R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (41 page)

“Well, when you put it that way . . .”

“Let’s go.”

The masters stood up. Ryld felt dizzy, swayed, but then recovered his balance. They started for the door, and something happened. It was like the blare of a trumpet and a white light, too, but it was neither. The weapons master didn’t know what it was, only that it froze him in place until it faded away.

“What just happened?” he asked.

“The Call,” Pharaun replied. “This close to the source, one can vaguely sense it even if one isn’t a goblin. The slaves are rising.”

When the instructors rounded the corner, Pharaun saw a rogue about five yards away. Well armed, the conspirator was striding purposefully along, perhaps to join one of the assassination squads that would descend on the city once the goblin rebellion plunged it into chaos.

He had good reflexes. As soon as he spotted the fugitives, he reached for the wall, no doubt to conceal himself behind a curtain of darkness.

Pharaun lifted his hands to cast darts of force—he had two such spells remaining, neither requiring a focal object—but Ryld was quicker. He shot his hand crossbow. The quarrel plunged into the renegade’s eye, and he fell.

The masters skulked up to the corpse and crouched down to examine it. Pharaun was hardly surprised yet disappointed to find that the dead warrior hadn’t been carrying any spell ingredients.

The Master of Sorcere hadn’t lost faith in himself, but he realized that overconfidence coupled with ambition had lured him and Ryld into a desperate situation. They were stuck in the midst of their enemies. Without the proper triggers, most of the wizard’s magic was unavailable to him, and the weapons master was feeling the effects of the blow on the head and Syrzan’s psionic assault. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Pharaun, who knew him well, could see subtle indications in the way he moved.

Well, at least Ryld wasn’t bored.

Pharaun stole the dead male’s hand crossbow, dirk, and
piwafwi
—including the insignia of a lesser House Pharaun assumed was enchanted in the same way as all the others. The mantle wasn’t a bad fit but felt strange without the weight of the hidden pockets to which he was accustomed. At least, he hoped, he’d be able to levitate. Ryld exchanged the rapier he’d been wearing for the fallen drow’s broadsword.

The Master of Melee-Magthere cocked his crossbow and loaded a fresh shaft in the channel. The fugitives stalked on down the hallway, and the walls screamed. Pharaun and Ryld screwed up their faces at the painful loudness. Blue sparks of discharged magic showered from the walls and ceiling, and a hot, raw stink of power fouled the air.

The screech stopped as suddenly as it had started, though it left echoes sobbing through the citadel.

“Alarm spell?” said Ryld, trotting onward.

“Yes,” Pharaun said, racing to catch up. His ears were ringing. “Had I seen it, I would have dispelled it, but—”

“But as it stands, the rogues will be coming for us.” Pharaun frowned. “Unless they’re too busy getting ready to murder priestesses.”

“No, they’ll realize they have to catch us at any cost. If a spy slipped away from here and reported their plans to the Council, it would ruin everything for them.”

“You’re right, curse it.”

The masters had been moving stealthily and therefore slowly ever since departing their cell, and they would have to sneak along even more warily, backtracking and detouring whenever they sensed their enemies were near. That would make it easier to get lost. The long-dead nobles had built their fortress according to a defensive strategy still occasionally employed in Menzoberranzan. The place was something of a maze. If a person had grown up there, that wouldn’t pose a problem. He’d know every turn and dead end, but outsiders had a difficult time moving about. Outsiders like Pharaun and Ryld, who had yet to find an exit.

Perhaps, the wizard thought, the renegades will have trouble navigating as well.

Though they’d squatted in the castle, they might not know it as well as the original occupants had. It was possible they’d simply familiarized themselves with a few key areas and primary passageways and left the rest of the allegedly cursed and haunted keep pretty much alone.

Still, Pharaun knew it was only a matter of time until the hunters stumbled onto their prey, and he was correct. He and Ryld were traversing a gallery hung with musty phosphorescent tapestries when something rustled behind them. The masters pivoted. Silent in their drow boots, half a dozen warriors had appeared behind them and were leveling their crossbows.

Ryld crouched and lifted a fold of his cloak in front of his face. Pharaun copied the move. Two arrowheads plunged through his makeshift shield, which apparently wasn’t as powerfully enchanted as the
piwafwi
Houndaer had taken from him. One quarrel hung up in the weave. The other hurtled right through and grazed the mage’s shoulder, stinging him and slicing a shallow cut. He prayed it wasn’t poisoned.

Hearing a ragged clatter, Pharaun uncovered his eyes. The rogues had dropped their crossbows and were charging. They’d already dashed too close for him to employ the incantation he would have preferred. Instead he cast darts of light and dropped two renegades. He discharged his crossbow and missed a third.

Ryld bellowed a war cry and sprang forward to meet the foes remaining. The broadsword flashed back and forth, thrusting, cutting, and parrying with the small, precise movements that characterized true mastery. Pharaun edged forward with his dirk in hand but never got a chance to use it. The rogues all died before he could advance into range.

Pharaun took stock of himself and decided he didn’t have any venom in his system, but Ryld groaned, made a face, and clutched at his temple.

“What is it?” the wizard asked.

It seemed likely that one of the enemy had scored, but he didn’t see any blood slipping between his friend’s fingers, and head wounds bled copiously.

“A throbbing headache,” said the swordsman. “Left over from Houndaer and Syrzan, I suppose, made worse when my heart started beating harder. I’m all right now.”

“I rejoice to hear it.” Pharaun turned, right into a second volley of quarrels.

He had no time to raise his cloak, dodge, or do anything else but gawk at the second band of renegades who’d crept up from the other direction. Miraculously, every shaft missed.

One of the newcomers shouted, “They’re here!”

The guards charged, and Pharaun brandished a bit of spiderweb, the one spell focus he’d had no difficulty replacing. A mesh of taut, luminous cables appeared around the onrushing renegades. Anchored to the wall, the cables were as strong as rope and as sticky as glue. They snared and held the rogues.

All but the two in front. Either they’d been nimble enough to jump clear before the effect fully materialized, or their innate dark elf resistance to magic had protected them.

Undeterred by the loss of their comrades, the warriors drove onward into sword range. The one who focused on Pharaun had a birthmark staining his left profile.

Pharaun shot. The shaft hit the male square in the chest but glanced off his mail. The ugly male swung his sword in a flank cut. Pharaun twisted aside and commenced an incantation.

He had to dodge two more attacks before he finished. Shafts of light sprang from his fingertips.

Only one such spell left, he thought, and only one more chance to conjure a trap of webbing, too.

The missiles passed through the renegade’s mail and sent him reeling backward. Wounded but still alive, the rogue gave his head a shake. Pharaun yanked his new dirk out of his belt and flung himself at the guard. The wizard rammed his point up under the ugly male’s chin before the latter had quite recovered his wits.

Pharaun turned. Feinting low and striking high, Ryld whipped his broadsword through his opponent’s neck. The renegade fell, his severed head tumbling away. For a moment, Pharaun felt a touch of relief, then he noticed his friend’s grimace and the blood on his thigh, and heard the calls of other pursuers drawing near.

“It sounds as if
all
the rogues are hunting us,” the wizard said. “What a gracious compliment.”

“They heard the fight,” Ryld replied. “They have some idea where we are, and thanks to you, this passage has become a cul-de-sac. We have to move—
now
.”

“Perhaps you would have preferred me to let the rest of our attackers swarm all over us.”

“Just move.”

They did, with the prisoners in the web shouting imprecations after them. Pharaun soon discerned that Ryld was making an effort not to limp nor show any sort of distress but couldn’t mask his pain completely.

The wizard considered leaving patches of darkness behind to hinder pursuit, but had he done so, he would have been marking his trail. He could only think of one trick he could use to evade the renegades, and hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

Twice, the masters sensed a band of rogues was near and hid in a room until they passed. Finally they found a staircase leading downward. Pharaun hoped their descent to the lower level would throw off the pursuit but soon realized it hadn’t. Perhaps it was because the fugitives were leaving a trail of blood. Pharaun’s little cut had stopped bleeding, but Ryld’s gashed leg had not.

Despite himself, the burly swordsman began taking uneven strides, one shorter than the other. Pharaun heard a murmur of voices coming from behind and out of a side passage as well. He said, “Stay where you are. I have an idea.”

Ryld shrugged.

The wizard advanced a few paces down the corridor. He lifted his wisp of cobweb and chanted. Power groaned through the air, and crisscrossing cables sealed the corridor. The rogues he’d heard were on the other side. So was Ryld.

The swordsman looked at his friend through the interstices and said, “I don’t understand.”

“And you a master tactician. Truly, I regret this, but I could either stick with you and let your injuries retard my progress or else leave you behind as a rear guard to slow my pursuers. Considering how vulnerable I currently am, the choice was reasonably obvious.”

“Damn you! How many times have I saved your life?”

“I’ve lost count. At any rate, this will make one more, in the course of which you’ll finally be rid of your melancholy. Goodbye, old friend.”

Pharaun turned and strode away.

He heard a crossbow clack, and flung himself to the side. The quarrel flew past him. Ryld had needed commendable accuracy to avoid snagging the missile in the adhesive mesh.

Pharaun glanced back and said, “Nice shot, but you might want to save your quarrels for the renegades.”

He skulked on, and quickened his pace when someone shouted behind him, and metal clashed on metal.

Ryld quickly learned that one of the rogues was a wizard, and a deft one at that. He had no difficulty lobbing spells through the line his comrades had formed across the hall, leaving them unscathed but battering the weapons master with one attack after another.

So far the flares of power had seared and chilled the Master of Melee-Magthere but done no serious harm. He doubted that would last. He needed to put a stop to the magic before the mage slipped an attack through his natural resistance, and that meant breaking through the line

He faked a sidestep to the left, then dodged right. His wounded leg throbbed, and a soreness, the residue of Syrzan’s attack, twisted through his mind. The pain slowed him just enough to render the deception ineffective. Urlryn, the long-armed, gap-toothed renegade on the right, another of Ryld’s former students and a good one, met him with a wicked thrust to the belly.

As every warrior knows, you can’t retreat at the same instant you’re advancing. Ryld had no choice but to defend with the blade. He swept his broadsword across his body in a lateral parry. Urlryn tried to dip his point beneath the block, but moved just a hair too slowly. Ryld smashed his adversary’s blade aside, loosening his grip in the bargain.

The weapons master started to riposte with a chest cut, then sensed movement on his flank. He pivoted. Hoping to take him unawares, the rogue next to Urlryn was swinging an axe at his knee. It was how warriors fought in a line. You killed the male who was focused on your neighbor.

Ryld leaped over the attack. When he landed, his leg screamed with pain and threatened to buckle beneath him. Shouting, he made it hold and cut at the axeman’s belly. The broadsword crunched through mail, and the rogue toppled.

Ryld’s blade was still buried in the axeman’s guts when Urlryn and the other surviving warrior rushed him. The master floundered backward, dragging the broadsword free. Swords flashed at him, and somehow, even off-balance, he dodged them, but in so doing, fell on his rump.

The rogues scrambled forward to finish him. He surprised the other stranger with a bone-shattering kick to the ankle, knocking him reeling backward, then reared up on one knee, his sword raised in a high guard for what he knew was coming.

Urlryn’s blade crashed down on his own, and he felt the jolt all the way to his shoulder. With both feet planted beneath him, the renegade could bring all his strength to bear. Ryld couldn’t.

But he was bigger and more powerful than his adversary and was nicely positioned to hamstring other drow. Teeth gritted, he maintained his defense until his enemy faltered, then whipped the broadsword behind the rogue’s leg for a drawing cut.

Urlryn let out a shrill cry and staggered sideways. Ryld heaved himself up and turned toward the wizard, only to discover he could no longer see him. Deprived of his wall of warriors, the spellcaster had conjured another defender, a vaguely bearish thing with folded bat wings and luminous crimson eyes, so huge it nearly filled the corridor.

Ryld had watched Pharaun exercise the famous Mizzrym talent for illusion on numerous occasions, and his experiences stood him in good stead. He sensed, though he couldn’t say how, that the demon bear was just a phantasm. He limped forward, flicked the broadsword at it, and it popped like a fungus discharging a cloud of spores. It was strange to think that, had he believed in it, it could have torn him to shreds.