus of the planes, moving from world to world as
Lolth supervised her minions and their military campaigns. Lying face down on her couch, Lolth felt the
fortress rock beneath her as it walked, her lithe elven face dire and seething with hate. She had eyes of
fire, a skin of jet, and pure silver hair that cascaded to the floor. Her sleek body sprawled on her couch,
her fingers drumming as she watched a bronze clock ticking the minutes away.
The clock sounded a deep, dark chime, and Lolth jerked upright, naked and careless. Amorphous
handmaidens slithered to open the doors and usher in her waiting servitors.
There were drow priestesses and lesser tanar'ri led by hopping toad demons seven feet tall. A great,
gaunt, vaguely humanish dog demon led the pack, its four misshapen arms opening to clack their pincers.
The beast abased itself as Lolth approached, then stood to gabble out its report.
"Magnificence! Good news!" The creature opened its claws wide and beamed. "The spells are going
well. Only a few small hitches. I regret to say the new body will not be available on time—"
The only reply from Lolth was an incoherent scream. She slammed her fist into the demon, clutching the
creature's still beating heart. Screaming, Lolth hurled the useless thing away, the demon's blood spraying
all over her naked flesh. Spiders as big as wolfhounds raced in to feed upon the bleeding demon.
"Now! Get me that damned body! Do it! Do it!" Lolth ripped her victim apart, the body still screaming.
She tore out organs that smoked and steamed, her face an orgiastic mask of rage. "I want it now!"
Demons scattered from her in fright. "No excuses! Now! Now! Now!"
A sudden wave of calm stole through the doors. Dripping wet, lean and magnificent, Lolth looked up as a
demoness slithered into her hall.
Lolth's secretary was cool, slender, had a serpentine lower body and three pairs of arms. Halting before
Lolth with a graceful bow, she spared a glance for the dead demon—fastidiously disdaining the filth all
over the floor.
"The new body is ready, your Magnificence."
Lolth sprang to her feet, a stab of fire flickering across her skin. She raced along the rocking corridors of
her mobile palace, her pet spiders following like a horde of excited puppies at her feet The Queen of the
Demonweb Pits strode through halls filled with giant arachnids, past metal walls where tiny imp-like
quasits skittered through the dark. Tall and lean, with the body of a goddess and the soul of a black
widow, Lolth strode into her workshops and stood in triumph in the door.
The lords of the tanar'ri were hard to kill. They would die only if slain while inside their own home realm.
Outside of their own realms, death meant only a wait of a few hundred years until they could enter the
plane once again. Lolth's body upon Oerth had been destroyed, and it had taken one hundred days to
fashion a replacement. She had squandered resources and lav-ished her powers to make herself a new
shell. Finally the new vessel was ready, magnificent, and awaiting its triumphant awak-ening. In her hall of
mirrors, Lolth gazed upon it and gave a silken smile.
Finally. No more giant spider forms. Oerth would be taken by magic and steel and ruled by an empress
of invincible glory. Lolth's new body was a copy of her current form—a long, lean dark elf female. She
would tolerate no rivals for physical glory. Lolth's bodies were crafted to absolute perfection—powerful,
agile, and stunningly sensual.
The new body lay in a shrine deep in the bowels of Oerth, in one of Lolth's few surviving temples. Her
slaves had labored over it through Lolth's long frustration, polishing the flesh to perfection. Lolth gazed
upon the new form critically through her magic gate, trying to conceal her eagerness.
Perfect.
Lolth gave the body one last, delicious glance, then strode past her minions and secretaries. She climbed
the stairs into the cham-ber at the front of her palace and leaned out over the balcony.
The huge metal spider-palace stamped across a landscape bleak with ash. Ruined cities burned, and
monsters cavorted amongst the carrion. Lolth's legions had been busy here, fight-ing a patient campaign
of conquest. Her plans moved slowly and carefully, lest she evoke jealous anger from her peers. Slow
and careful. Securing hidden bases, like spiders lurking in the woodpile—this was the formula Lolth had
followed for hundreds of
But now it was high time to show the universe that the spider had a bite.'
"Bring me the surviving high priestesses from Oerth."
Lolth paced like a leopardess, then flung herself into her throne. Two shabby, terrified female drow
entered the room—creatures diminished by the magnificence of Lolth's dark beauty. Their white hair
hung limp. Their black skins were unhealthy. Their robes had been pieced together from torn remnants
scavenged from their ruined kingdom. The two high priestesses made obeisance to their goddess and
waited, kneeling on the floor.
Slim, sleek and sensual, Lolth flowed up out of her throne. Her blade skin gleamed in the light of the
burning city as she leaned against a window frame.
"My children!"
"Magnificence." The priestesses were hoarse. Their city was in ruins, and their days were spent chanting
spells to hold back the scavengers that closed in around the remaining drow. "Tell us how we may serve
you."
"We shall serve you, children! We have a body in your temple again. We shall return to Oerth! We shall
make your people safe, and then reward the faithful. Yes…" Lolth's voice bubbled like a chorus of elven
girls. "You have done well. Now tell me: the vampire, pool—have you found it?"
A priestess—scarred, burned, and downcast—failed to meet her goddess eye to eye.
"N-no, your magnificence."
Lolth glared, and the room seemed suddenly icy cold.
"Why not?"
One priestess licked her lips in fright. "W-we have no w-work-ers, Magnificence. No sorcerers! There
are only a few hundred left. The collapse of the city—"
"No matter. No matter." Lolth did not care to hear excuses and depression. Oerth was coming into her
grasp! "You will have sorcerers, and an earth elemental. Search! Uncover the pool!"
"Yes, your Magnificence."
The palace lurched as it crossed a ridge. At the palace's feet, Lolth spied capering flocks of harpies
harrying her enemies. The demon queen gave an indulgent little smile.
"Yes. Dig. First—the pool. Then make tunnels. We will need accommodation for the assistants we shall
be sending you."
"Assistants, Magnificence?" The priestesses looked at one another anxiously. The surviving drow were
barely scraping an existence in the underdark by eating scraps scavenged from the ruins. "How—how
many assistants?"
Lolth drew in a long, slow breath as she looked across her armies celebrating in the rubble below. There
were spider beings and demons, undead legions and foul, slithering things taken from a dozen other
worlds. On other planes, Lolth had army after army—hidden forces that lay in wait as their mistress
matured her evil plans.
The two drow risked a glance at their goddess.
"Magnificence? H-how many assistants will you send?"
Lolth turned to face the miserable priests, and gave a seething smile.
"Millions."
The Demon Queen breathed raggedly, excited by the vision of revenge, of glory—of power! It was time
to show the cosmos that Lolth was a force to be feared! She would unveil all her hidden pieces in a wild
blaze of glory! She would strip a hundred worlds of their hidden troops and mass them all into a single
tidal wave. Oerth would fall—obliterated and enslaved. A whole demon world would be made. The
throne on which Lolth sat would be worshiped. The other tanar'ri lords would bow— sweet vengeance
for the mockery Lolth had suffered since her defeat!
A whole world taken. A new era would dawn. Lolth would become queen of the tanar'ri, mounted on a
throne built from Oerth's rotting dead.
But before it began, there was a little time for fun. Lolth let it settle deliciously in her mind, and then spoke
to her secretary with a voice that shimmered like a chorus of angels.
"Have the pilots take us back to the Demonweb. Take us home. Summon the commanders from each
and every world to a conference in eight hours' time."
Lolth's long, serpentine secretary wrote notes upon three separate tablets at once, her six hands busy and
her face in a frown. Orders were spoken. At the rods and wheels that controlled the spider palace, sleek
succubi went to work. The palace poised, one huge spider foot hovering in mid air—then the juggernaut
slowly began to turn. Its footfalls clashed like titanic cymbals as the metal monster trod slowly away,
crushing the corpses of conquest underneath its feet.
Lolth savored the delicious smell of burning flesh caught in the breeze, and then turned, her violet eyes
seething with delight.
"Now—let's get on with this, shall we?"
The demonic secretary gave an annoyed glare at her mistress, tucking a writing stylus behind one long
ear. Of all Lolth's minions, only her secretary never showed fear—only an air of martyrdom and
overwork that Lolth found extremely amusing.
"Magnificence, if we concentrate forces, we must find a way to feed them."
"Details, details!" The future was blooming like a flower, and Lolth danced with delight! "We're on our
way at last.' Think of it! Universal conquest! Cosmic domination! There are worlds to obliterate, slaves
to conquer, enemies to destroy—orgiastic rites slithering in oceans of human blood!"
The secretary scowled. "Are you well, Magnificence?"
"Oh, I feel like a little girl!" Lolth paused mid-pirouette. "Have the cook send one up!"
Unamused, the secretary licked the end of her pencil and took notes on a pad.
"Magnificence? May I ask again about supplies for the troops?"
"We will live off the land! Oerth is rich. Find a pointless little city and invade it, then we'll use its populace
as our supplies. We can let the monsters have their fun!" Lolth heaved a happy sigh as she contemplated
the magnificence of her revenge. "We must enjoy ourselves, you sour little serpent."
The demonic queen turned, laid a hand upon her two high priestesses from Oerth, and smiled.
"Search. Find me the vampire pool again, and we shall reward you. Your kingdom will be returned to
you a thousand fold!"
Lolth felt her palace walking the grounds of an alien world and sensed her legions and her armies like a
fine-tuned instrument beneath her hands. She had the means to take her revenge at last. She had the
power. She had the will.
The world of Oerth had mocked her, and it would die…
Chapter 2
In theory, they were still heading for Hommlet.
They marched through a range of dusty, tree-smothered hills on a day that seemed eerily hushed and still.
In the lead walked the Justicar—huge, shaven headed, and grim in his armor of black dragon scales.
Draped over his head and back was Cinders, a grinning sentient hell hound pelt that wagged his tail in
eternal glee. Jutting through the Justicar's belt was a magical sword named Benelux. Despite its wolf skull
pommel, the blade was talkative, prissy, and prim. Even when silent, the sword managed to radiate an
impression that it approved of none of the current goings-on.
Behind Jus was Henry—eighteen years old, tall, skinny, and apparently made up mostly of elbows and
knees. His blond hair framed a face smattered with freckles. A fine shirt of elven mail, threaded with
green chords to keep it silent, betrayed an occasional sparkle beneath his cloak. He carried a sword, and
a hefty magical crossbow sloped over his shoulders as he kept up with the Justicar stride-for-stride,
bravely trying not to look tired.
Henry snuck sly glances at the happy female sphinx who walked beside him. Enid was larger than a
lion—a shy, pretty creature with freckles on her nose, white feathers on her wings, her hair plaited in a
thousand braids. Her big paws padded amiably in the dust, and her weaving tail cast its shadow onto the
dappled light of the road. Riding on her back was a large badger who perpetually scribbled notes in a
dog-eared journal. Polk the teamster, reincarnated as a lovable woodland beast, was, if anything, even
more annoying than he had ever been.
Flitting madly from one end of the party to the other, dressed in a costume so sleek it was outlawed on
six outer planes, Escalla the faerie was having a busy day. Full of energy, the little creature held a stick,
flew level with Jus's head, and waved her hands in the air.
"All right pooch! Are you concentrating?" Escalla hovered above the roadway, paused, then threw a
stick down the road. "Fetch the stick! Go on! Fetch!"
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QueenoftheDemonwebPitsPaulKiddTheBeginning…CY583.Thistime,ithadallgonewrong.Deepintheheartofconqueredterritory,aresistancewarraged.Harsh,pitiless,andsavage,awarwithoutrest,withouthonor,withoutglory.AwarwheresmallbandsofmenmadetheminionsofIuzpayfortheirdeedsinblood.ThehordesofIuzhadsweptovervillages,...

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