Queen of the Demonweb Pits Read online

  “That thing real?”

  “Yep.” Jus cleaned the grooming brush and tossed the resulting ball of fur over the wall. “He’s called Cinders.”

  The hell hound’s huge teeth gleamed. Hi!

  With a jerk of his thumb, Jus introduced himself. “Justicar. Henry. The sword’s Benelux. We’re heading to a village southward: Hommlet.”

  “Hommlet! And you came from the north?”

  “Yep.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “No. No trouble.”

  The Justicar was uncompromising and calm. His competence spoke for itself. The town guardsman stroked his chin and looked toward the northern hills—a barrier that seemed the end of the known world.

  Jus drew Cinders back in place across his shoulders.

  “Can we help?”

  “Hommlet…” The guard tugged at wisps of his beard. “Would it have room for a few refugees?”

  “I don’t know. As much as you have here, I’d think. We could take a hundred people off your hands if you give us something to feed them with.”

  The guard shot upright and tugged his surcoat straight. “Wait here! I’ll fetch the captain.”

  The man bustled off. Pouring Henry a second beer, the Justicar seemed perfectly at ease.

  “Second lesson. An obstacle is a rock. If you can’t break it, flow around it.” The Justicar’s black armor creaked softly as he relaxed. “Logic and instinct. They’re your sharpest tools. In life, there are no mysteries that cannot be solved. No problems that cannot be fixed.”

  Henry frowned. “None at all?”

  “None.” Jus thought of Escalla and gave a heavy sigh. “Some just need a little more work than others.”

  Darkness built above the city. Far off in the distance, there was the rumbling of a sudden summer storm.

  “Ah. Here we are. Oh, for once, it’s actually quite pleasant!” Lolth stood in a wilderness of dead, twisted grass, a hillside where the bones of the slaughtered jutted through the soil. “That horrid fresh air smell is gone.”

  Black, polished, and magnificent, Lolth stood and let the fetid winds caress her hair. Behind her, carried along by Lolth’s spells in the middle of her morning cup of tea, Morag glowered.

  “Magnificence? What are we doing here?”

  “We are eliminating trouble before it can begin.” Lolth pulled two long thigh bones from the earth and enchanted them. “Do you have that bag I gave you?”

  “Yes, Magnificence.”

  “Good. Drink your tea.”

  Holding the bones as divining rods, Lolth walked off along the hillside. Morag sighed, bunched up her coils, and followed, delicately picking a path past the bones of a dead wyvern. The place was wretchedly cold, abysmally dry, and Morag felt the day’s carefully crafted schedules slipping away. She hurried after her mistress, planting herself so that Lolth’s appointment diary could clearly be seen.

  The spider goddess ignored her, happily scanning her divining rods over the dead grass.

  “This is Iuz’s territory, I believe. We shall take it over once we eliminate him.” Lolth swung sideways as the two bones quivered and began to cross. She walked rapidly over the hill, led by her divining rods.

  Morag impatiently folded all six of her arms. “Magnificence, the operation begins in sixty minutes.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m a goddess, Morag. I can teleport. I don’t need a nag.” Lolth shot a scathing glance at her secretary. “Your little shopping trip is safe and sound, never fear.”

  The divining rods crossed, and in the end, their target was obvious. On a hillside littered by the bones of monsters, one site had been conspicuously made into a grave. The earth had been heaped in a telltale fashion. Most interestingly of all, a froglike tanar’ri skull had been left to mark the grave—a skull impaled and pinned by a broken sword. Lolth reached out to draw the sword from the ground and instantly burned her hand.

  “Damnation!”

  “Magnificence?” Lolth was notoriously vulnerable to blessed artifacts. “Shall I fetch you a bandage?”

  “Don’t be impertinent!” Lolth blew on her fingers, hurt and angry. She kicked the sword and the skull out of the ground and shoved them away with one stiletto-heeled boot. “What sort of fool leaves an enchanted sword stuck in the soil?”

  “Someone who has a better sword, Magnificence?”

  “Brilliant.” Lolth spared the grave a contemptuous kick. “Well what are you waiting for? You have six hands. Dig!”

  Morag growled. Her hands were long and clever, and her scales had just been buffed and dried. She wearily unslung her collection of weapons, notebooks, pens, and diaries, and went to work, digging in the horrid, flinty soil. As she labored, Lolth opened her hands and cast a spell. An instant later, a savage vulture-demon appeared before her. Lolth accepted a delicate glass from the creature, allowed it to pour her some wine, and then lolled atop a varrangoin’s skeleton to watch Morag at her work.

  “Ah, wine. I always did like a glass in the afternoon. We must search this world and see if there are any novel vintages to be found!”

  “Yes, Magnificence.” Well down in her hole, Morag resentfully shoveled earth. “I’m sure the faeries will have a bottle or two to spare.”

  “Shut up. Dig.”

  The excavation took a good ten minutes of filthy work, by which time Morag was cursing. She had broken a nail, gotten grit in her eye, and was filthy from tip to tail. She finally uncovered a dried, withered skeleton—a figure clad in armor that had rusted to a flaky brown.

  From above her came Lolth’s imperious voice. “Don’t hurt the bones, idiot! Now get out of there!”

  No helping hand was offered. Morag angrily threw a spell and summoned some of her own vassals: hopping birdlike minions that stank like the pit. The beings reached down to help the secretary out. She jerked her hands free from their grasp and fastidiously cleaned herself while Lolth had the beings carefully lift the old bones out of their grave.

  The corpse was well preserved—a withered husk dried like leather from the parched soil of the hills. The armor was elven mail, cut and ripped by claws. It had been torn open where the cadaver had once had its heart ripped out of its chest. The being bore a helmet fashioned like the open mouth of a screaming eagle. Lolth busied herself drawing an enchanted circle about the corpse, daubing her magic symbols with blood taken from an ivory chalice. Behind her, yet more tanar’ri appeared, dragging with them humanoid slaves, a troll, spider servitors, and treasure chests. The hillside had suddenly become crowded.

  Lolth painted three final runes, then tore the heart out of a slave to activate her magic. Fastidiously cleaning herself, Morag looked away in disgust, reaching for her notebooks and weapons.

  The enchanted circle flashed and flared into life about the corpse. Lolth opened bloody hands, chanted her spell, and a cold wind stirred her hair, lifting her silks about her magnificent body. Slit-pupil eyes gleamed red as she opened her arms and trilled foul spells.

  Lesser creatures fell dead from the magic. Insects, worms, and birds dropped lifeless about the hill. Lolth stood at the center of a storm of screaming energy. A ghostly image half-formed in the winds that swirled across the hill—an image that shrieked and wailed as it was dragged downward from the otherworld. Guardians tried to drag the spirit back, but Lolth flicked out with her hands and sent them spinning away into the storm.

  The withered corpse arose slowly, lifted invisibly from the ground. Dead hair, long, golden, and littered with soil, whipped around in the storm’s frenzy. The corpse arched, mold dropping from it as the winds raged and swirled. Lolth held her arms wide, her skin crackling pale with energy, then stepped through the circle of enchantment.

  Reaching down, she wrenched open the corpse’s rent mail armor and tore open its rotted ribs.

  “Here is a heart for you, my dear. Fresh and new.”

  The sacrificial heart was jammed into the gaping chest. Lolth hissed in pleasure as she stabbed magic down into the dead, dried
flesh.

  “And now here is some blood for you to pump with it.”

  Demons dragged a black marsh troll forward, the huge creature raging with superhuman strength yet utterly impotent in the demons’ claws. Lolth took a knife from a drow servant and stabbed the troll through its neck. Her eyes gleamed as she viciously twisted the knife in the wound, keeping it open even as the troll’s flesh tried to regenerate and heal. She caught the blood in bowl after bowl, the troll growing weaker as it was drained. Finally she had the troll cast aside to heal, the monster whimpering as its blood was carried over to the floating corpse.

  Lolth poured the blood into the cadaver’s open chest, her spells wrenching at the air as the hissing fluid flowed. The blood soaked into the corpses skin and bones. It drew into the withered, rotten veins. With a sizzle, the old body slowly began to fill and heal.

  Finally, Lolth opened the corpse’s mouth. With one hand she reached up and snatched the screaming spirit that flew about her ears. Wrestling it like a whirlwind she shoved the spirit down into the corpse and sealed it tight. With a wrench, the body heaved against invisible bonds. Arms reached, thrashing in horrific agony, and the throat roared in burning pain. Lolth stepped back, her head tilted like a little girl with one cheek resting on a bloodied finger. In the magic circle, the corpse writhed and spasmed in pure agony, until it fell hissing to the ground. The magic circle faded. The cadaver steamed with cold.

  The corpse lay on its face. Slowly it opened one clawed hand and clutched at the soil of its grave. Light and happy as a lark, Lolth walked over to its side. She squatted down and dusted off the cadaver’s eagle helm.

  “Poor hero. Poor, poor hero…”

  Lolth spoke in the tongue of the Grass Elves as he squatted, her face half lifted in a smile as the undead creature wrenched itself up from the ground.

  The cadaver knelt in the dust, the ice-white pits of its eyes jerking in confusion from side to side. Its last clear memories were of battle. The creature’s hand clutched at the rents in its mail—at the wound that had finally ripped away its life. Lolth watched it with a smile.

  “Poor hero. Yes, struck down in the dust—betrayed and alone and surrounded.”

  The cadaver groped blindly in the dirt. It looked down in puzzlement, then anger as it saw nothing but dust.

  “No. No sword. Stolen!” Lolth clucked in sympathy. “Your sword was taken away! You were betrayed, surrounded, abandoned, robbed. Poor hero. No sword to make you safe. No sword to take revenge.”

  Lolth reached out, and a demon threw her a sword. The goddess held the long, heavy weapon in her hands and drew it slowly from its sheath. The blade gleamed the foul red-purple color of clotted blood, smoking as she slowly bared the steel.

  “Here is a sword. Yes! See?”

  The corpse stared at the weapon. It hissed in lust and slowly reached out its hand. Lolth played a little, keeping the weapon just out of reach for a moment, then thrust it into the corpse’s hand.

  “There. I give you a new sword, a better sword. Strong, powerful! Now everything you lost can be regained.”

  The undead warrior jerked suddenly upright in shock, staring around. It hissed like a serpent, crouching into fighting stance as it searched from side to side, almost as if hunting for blood.

  Lolth stood unconcernedly at its side. She pulled the hair back from the side of her face as she bent down to whisper in the warrior’s ear.

  “Yes… lost. Weren’t you a leader? Weren’t you alive? That’s right! You were feared. You were a fighter! You had renown!” The queen of spiders crossed behind the undead corpse, her voice purring in its ear. “You were a great leader, but someone took your men away. He became leader in your place. He built on your fame, built on your legend. He stole your life away… and could you really have died here? Not you, not a warrior so great. Not the great swordmaster Recca.”

  Lolth covered her mouth in mock surprise.

  “He betrayed you! Of course! It’s the only way it could have been done!” The goddess looked quite shocked. “And after you taught him everything he knew! After you trusted him, raised him, treated him like a son!” Lolth leaned close to the monster and furrowed her brows into a frown. “He took everything you had. Whatever should you do?”

  The cadaver roared. The skull-face bared its teeth as the monstrous warrior raised its sword to the sky, screaming in mad hunger for revenge. Clustered about the edge of the magic circle, Lolth’s demons, henchmen, and servants laughed in acclaim.

  Smiling, Lolth arose and crooked a finger at the walking corpse.

  “Well, now I must be your new friend. I gave you a sword, gave you blood and a heart. Such a good friend!” Lolth motioned to Morag, beckoning her close. “Come. Maybe I can help you a little more. I think perhaps I can take you to where you can find your revenge. After all, what are good friends for?”

  Lolth walked happily toward her secretary, followed by the shambling monster. Twiddling her fingers at Morag, Lolth smiled.

  “There we are! And just in time for our invasion to begin. Are there any other problems your tiny little mind can foresee?”

  Morag regarded the walking corpse with a gaze rich with irony.

  “Very few, Magnificence.” Morag dotted a note in her diary with her pen. “Incidentally, Magnificence, the creature lacks a left foot and a sword hand.”

  Lolth whipped about and stared. Sure enough, the corpse had been buried by a dedicated soldier. Its sword hand and one foot had been cut off, then presumably burned and powdered to prevent the enemy from animating it as a walking skeleton. The missing pieces were not regenerating from the troll’s blood inside the cadaver. Lolth felt Morag’s smug smile and seethed, flexing her blood-sticky fingers in annoyance.

  “It doesn’t matter!” Lolth turned and walked away. “It will find new limbs on its own!”

  “Yes, Magnificence. Superb foresight, Magnificence.”

  “He will adapt, Morag. That is the beauty of the spell.”

  “Yes, Magnificence. Of course.”

  Sitting by the town’s front gate, Polk, for once, was doing just as he was told: staying put and staying out of trouble. He sat upon a table outside of a crowded tavern, waving irritably at serving boys. The tavern staff gave him a wide, wide berth, and patrons left Polk the whole table to himself. The badger squared his cap upon his head and grumbled about the falling standards of service these days.

  Being a badger had mixed blessings. On one hand, he was dense, heavy, and had a bite like a crocodile. On the other hand, he was a furry quadruped most people viewed as a noxious pest or a danger to life and limb. It was this last attribute that finally brought a nine-year-old boy nervously edging up to the table bearing a large wooden bowl and a stone jug.

  Polk waved a paw.

  “Son! Over here, son! That’s my order. It’s for me—the badger. Quadruped, that is. Furry, black and white stripes. You can’t miss me!”

  The boy kept his distance, pushing his offering cautiously onto the tabletop. Polk scratched his ear with one hind leg.

  “Son, you look frayed! A bundle of nerves, son. It ain’t healthy! A boy like you needs courage! Needs discipline—some get up and go! Now what are you getting all timid for?”

  “S-sorry, sir!” The child wiped his hands in fright. “We… we don’t get many, um, bears here, sir.”

  “I’m a badger, son. Was human once, though. Reincarnation accident. Magic spell cast after I heroically sacrificed my life for my friends. Part of the risks of the hero’s profession, son. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “A hero?” The boy blinked. “Were you in the war?”

  “Hundreds of ’em, son! But no, I’m an explorer, saver of damsels, slayer of monsters.” Polk trundled over to the wooden bowl. “That’s my order you got there?”

  “Uh, yes. That was one full bottle of fortified skull-crusher brandy poured in a bowl?”

  “That’s right, son. Keeps the coat glossy!” The badger wrinkled his nose. “Can I get a twi
st with that?”

  “S-sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t matter. But you have to uncork the bottle, son. You have to pour. I’ve got claws. Great for digging, poor for pulling the cork out of jugs! And get me about a hundred bottles of this to go!”

  “A hundred bottles?” The child blinked. “How will you … you carry it?”

  “I’ve got a portable hole, son. A trans-dimensional cubbyhole rolled up to convenient size. I never leave the burrow without it!”

  The drink was poured, and Polk shook his head as the boy retreated. “Child’s about as bright as a lamp with no wick in it.”

  The badger settled down to drink a restorative libation, managing to absorb almost his own body weight in alcohol. Surfacing with a sigh, Polk licked his chops, settled back on his furry rear, and cast his eyes out over the churning, tangled crowds.

  Polk paused and frowned, then used his mouth to drop coins onto the table. He jumped heavily down onto the pavement and looked around.

  The skies were pitch black with something that looked like storm clouds. Polk’s badger nose suddenly sniffed the stench of magic in the air. The stink of evil.

  A drifting cloud of silver strands settled on the nearby roofs. Thousands of spiders—tiny spiders tailing long web strands from their tails—landed, then sped over the roofs and gutters.

  Moving under tables and chairs, Polk ran into an alleyway and watched a new team of spiders descend. A group landed close to Polk. They were black widows that shimmered with magic. Black widows that stank of drow.

  Drow!

  Polk almost fell over himself as he tumbled backward, found his feet, and sped off to save the city.

  “Son! Jus, boy! We’ve got a problem here!”

  * * *

  On the “Street of a Thousand Eateries,” high prices had apparently chased away the crowds of refugees. A tall woman, her hair tied into a thousand pretty braids beneath a most extraordinary hat, teetered down the street. Walking unsteadily, staggering quickly forward to cling onto gutter pipes and walls, the woman let her hat coach her as she took one step at a time.