Lisa Smedman - War of the Spider Queen 04 - Extinction

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Extinction
Book 4 of War of the Spider Queen series
A Forgotten Realms novel
By Lisa Smedman
Proofed by BW-SciFi
Ebook version 1.0
Release date: August, 15th, 2004
Chapter One
Pharaun lay on the forest floor, staring up into the angry eyes of five hissing serpents. Their fangs bared
and dripping with poison, their mouths open wide, the red-and-black-banded vipers strained against the whip
handle from which they grew.
The woman holding the whip stared down at Pharaun with tight-ly contained rage. Taller and stronger
than the Master of Sorcere, she was an imposing figure. Pharaun could not see her face—the bright light
streaming down from the sky above flooded his vision, turning her into a dark silhouette with bone-white
hair—but her tone was as venomous as her serpents' hisses.
"You stepped on that spider on purpose," Quenthel said.
"I did not," he spat back, wincing at the slush that was soak-ing through his elegant shirt, chilling his
back. He was glad the other members of their group had scattered in different direc-tions to search—that
they weren't there to observe him in such an undignified pose. "I can't see a gods-cursed thing in this
wretched light. Would I have let my trousers get into such a state if I could see well enough to step around
the brambles that tore them? If there was a spider on the path, I didn't know it was there."
He glanced to his left, at the spot Quenthel had indicated a mo-ment before. As she looked in that
direction, he slid his right hand out from behind his back.
One of the whip-serpents hissed a warning to its mistress, but too late. The moment Pharaun's hand was
clear, he spoke the word that awoke the magic in his ring. Instantly, the steel band around his finger
unfurled, elongating and expanding into a sword. Quick as thought, it spun in mid-air, slashing at the
serpents.
The vipers recoiled, narrowly escaping the scything blade. Quen-thel leaped back, her mail tunic
clinking. Pharaun scrambled to his feet and pressed her with the sword.
"Jeggred!" Quenthel screamed, her piwafwi whirling out behind her as she dodged the dancing sword.
"Defend me!"
Pharaun whipped a hand into a pocket of his own piwafwi and pulled out a pinch of powdered diamond.
Flicking the sparkling pow-der into the air, he shouted the words of a spell, at the same time whirl-ing in a
tight circle to scatter the powder. A dome of force sprang up all around him, shimmering like an inverted
bowl.
And not a heartbeat too soon. An instant after the magical dome had materialized, a vaguely
drow-shaped form hurtled out of the forest. The draegloth leaped onto the dome, the claws on his oversized
fighting hands screeching like the shrieks of the damned as they scrabbled for a hold on the diamond-hard
surface. The half-demon jumped again and again onto the dome, sliding off.
At last giving up, the draegloth crouched just outside the magical barrier, his smaller set of hands balled
into fists on the ground while his larger hands flexed claws in frustration. He glared with blood-red eyes at
Pharaun, then jerked his chin in defiance, sending a ripple through the coarse mane of yellow-white hair that
cloaked his shoulders.
Pharaun winced at the stench of the draegloth's breath, wishing the magical barrier was capable of
blocking odors.
Behind Jeggred, Quenthel kept a wary eye on the sword that hovered just over her head, shielding
herself from it with the buckler strapped to her arm. The serpents of her whip hissed at it, one of them
straining upward in a futile effort to snap at the weapon. Quenthel started to reach for the tube at her hip
that held her scrolls, then paused. She seemed reluctant to waste the little magic she had left on such a
petty quarrel.
"Call off your nephew, and let's talk," Pharaun suggested. Squinting, he glanced up at the harsh blue sky.
"And let's get out of the sun, before it turns that pretty adamantine buckler you're wear-ing to dust."
Quenthel's eyes narrowed in fury at Pharaun's insubordination. No doubt she was thinking that though a
Master of Sorcere he might be, as a male he should remember his place. Quenthel certainly lust-ed to use
the spells once granted her by Lolth to pin Pharaun in a web and subject him to a thousand slow torments,
but the Queen of Spiders had fallen silent. Save for her scrolls, Quenthel had no more spells to cast.
"Jeggred," she snapped. "Withdraw."
Reluctantly, Jeggred backed away from the barrier.
"That's more like it," Pharaun said.
He lifted his right hand, fingers extended, and spoke a command word. His sword shrank, then streaked
through the air toward his hand and coiled into a ring once more. He started the gesture that would lower
the barrier, then paused as he saw Jeggred tense.
"I should remind you, Quenthel, that I could kill this demon spawn with a single word," Pharaun
cautioned.
"Jeggred knows that," Quenthel said, indifference turning her beau-tiful face into an expressionless
mask. "He makes his own choices."
Jeggred growled—whether at Quenthel or Pharaun, it wasn't clear—and spat against the magical dome.
Rising to his feet, he stalked back into the forest.
Pharaun let the barrier fall.
"Now then," he said, straightening his elegant but travel-worn clothes and smoothing back an errant lock
of white hair from his high forehead. "I apologize for stepping on one of Lolth's children, but I assure you it
was entirely an accident. The sooner we leave the Lands of Light, the better. Not only did we just stir up all
of Minau-thkeep by killing the high priest of House Jaelre—"
"Your decision, not mine," Quenthel spat. Then, after a moment, she smiled. "Though Tzirik did deserve
to die."
The serpents in her whip hissed their assent.
Pharaun nodded, glad that she was in agreement that the death had been necessary. Tzirik's magic had
allowed their group to travel through the Astral Plane to the Demonweb Pits, domain of the god-dess
Quenthel served—a goddess who had fallen alarmingly silent, of late. There, they had discovered why
Lolth's priestesses could no lon-ger draw upon her magic: the goddess had disappeared. Her temple
appeared to have been abandoned, its door sealed with an enormous black stone carved in the likeness of
her face.
There had been no time, however, to learn whether that was a situation of Lolth's own choosing. As
Pharaun had expected, Tzirik betrayed them, using his magic to gate in the god he served. Vhae-raun had
attacked the stone face and nearly succeeded in breach-ing it when Lolth's champion—the god
Selvetarm—appeared to defend it.
Realizing that Tzirik had no intention of letting them return, Pharaun had ordered Jeggred to kill
Tzirik—telling the draegloth the order came from Quenthel. The priest's death had ejected Quenthel's group
out of the Demonweb Pits, leaving only the gods behind. For all Pharaun knew, Selvetarm and Vhaeraun
were battling there still.
If Vhaeraun won and succeeded in destroying Lolth, it would be the beginning of a new era for the
drow. The Masked Lord favored males opposed to the matriarchy; his victory would no doubt spur the
disenchanted males of Menzoberranzan to an even greater insurrection than the one that city had recently
seen. But if Selvetarm suc-ceeded in defending the Spider Queen, Lolth might one day return and restore
her web of magic, lending power to her priestesses' spells once more. Whatever happened, Pharaun
wanted to be on the win-ning side—or appear to be serving its interests, anyway.
"As I was saying," Pharaun continued, "not only is House Jaelre seeking us, but this forest is infested
with wood elves. The sooner we get below ground, the better."
He paused to glance at the forest, squinting against the sun-light that bounced harshly off the white,
slushy snow that cov-ered trees and ground alike. The wizard regretted his decision to teleport the group
there. His spell had allowed them to escape House Jaelre's keep, but the portal he'd hoped to use to put
even more distance between them only functioned in one direction. They were trapped on the surface at
the mouth of a shallow, dead-end cave.
"I wonder if any of the others have found a way down yet," Pharaun muttered.
As if in answer, Valas Hune appeared from out of the forest, emerging from a tangled clump of
underbrush with a silence that was only in part due to the enchanted chain mail the scout wore. A pair of
magical, curved kukri daggers hung at his hip, and to his vest was pinned a miscellany of enchanted
talismans fashioned by more than one Underdark race. The mercenary, his amber eyes watering slightly as
he squinted against the sunlight, had a squared-off jaw that seemed permanently clenched. He habitually
held him-self tensed and ready, as if he expected to take a punch. His ebony skin was crisscrossed with
dozens of faint gray lines, fading legacies of two centuries' worth of battles.
Valas jerked his head in the direction from which he'd just come and said, "There's a ruined temple a
short distance away. It's built around a cave."
Quenthel's eyes glittered, and the serpents in her whip froze in rapt attention.
"Does it lead to the Realms Below?" she asked.
"It does, Mistress," Valas said, offering a slight bow.
Pharaun strode forward and clapped an arm around the scout's shoulders.
"Well done, Valas," he said in a hearty voice. "I always said you could smell a tunnel a mile away. Lead
on! We'll be back in Menzoberranzan in no time, quenching our well-earned thirst with the finest wines
that—"
"I think not." Quenthel stood with hands on her hips, the ser-pents in her whip matching her venomous
stare. "The goddess is missing, possibly under attack. We must find her." Her eyes nar-rowed. "You are not
suggesting, are you, Pharaun, that we turn our backs on Lolth? If so, I'm sure the matron mother will see to
it you receive proper punishment."
Valas glanced between Pharaun and Quenthel, then took a slight step to the side, dislodging Pharaun's
arm from his shoulder.
"Turn my back on Lolth?" Pharaun asked, chuckling to hide his nervousness. "Not at all. I'm merely
suggesting we follow the matron mother's orders. She bade us find out what's happened to Lolth, and we
have. We may not have all of the answers yet, but we have some pretty important pieces of the puzzle. The
matron mother will no doubt want us to report what we've found out so far. Since the archmage is no
longer answering my sendings, we can't be certain he's receiving our reports. I assumed we would report in
person."
"Only one of us need go," Quenthel said. "But it won't be you. There are other, more important things for
you to be doing." She paused for a moment, thinking. "You have the ability to summon demons, do you not?"
Pharaun raised an eyebrow.
"I have summoning spells, yes," he said. "But what does that have to do w—"
"We will return to the Demonweb Pits—in the flesh, this time," answered Quenthel. "And with a more
trustworthy guide than Tzirik."
Valas shuddered and asked, "A demon?" The normally taciturn scout saw Quenthel's glare, seemed
suddenly to realize he'd spoken aloud, and bowed. "As you command, Mistress."
"Assuming I do summon a demon, how can we possibly hope to prevent it from tearing us limb from
limb, let alone coerce it into becoming a tour guide for some little jaunt to the Abyss? Even Archmage
Gromph wouldn't think of whistling up a demon without a golden pentacle to bind it. We're in the
wilderness—in the Realms of Sunlight, in case you hadn't noticed. Where am I supposed to get the spell
components to—"
"Jeggred."
Pharaun blinked, wondering if he'd heard Quenthel correctly.
"Jeggred," she repeated. "We'll use his blood. You can draw the summoning diagram with that."
"Ah . . ." Pharaun cursed silently as he realized that Quenthel was, unfortunately, right. The blood of a
draegloth could indeed bind a demon, but only one: the demon who had sired Matron Mother Baenre's
half-demon son. The demon that was Jeggred's father.
Pharaun had no desire to meet him, in the flesh or otherwise, but he could see he had little choice in the
matter. Not if he wanted to maintain his delicate balancing act of apparent loyalty to Lolth—necessary if he
was to keep his position as Master of Sorcere. Just as Valas had done, Pharaun bowed.
"As you command, Mistress," he said—with just enough of a sarcastic twist on the final word to remind
her that her title was a hollow one. Mistress of Arach-Tinilith she might be, back in Men-zoberranzan, but
he was hardly one of her quivering initiates. He swept a hand in the direction Valas had indicated earlier.
"Let's do the spellcasting below ground, shall we? I'd like to get out of this wretched sunshine."
As Valas and Quenthel set off, Pharaun pretended to follow them. He paused, picked up a twig, and
used it to collect a bit of spiderweb from the trail. Lolth might be silent, but the sticky nets woven by her
children were still useful; spiderweb was a component in more than one of his spells. Tucking the
web-coated twig into a pocket, he hurried after the others.
Chapter Two
Halisstra stood on top of the bluff, staring out across the forest. Snow-blanketed trees stretched as far
as the eye could see in every direction, here and there dimpled by a lake of an impossibly bright blue or
divided by a road as neat and straight as a part through hair. For the first time, Halisstra understood what
the word "horizon" meant. It was that distant line where the dark green of the forest met the eye-hurting,
white-streaked blue of the sky.
Beside her, Ryld shivered.
"I don't like it up here," he said, holding a hand to his eyes to shade them. "It makes me feel . . .
exposed."
Halisstra glanced at the sweat trickling down Ryld's ebony temple and shivered herself as the chill
winter wind blew against her face. The climb had been a long, hot one, despite the age-worn stairs they'd
found carved into the rock at one side of the bluff. She couldn't explain what had compelled her to lead
Ryld up there, nor could she explain why she felt none of the apprehensions the weap-ons master did. Yet
despite his anxiety, Ryld—who stood fully as tall as Halisstra herself, even though he was a male—was in
every respect a warrior. He wore a greatsword strapped across his back; a cuirass with a breastplate
wrought of dwarven bronze; and vambraces, ar-ticulated at the elbows, that sheathed his lean, muscled
arms in heavy steel. A short sword for fighting at close quarters hung in a scabbard at his hip. His hair was
cut close to his scalp so that enemies could not grab it during combat. Only a fine stubble remained: hair as
white as Halisstra's own shoulder-length locks.
"There was a surface dweller—a human mage—who dwelt for a short time in Ched Nasad," Halisstra
said. The vastness of the sky above them made her speak softly; it felt as if the gods were lurk-ing up there
just behind the clouds, watching. "He spoke of how our city made him feel like he was living in a room with
too low a ceiling—that he was always aware of the roof of the cavern over his head. I laughed at him; how
could anyone feel enclosed in a city that was so loosely woven—a city balanced on the thin lines of a
calcified web? But now I think I understand what he meant." She gestured up at the sky. "This all feels so
... open."
Ryld grunted and asked, "Have you seen enough? We're not go-ing to find an entrance to the Underdark
up here. Let's climb back down and get out of the wind."
Halisstra nodded. The wind found its way inside the armor she wore, even through the thickly padded
chain mail tunic that cov-ered her from neck to knees, and from shoulders to elbows. A silver plate
attached to the tunic's chest was embossed with the symbol of a sword, standing point-up across a full
moon surrounded by a nimbus of silvery filaments. It was the holy symbol of Eilistraee, god-dess of the
surface-dwelling drow. The padding of the chain mail still smelled of blood—that of the priestess Halisstra
had dispatched. The smell haunted the armor like a lingering ghost, even though the blood was several days
old.Halisstra had not only claimed the armor from Seyll after her own armor was stolen, but also Seyll's
shield and weapons—including a slender long sword with a hollow hilt that had holes running the length of
it—a hilt that could be raised to the lips and played like a flute. A beautiful weapon, but it hadn't helped
Seyll any—she'd died before getting a chance to draw it. Lulled by Halisstra's feigned interest in her
goddess, Seyll had been utterly surprised by Halisstra's sudden attack. And despite Halisstra's treachery,
Seyll had told her, "I have hope for you still." She'd said it with such cer-tainty, as if, even in her final, dying
moments, she expected Halis-stra to save her.
She'd been a fool. Yet Halisstra could no more get the priestess's dying words out of her mind than she
could get the smell of blood out or the armor she'd claimed.
Was this what guilt felt like: a lingering stench that wouldn't go away?
Angered by her own weakness, Halisstra shook the thought out of her head. Seyll had deserved to die.
The priestess was stupid to have trusted a person who was not of her faith—even more foolish to trust a
fellow drow.
Still, Halisstra thought, as she paused to let Ryld descend the stairs first, Seyll had been right about one
thing. It would be nice not to always have to watch your back.
Ryld descended the stairs in silence, listening to the faint clink of Halisstra's chain mail and trying in vain
to pull his mind away from the shapely legs he would see if he would just turn around. Where was his
concentration? As a Master of Melee-Magthere, he ought to have more control, but Halisstra had ensnared
him in a web of desire stronger than any Lolth's magic could spin.
At the bottom of the stairs, away from the chilling wind of the open bluff, Halisstra paused to finger a
crescent shape that had been carved into the rock.
"This was a holy place, once," she said, looking over the scatter of broken columns that lay among the
snow-shrouded trees.
Ryld scowled. In the World Above, vegetation covered every-thing like an enormous mold. He missed
the clean rock walls of the caverns, empty of the smells of wet loam and leaf that choked his nose. He
scuffed at the snow with his boot, uncovering a cracked marble floor.
"How can you tell?" he asked.
"The crescent moon—it's the symbol of Corellon Larethian. The elves who once lived in these woods
must have worshiped here. Their priests probably climbed these stairs to work their magic un-der the
moon."
Ryld squinted up at the ball of fire that hung in the sky.
"The moon's not as bright as the sun," he said, "at least."
"It casts a softer light," Halisstra replied. "I've heard that this is because the gods who claim it as their
symbol are kinder to those who worship them—but I don't know if that's true."
Ryld stared for a while at the ruined masonry then said, "The gods of the surface elves can't be very
strong. Corellon let this temple fall into disrepair, and Seyll's goddess was powerless to save her from you."
Halisstra nodded and replied, "That's true. Yet when Lolth tried to overthrow Corellon and establish a
new coronal in his place all those millennia ago, she was defeated and forced to flee to the Abyss."
"The Academy teaches that the goddess left Arvandor willingly," Ryld said. Then he shrugged. "More of
a strategic retreat."
"Perhaps," Halisstra mused. "Still, I can't help but think that what we saw in the Demonweb Pits—that
black stone in the fro-zen image of Lolth's face—was a lock, a seal that made Lolth's own temple a prison.
A prison fashioned by some other god's hand. Will Lolth eventually emerge from behind it—or will she
remain trapped for eternity, her magic forever stilled?"
"That's what Quenthel means to discover," Ryld said.
"As do I," Halisstra answered. "But for different reasons. If Lolth is dead, or trapped in eternal Reverie,
what point is there in following Quenthel's orders?"
"What point?" Ryld exclaimed. He was beginning to see the dangerous fork in the road down which
Halisstra's musings had taken her. "Only this: spells or no spells, Quenthel Baenre is both Mistress of
Arach-Tinilith and First Sister to the Matron Mother of House Baenre. Were I to defy Quenthel, I'd lose
my position as Master of Melee-Magthere. The moment Menzoberranzan learned of my treachery,
everyone in the Academy would have their daggers out and be thirsting for my blood."
Halisstra sighed and said, "That's true. But perhaps in another city—"
"I have no desire to beg for scraps at someone else's table," Ryld said bluntly. "And the only city in
which I might have made a home for myself—with the sponsorship of your House—has been destroyed.
With Ched Nasad gone, you have no home to return to. All the more reason to get in Quenthel's good favor,
so that when we return to the Underdark you can find a new home in Menzoberranzan."
After a long moment of silence, Halisstra said, "What if I don't?"
"What?" Ryld said.
"What if I don't return to the Underdark?"
Ryld glanced at the forest that hemmed them in on every side. Unlike the solid, silent tunnels he was
used to, the wall of trees and underbrush was porous, filled with rustling and creaking, and the quick, tiny
movements of animals flitting from branch to branch. Ryld couldn't decide which was worse: the shrinking
feeling he'd ex-perienced under the empty expanse of the sky; or the feeling he had then—as though the
woods were watching them.
"You're mad," he told Halisstra. "You'd never survive out here alone. Especially without spells to—"
As anger blazed in Halisstra's eyes, Ryld suddenly regretted his rash words. With all Halisstra's talk of
surface gods, he'd forgotten, for a moment, that she was also a priestess of Lolth and a female of a noble
House, He started to bow deeply and beg her pardon, but she surprised him by laying a hand on his arm.
Then she said something, in a low murmur he had to strain to hear: "Together we'd survive."
He stared at her, wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him. All the while, he was overwhelmingly
aware of her hand upon his arm. The touch of her fingers was light, but it seemed to burn his skin, flushing
him with warmth.
"We might survive up here," he admitted, then wished he hadn't spoken when he saw the gleam in
Halisstra's eyes.
The alliance he'd just unintentionally committed to would prob-ably be no more solid than his friendship
with Pharaun. Halisstra would maintain it as long as it furthered her goals, then would drop it the instant it
became inconvenient. Just as Pharaun had aban-doned Ryld, leaving him to face impossible odds, when the
pair of them were trying to escape from Syrzan's stalactite fortress.
Ryld's meditative skills had saved his life then and allowed him to fight his way free. Later, when he'd
met up with Pharaun again, the mage had clapped him on the back and pretended that he'd fully anticipated,
all along, that Ryld would survive. Why else would he have abandoned his "dearest friend?"
Halisstra gave Ryld a smile that made her look both cunning and beautiful in one. "Here's what we'll do .
. ." she began.
Inwardly, Ryld winced at the word "we," but he kept his face neutral as he listened.
Danifae watched from behind a tree as Halisstra and Ryld stood in the ruined temple, talking. It was
clear they were plotting some-thing. Their voices were pitched too low for Danifae to hear, and they leaned
in toward one another like conspirators. It was also clear, from the quick kiss Ryld gave Halisstra as the
conversation ended, that they had become, or would soon become, lovers.
Watching them, Danifae felt a cold, still anger. Not jealousy—she cared nothing for either Ryld or
Halisstra—but frustration born of the fact that she had not seduced Ryld first.
Danifae was more beautiful than her former mistress by far. Where Halisstra was lean, with small
breasts and slim hips, Danifae was sensuously curvaceous. Halisstra's hair was merely white, where-as
Danifae's had lustrous silver tones.
As for Halisstra's face, well, it was pretty enough, with its slightly snubbed nose and common, coal-red
eyes, but Danifae had the advantage of skin softer than the blackest velvet, lips that curled in a perpetual
pout, and eyebrows that formed a perfect white arch over each of her strikingly colored, pale gray eyes. An
advantage she should have used earlier, judging by the display of mawkish sentimentality Danifae had
stumbled upon.
Quenthel was already in play, though the older, more experienced priestess was not wholly unaware of
Danifae's immediate desires. It didn't take a genius to see why Danifae had seduced the Mistress of
Arach-Tinilith. It was almost to be expected.
Danifae anticipated a more complicated time of it when she'd have to take on Pharaun and Valas. The
Master of Sorcere was wily. He would surely be difficult to fool once things began to turn, but his open
dislike of Quenthel gave her something to use. Valas was bought and paid for by House Baenre, and that
kind of gold was something Danifae wouldn't likely happen upon anytime soon. That would be delicate. And
Jeggred, well. . . .
But Ryld, with this strange infatuation with her soon-to-be-former mistress, would be a tougher nut to
crack.
What good was playing sava, she thought, if you don't control all of the game pieces?
Valas strode into the ruins, followed by Pharaun and Quenthel, and, a moment later, by the loping
Jeggred. The false smile Halis-stra gave Quenthel and the way Ryld deliberately met Pharaun's eyes,
confirmed Danifae's suspicions. Halisstra was preparing to betray her fellow priestess and Ryld his former
friend.
Danifae smiled. She didn't know what they were up to—yet—but whatever it was, she was certain it
could be turned to her advantage. She walked out into the clearing, joining them.
With a quick snap of her whip, Quenthel motioned for the others to gather around her.
"Valas has found an entrance to the Underdark," she announced. "Once we're safely below, Pharaun
will cast a spell. We're going back to the Demonweb Pits. But not all of us. One of you will carry a
mes-sage back to Menzoberranzan, to the matron mother."
As Quenthel's eyes ranged over the group, Danifae noted the indecision they held. Quenthel was
obviously uncertain whom she could spare—or trust. Seizing her chance, Danifae prostrated herself before
the high priestess.
"Let me do your bidding, Mistress," she said. "I will serve you as faithfully as I have served Lolth."
As she spoke, she cast a baleful eye on Halisstra, hoping Quenthel would take her point. Halisstra had
acted blasphemously during their recent journey to the Demonweb Pits and was not to be trusted.
Or course, neither was Danifae. She had no intention or going to Menzoberranzan if she was chosen.
Not when there was a wizard in Sschindylryn who might be able to help her to free herself, once and for all,
from the odious Binding that tied her to Halisstra.
Danifae felt Quenthel touch her hair, and she looked up expectantly.
"No, Danifae," Quenthel said, the touch turning into a gentle stroke. "You will stay with me."
Danifae ground her teeth. Apparently, she'd done too good a job of seducing Quenthel.
Halisstra stepped forward—and, to Danifae's astonishment, also fell to her knees in front of Quenthel.
"Mistress," Halisstra said. "Let me carry the message for you. I know that I failed you earlier, in the
shadow of the goddess's own temple. I beg of you now. Please let me . . . redeem myself."
"No!" Danifae spat. "She's up to something. She has no inten-tion of going to Menzoberranzan. She—"
Halisstra laughed.
"And just where would I go, Danifae?" she asked. "Ched Nasad lies in ruins. I no longer have a House
to return to. I need to make a new home for myself—in Menzoberranzan. And what better way to start
than by braving the dangers of the World Above to carry a vital message to the First House?"
Danifae's eyes narrowed. She could sense that Halisstra was up to something.
"You'd travel to Menzoberranzan on the surface?" she asked, spitting out the word. "Alone? Through
woods crawling with House Jaelre? You'd be captured again before night fell."
Danifae was pleased to see Quenthel nodding—she was obvious-ly about to reject Halisstra's foolish
notion and send Danifae, instead. Then Halisstra's lips quirked into a smile—and Danifae realized that,
somehow, unwittingly, she'd just played right into Halisstra's hands.
"This will see me through," said Halisstra, patting the leather case that held her lyre. "I know a
bae'qeshel song that will allow me to walk on wind. Using it, I could reach Menzoberranzan in a tenday, at
most."
Danifae's eyes narrowed and she said, "I've never seen you use a spell like that."
"What use would it have been in the Underdark?" Halisstra said with a shrug. "There's no wind—and if
there were, I'd only walk straight into a cavern wall. Regardless, I have not been, nor am I now, in the habit
of justifying myself to a battle-captive. Our situation has changed some, Danifae, but not entirely."
Not yet, Danifae thought, then she grasped Quenthel's knee and pleaded, "Don't send her. Send me. If
Halisstra dies, I—"
"You'd be very, very sorry, wouldn't you?" Quenthel said with a smirk. She was well aware of the
particulars of the Binding. "Halis-stra will go. With you here, we will be able to trace her, and at least know
that she still lives. And the two of you Houseless wretches are the most expendable."
Danifae lowered her eyes in acquiescence, even though inwardly she burned with impotent anger.
Halisstra, on her own in the World Above, would almost certainly be killed. It would only be a matter of
time.
And when she died, the magic of the Binding would see to it that Danifae died, too.
Chapter Three
Valas felt the knot of tension between his shoulders relax—just a little—as familiar darkness enveloped
him. The harsh sunlight had been left behind after the third bend in the tunnel. He could still smell the earthy
tang of wet leaves that told him the Surface Realms were just above their heads, but the air around him
al-ready felt cleaner. As they descended the twisting fissure that led ever downward through the stone, he
felt his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Gone was the itching glare of sunlight, allowing him to fully open his
eyes and use his darkvision for the first time in too many days.
Behind Valas, Quenthel and the others followed in a line. They'd fallen quiet instinctively as soon as
they'd left the sunlight behind. Even the upper Underdark could be a dangerous place for the unwary, and
that particular tunnel was unknown territory. Yet compared to Valas, they hardly moved in silence. He
could hear the scrape of armor against stone as someone behind him squeezed through a spot where the
tunnel had narrowed, forcing them to turn sideways to slip through. A moment later he heard the scuff of a
boot and a faint intake of breath as one of the females missed her footing. He turned and angrily started to
sign Move more quietly to her, but dropped his hands when he realized it was Quenthel and not Danifae
who had slipped. Danifae had once again positioned herself near the back of the group, just ahead of
Ryld—not because of the potential dangers ahead, Valas was sure, but, with Halisstra gone, to keep a wary
eye on her companions.
What have you stopped for? Quenthel signed from behind Pharaun. Keep moving.
One of the vipers in the whip tucked into her belt gave a slight hiss.
Nodding his head, Valas led the way through the tunnel once more. As before, Pharaun was close
behind him, continually peering over Valas's shoulder as if he was searching for something. Ryld, on the
other hand, was constantly looking back the way they had come. Whenever Valas caught his eye, the
weapons master would signal that he thought someone was following them. Valas had never seen him so
jumpy before.
The first two times Ryld had done that, Valas had doubled back to check for himself, but there had been
nothing: no sounds, no signs of pursuit. Thereafter he ignored Ryld's anxious glances be-hind them.
Since Halisstra had been sent back to Menzoberranzan there were only six of them left. Personally,
Valas thought that was a foolish decision on Quenthel's part. He doubted that Halisstra would make it
without Lolth's magic to protect her. But no doubt Quenthel thought the same. She probably hoped to
eliminate a rival priestess who might claim credit for discovering what had happened to Lolth—assuming
that a return to the Demonweb Pits was even possible.
For the hundredth time since Quenthel had announced her plan to have Pharaun summon a demon,
Valas wondered how that was going to help. In all likelihood, the demon would turn on them and swallow
them whole without guiding them a single step of the way.
He reminded himself that the lot of a mercenary was not to ques-tion how, but to do—and bow. And so
he led them on. As he moved cautiously ahead into the unknown darkness. Pharaun still crowding close
behind him, Valas fingered one of the magical amulets pinned to his shirt—his lucky, double-headed
coin—and hoped it would give him the edge he'd need when the demon eventually turned on them, as he
was certain it would.
Halisstra stood on the bluff that overlooked the ruined temple, staring out at the horizon. The others had
descended into the Underdark some time before, and the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, painting
the clouds shades of pink and gold. Though it made her eyes water to look at the sunset, Halisstra stared in
fascina-tion, watching the colors shift into ever darker shades of orange, then red, then purple, gazing as
new patterns formed each time the sun's slanting rays struck the clouds at a different angle. She was
begin-ning to understand why the surface dwellers spoke in such rapturous tones about sunsets.
As the forest below darkened, her sight began to shift toward darkvision. She could see birds flitting
through the branches below and could hear the thrumming of numerous wings as a flock of birds moved
through the trees toward the bluff. She'd heard that surface-dwelling creatures followed the cycles of day
and night, and it struck her that Ched Nasad's magic-controlled lighting and Menzoberranzan's famous pillar
Narbondel—used for marking the passage of "day" and "night"—must have been holdovers from a distant
time when drow still dwelt upon the surface. Had House Jaelre simply been following a call that other drow
had not yet heard when they returned to the surface, forsaking the worship of Lolth?
The flock of birds had come closer, filling the treetops just below the bluff with strange whistling cries.
One of them rose above the treetops, its wings beating so quickly they were a blur. Only when it was within
a few paces of her did Halisstra recognize the "bird" for what it truly was. The furry body, the eight legs,
the long, needle-shaped proboscis—all added up to a creature she hadn't realized was also a danger on the
surface. Especially when there was not just one of the creatures flying toward her at the speed of an
arrow, but doz-ens: an entire flock.
"Lolth help me," Halisstra whispered. "Stirges."
They were too close for a crossbow shot. Whipping out Seyll's long sword, Halisstra braced herself to
meet the threat. Grimly, she realized her chain mail wouldn't be any help; the stirges' needle-thin noses
would slip between its links.
As the first surge dived in to attack, Halisstra swung the long sword. It was still awkward in her grip,
heavier than the blade she'd been used to. Even so, her blow connected, slicing the stirge cleanly
Then half a dozen of the creatures were on her.
For several frantic moments, Halisstra fended them off, killing two more with the sword and crumpling
the proboscis of a third with a blow from the small steel shield she wore on her left arm.
She felt a piercing pain in her right shoulder as a stirge struck. A moment later, another plunged its
proboscis into the back of her left leg, just behind the knee. The force of it caused her to stag-ger. Only by
ducking frantically was she able to avoid the stirge lancing in at her neck. Whirling, she struck it with the
sword as it flew past.
As still more of the creatures dived at her—nearly two dozen of them—Halisstra reached down with
her shield hand and grabbed the stirge that had plunged into the back of her knee. She squeezed—and
heard a satisfying pop as the creature's bloated midriff burst. Yanking it from her, she threw its body away,
dimly noticing the spray of blood that had soaked her gloved hand. Meanwhile, the stirge in her shoulder
continued draining her of blood.
The flock dived en masse, and four more stirges plunged into her flesh. One bit deeply into her left arm,
two into her right leg, and the fourth into her shoulder, beside the one that was already greed-ily sucking
away. Halisstra killed two more with the sword—which, with the air rushing through the holes in its hilt,
was making constant, discordant noises like a badly played flute. Halisstra, rapidly losing strength as the
stirges drained her of blood, suddenly shivered as she realized she might very well die there. Lolth was no
longer watching over her, blessing her with the magic she needed to drive the foul creatures away. The
only darksong spell that would affect so many creatures at once required a musical instrument as its arcane
focus—and she could hardly pluck out a tune on her lyre and fight at the same time.
Then she realized something. Perhaps there was another instru-ment she could use, closer to hand. . . .
Abandoning her attempts to strike the stirges—there were too many of them—Halisstra reversed Seyll's
sword and brought its hilt to her lips. Closing her eyes, she blew into the hilt, fingering the holes so the rush
of air escaped through a single hole. Even though she sagged to her knees as blood loss weakened her, she
felt magic flow from her lips into the hilt of the sword and out through the hole in a piercing blast. Her own
ears rang, then went numb as a single note—sweet, high, and impossibly strong—shattered the air. All
around her, stirges tumbled from the air as a magic blast hit them. Those on her body wilted, hung for a
moment, then slowly slipped free of her flesh, hitting the ground around her with soft thuds.
In the silence that followed, Halisstra could hear only the sound of her own breathing. Opening her eyes,
she saw dozens of stirges lying on the ground, some of them still twitching. She picked up the closest one
and squeezed it. Its blood—her blood—soaked her gloves as its body burst. Dropping it, she continued from
one stirge to the next, killing them one by one. Then she pulled off her blood-soaked gloves and cast them
aside.
Perhaps the surface was not a place of beauty, after all.
Then she realized that something had disturbed the stirges—something that was moving through the
forest toward the bluff where she stood. Hunkering down, she crept back toward the stairs, looking for a
place to hide.
Valas signaled for the party to stop when the tunnel, which had been twisting its way ever deeper
toward the Underdark, opened into a jumble of broken stone that led down to a medium-sized cavern whose
floor was hidden by a deep pool of water. Pharaun gave a low chuckle, breaking the silence.
"Perfect," he breathed.
Keep quiet, Valas chastised, but Pharaun only laughed.
"It's going to be loud enough in here in just a moment," the mage said with a wink. Then he called back
to the others, who were higher in the tunnel, up beyond where Valas could see. "Mistress, I've found a spot
that will do nicely. Get Jeggred ready."
Valas heard Quenthel ordering the draegloth to kneel and the sound of a drawn dagger. Pharaun,
meanwhile, laid a hand on Valas's shoulder.
摘要：

ExtinctionBook4ofWaroftheSpiderQueenseriesAForgottenRealmsnovelByLisaSmedmanProofedbyBW-SciFiEbookversion1.0Releasedate:August,15th,2004ChapterOnePharaunlayontheforestfloor,staringupintotheangryeyesoffivehissingserpents.Theirfangsbaredanddrippingwithpoison,theirmouthsopenwide,thered-and-black-banded...

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