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R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Read online
R. A. Salvatore's
War of the Spider Queen
Volume I
Table of Contents
Dedications
Introduction
Author's Note
Dissolution
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Insurrection
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Condemnation
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Other Works
Dedications
R.A. Salvatore’s War of the Spider Queen Tenth Anniversary Edition, volume I
©2002, 2003, 2012 Wizards of the Coast LLC
Dissolution
For Ann
Insurrection
To Quinton Riley You, like a good book, are a wondrous treasure in a small package.
Condemnation
For Lynn R. Baker, Jr. 1942–2002
Godspeed, Dad.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art by: Brom
Dissolution originally published July 2002
Insurrection originally published December 2002
Condemnation originally published May 2003
First Printing: March 2012
Introduction
Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.
A LAND OF MAGIC
When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire— the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.
A LAND OF DARKNESS
The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.
A LAND OF HEROES
But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.
A Land of Untold Adventure
I can’t believe that it’s been a decade since Phil Athans first approached me to work on a huge, six-book series to redefine the race of drow in the Forgotten Realms. I remember that first phone call as if it was just last week. Most of all, I remember flatly refusing.
My work in the Realms is almost entirely character centered. I rarely get involved with the “meta” stories of this massive world, preferring to let others handle the squabbles between the gods, city-destroying invasions and other cataclysmic events. And for several reasons, including my recognition that it’s not my world, and not least of which being that I don’t actually work at Wizards of the Coast. I’m not in the offices, or sitting around the tables when the coordinators are trying to decide where to go with the big picture of this shared gaming world, so it’s better, I think, if the books needed as a result of those meetings are handled by people more fully in the loop.
I’ll write my personal tales in towns off to the side of the movers and shakers—quite happily, I might add.
So Phil didn’t like my answer, which meant he was going to call again . . . and again . . . and again. Phil had been my editor long enough by this time for me to know that he can be as stubborn as a mule.
He wore me down. I wouldn’t write the books—I simply hadn’t the time—but would I help outline the story and edit the books? Phil knew that he had me when he dangled the largest carrot of all before me: the notion that my involvement in the series would allow several other authors to get much-deserved exposure.
How could I say no to that?
Soon after, I found myself flying across the country for a story summit. As I said, this was the brainchild of Phil Athans, so he led the meeting, describing for us the arc of the story. I sat there with Rich Baker, James Wyatt, Richard Lee Byers, Thomas Reid and a few others (popping in and out) as Phil presented his grand idea to us. Then came the fun part. As an author, I don’t get to participate in round-table creative brainstorming meetings very often (this was before I joined up with Curt Schilling and Todd McFarlane in the video game/IP development company, 38 Studios). To put it succinctly, I had a blast. Rich Baker and I really went at each other, upping the ante, challenging each other—it was more like a poker game between us than anything else. Richard Lee Byers, who had been tasked with the first book pushed us all to start identifying the characters we would utilize— not the actual characters, like Pharaun, but the archetypes we would need to carry this grand scheme through to fruition. We wouldn’t go further than that, of course—we wouldn’t hamstring the authors by putting too much flesh on the bones. What’s the point of hiring talented authors like the six we assembled if we weren’t going to let them be talented?
I think everyone around that table, particularly the four—Richard, Thomas, Rich, and Phil—who would actually be writing books, understood the scope
of what we were doing and the problems that each would face; from the earliest books, leaving enough room for those following to grow the story—to the later ones, tying up all the myriad loose ends and character conflicts. I knew we were crazy.
But sometimes crazy is what makes all of this so much fun.
My job thereafter was to serve as one of the editors, mostly dealing with the implications of our actions to the dark elves. I planned on going back to Menzoberranzan, after all (still do), and I needed to protect my turf! Three things stand out to me as thoroughly enjoyable:
First, I got to watch each of the authors zero in on a character, either one of the original cast or a new and wonderfully unexpected addition, to make them into their own. I saw it right off the bat with Richard Lee Byers and Pharaun, and it continued with each successive book. I could hear the voice of one character for each, above all others, as this fictional creation truly came alive.
Second, I got to edit Phil. I got to edit my editor! How can an author not like turning the tables like that? I wrote up reams of really nasty notes, cleared it with Peter Archer, and then sent Phil what has to be the most brutal edit he had ever received. And of course, most of the complaints were nonsensical. Peter backed me up and we had Phil sweating before letting him in on the joke.
The third item came at the end of the series. We lost our last author. He had too many irons in his fire and simply couldn’t come on board as expected. So now we had three books out, the fourth off to the printer and Phil busily writing the fifth. We were in a bind. On Phil’s suggestion, we brought in Paul Kemp. I was familiar with Paul’s work, but he was still pretty green at that time, and jumping in at the last minute to finish off a complex, six-book series (with the previous five penned by five different authors!) is what we in the business call a [expletive] nightmare. Paul was just young enough, just hungry enough, or just crazy enough to say yes. Or maybe it was something else: Maybe he was just confident enough in his abilities to charge in.
Confident and crazy—there’s no doubt in my mind that crazy played a role.
Whatever the reason, it worked.
Like I said, crazy is what makes all of this so much fun.
R.A. Salvatore July 18, 2011
It was a flicker of clarity in the foggy realm of shadowy chaos, where nothing was quite what it seemed, and everything was inevitably more treacherous and dangerous. But this, the crystalline glimmer of a single silken strand, shone brightly, caught her eye, and showed her all that it was and all that would soon be, and all that she was and all that she would soon be.
The glimmer of light in the dark Abyss promised renewal and greater glory and made that promise all the sweeter with its hints of danger, mortal danger for a creature immortal by nature. That, too, was the allure, was, in truth, the greatest joy of the growth. The mother of chaos was fear, not evil, and the enjoyment of chaos was the continual fear of the unknown, the shifting foundation of everything, the knowledge that every twist and turn could lead to disaster.
It was something the drow had never come to fully understand and appreciate, and she preferred that ignorance. To the drow, the chaos was a means for personal gain; there were no straight ladders in the tumult of drow life for one to climb. But the beauty was not the ascent, she knew, if they did not. The beauty was the moment, every moment, of living in the swirl of the unknown, the whirlpool of true chaos.
So this, then, was a movement forward, but within that movement, it was a gamble, a risk that could launch the chaos of her world to greater heights and surprises. She wished she could remain more fully conscious to witness it all, to bask in it all.
But no matter. Even within, she would feel the pleasure of their fear, the hunger of their ambition.
That glimmer of the silk edge, cutting the gray perpetual fog of the swirling plane, brought a singular purpose to this creature of shifting whims and reminded her that it was time, was past time.
Never taking her gaze off that glimmer, the creature turned slowly, winding herself in the single strand. The first strand of millions.
The start of the metamorphosis, the promise.
chapter
one
Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, flicked a long, obsidian-skinned finger. His office door, a black marble rectangle incised all over with lines of tiny runes, swung noiselessly shut and locked itself.
At least certain that no one could see him, the drow wizard rose from the white bone desk, faced the back wall, and swirled his hands in a complex pattern. A second doorway opened in the stippled calcite surface.
His dark elf vision unimpaired by the lack of light, Gromph stepped into the blackness beyond the new exit. There was no floor there to receive his tread, and for a moment he fell, then he invoked the power of levitation granted by the House Baenre insignia brooch that he was never without. He began to rise, floating up a featureless shaft. The cool air tingled and prickled against his skin as it always did, and it also carried a rank, unpleasant smell. Evidently one of the creatures native to this peculiar pseudoplane of existence had been nosing around the conduit.
Sure enough, something rattled above his head. The rank smell was suddenly stronger, pungent enough to make his scarlet eyes water and sting his nose.
Gromph looked up. At first he saw nothing, but then he discerned a vague ovoid shape in the darkness.
The archmage wondered how the beast had gotten inside the shaft. Nothing ever had before. Had it torn a hole in the wall, oozed through like a ghost, or done something stranger still? Perhaps—
It plummeted at him, putting an end to his speculations.
Gromph could have effortlessly blasted the creature with one of his wands, but he preferred to conserve their power for genuine threats. Instead, he coolly dismissed the force of levitation lifting his body and allowed himself to drop back down the shaft. The fall would keep him away from the beast for long enough to cast a spell, and he didn’t have to worry about hitting the ground. In this reality, there was no ground.
The bejeweled and sigil-adorned Robes of the Archmage flapping around him, he snatched a vial of venom from his pocket, set it alight with a spurt of flame from his fingertip, and recited an incantation. On the final syllable, he thrust his arm at the creature, and a glob of black, burning liquid erupted from his fingertips.
Propelled by magic, the blazing fluid hurtled straight up the shaft to splash against the descending predator. The creature emitted a piercing buzz that was likely a cry of pain. It floundered in the air, bouncing back and forth against the walls as it fell. Its body sizzled and bubbled as the spattered acid ate into it, but it resumed diving in a controlled manner.
Gromph was mildly impressed. A venom bolt would kill most creatures, certainly most of the petty vermin one encountered in the empty places between the worlds.
Manipulating an empty cocoon, he cast another spell. The beast’s body crumpled and folded into itself, and for a heartbeat, it was a helplessly tumbling mouse—then it swelled and rippled back into its natural form.
All right, thought Gromph, then I’ll cut you up.
He prepared to conjure a hail of blades, but at that moment, the creature accelerated.
Gromph had no idea the creature could descend any faster than it had hitherto, and he wasn’t prepared for the sudden burst of speed. The creature closed the distance between them in an instant, until it was hovering right in his face.
It had the melted or unfinished look common to many such beings. Rows of blank little eyes and a writhing proboscis sat off center in its bump of a head, only vaguely differentiated from its rubbery blob of a body. The monster possessed no wings, but it was flying—the goddess only knew how. Its legs were the most articulate part of it. Ten thin, segmented members terminated in barbed hooks, which lashed at Gromph again and again and again.
As he expected, the frenzied scratching failed to harm him. The enchantments woven into Gromph’s piwafwi—not to mention a ring and an amulet—armored him at
least as well as a suit of plate. Still, it irked him that he had allowed the beast to get so close, and he felt more irritated still when he noticed that the creature’s exertions were flinging tiny smoking droplets of his own conjured acid onto his person.
He growled a final spell and snatched hold of the malodorous predator, seizing handfuls of the blubber on its torso. Instantly the magic began its work. Strength and vitality flowed into him, and he cried out at the shocking pleasure of it.
He was drinking his adversary’s very life, much as a vampire might have done. The flying creature buzzed, thrashed, and became still. It withered, cracked, and rotted in his grasp. Finally, when he was certain he’d sucked out every vestige of life, he shoved it away.
Focusing his will, he arrested his fall and drifted upward again. After a few moments, he spied the opening at the top of the shaft. He floated through, grabbed a convenient handrail, pulled himself over onto the floor of the workroom, then allowed his weight to return. His vestments rustled as they settled around him.
The large circular chamber was in most respects a part of the tower of Sorcere—the school of wizardry over which the archmage presided—but Gromph was reasonably certain that none of the masters of Sorcere suspected its existence, accustomed to secret and magical architecture though they were. The place, lit by everlasting candles like the office below, was well nigh undetectable, even unguessable, because its tenant had set it a little apart from normal space and conventional time. In some subtle respects it existed in the distant past, in the days of Menzoberra the Kinless, founder of the city, and in another way, in the remote and unknowable future. Yet on the level of gross mortal existence, it sat firmly in the present, and Gromph could work his most clandestine magic there secure in the knowledge that it would affect the Menzoberranzan of today. It was a neat trick, and sometimes he almost regretted killing the seven prisoners, master mages all, who had helped him build the place in exchange, they imagined, for their freedom. They had been genuine artists, but there was no point in creating a hidden refuge unless one ensured it would remain hidden.