Jaleigh Johnson - Spider and Stone

I am not beloved by my goddess. I am cursed, an abomination ripe for sacrifice.

Dark laughter bubbled up inside Zollgarza.

Goddess, behold your servant. Mother Lolth, behold Zollgarza-smile at your instrument, your broken disciple.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

28 UKTAR

"You need healing,”Ruen said. “We’ll get you to Joya.”

Trying to be as gentle as possible, he and Sull helped Mith Barak to his feet. The dwarf swayed unsteadily, breathing hard, but he waved off their support. “Don’t worry about me. I’m thinking about that one,” he said, nodding at Zollgarza.

The female drow lay on her back, chest heaving, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Every few breaths, she laughed, a horrible sound that raised the flesh on Ruen’s arms.

Icelin walked carefully up to the drow and spread a blanket over her to cover her nakedness. “Can we leave her like this?” she asked.

“We don’t have a choice,” Mith Barak answered. “If we can’t question her, then we’ll use her as bait. I’ll send the scouts out with a message, see if her mistress wants to parlay for the return of her pet-or whatever this is.” Mith Barak looked at the drow in disgust.

Ruen met Icelin’s gaze. Surely he saw the compassion there and the guilt. He must have known she felt responsible for Zollgarza’s current state. “We have hope for the battle now that we didn’t have before,” he told her. “And she may recover in time. You’ve given her back her true form.”

Whatever reply Icelin might have made was interrupted when Mith Barak succumbed to a fit of coughing. “Are you well enough to fight?” Icelin asked the dwarf, “or even to parlay with the drow?”

“Aye, I think I can manage not to plunge my axe in the mistress mother’s skull while we have a conversation-a short one,” Mith Barak said with a dark smile as he wiped a blood smear across his lips. “Whatever’s amiss inside me isn’t going to be cured quickly. May as well live with it while I can.”

When Icelin stepped out of the hall, she swallowed an awed cry.

The dwarves of Iltkazar had assembled.

Bodies filled the plaza as if again in preparation for a wedding feast. The difference was the light from the glowing lichen that reflected off thousands of swords and axes, and the finest suits of armor in all Faerun, by Icelin’s judgment. Beyond the plaza, they stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the city streets. Banners from the dwarf clans waved when King Mith Barak emerged from the hall behind Icelin. Grim-faced and deadly, Iltkazar’s sons and daughters had gathered for a fight. They awaited only their king.

The master armswoman stepped forward. “The scouts have reported in,” she said. “We know the location of two of their attacking forces for certain-the western and southern walls. They must be planning to break through the magical barriers. The rest of their forces, if there are more, have the advantage in that we don’t know where they will strike.”

“My thanks, Dorla,” Mith Barak said. He turned to the gathered army. Icelin heard him mutter a word under his breath, and a tingling sensation kissed the back of her neck, a momentary flush of arcane power.

“Warriors of Iltkazar!” Mith Barak cried, and his voice carried to the farthest corners of the cavern, amplified by magic. “We knew this day was coming, and now we stand on the precipice. The drow press us from all sides, attacking from the west and the south. They have already desecrated the Hall of Lost Voices, slain thousands of our people in these endless battles, century upon century. We have suffered, bled, but we have not fallen!”

A deafening roar arose from the crowd. Boots stomped and blades pounded on shields, striking sparks in the cold cavern air. Gooseflesh rose on Icelin’s arms at the fervor in the dwarves’ faces.

Mith Barak raised his hands, and the army quieted. “There are those who would have us believe we are a doomed people. They would have us roll over quietly and accept our fate, abandon our city to the shadows.”

“Never!” cried a single voice, and the cry echoed through the crowd like wildfire. “Never!”

Mith Barak raised his hands again for silence. He hesitated, gazing with shining eyes over the army, though only those standing closest to him saw the tremor that passed over his face, the breath of sorrow and joy that seized him. “I have lived long enough to dwell among the greater and lesser races of this world. Along that path, I’ve seen the towering spires of mighty empires and the hovels of the poorest, meanest wretches. I have walked alone and with others at my side. In all that time, I have never claimed a true home or family for myself. Clanless, I called myself, and clanless I remained. Until now.”

Icelin expected shouts and cheers from the crowd, but a hush had fallen over the army. Thousands of dwarf bodies pressed close, hanging on the words of their king, a kind of desperate longing in their eyes. Tears standing in her own eyes, Icelin reached behind her for Ruen’s hand.

Mith Barak bowed his head; then, gazing at those dwarves nearest him in turn, he nodded. A peaceful stillness descended over his weary face. “This day, I say that Iltkazar is and ever was my home, my clan.” He moved forward, passing into the gathered throng.

The crowd parted, but only enough to let the king pass. The dwarves reached to meet the hands Mith Barak stretched out to them. In a minute, the army had enveloped him, and the only way to follow his progress across the plaza was by the joy that broke over the faces in the crowd.

The master armswoman followed the king. Icelin smiled as Joya and the rest of her family emerged from the crowd. Ingara and Arngam followed close behind.

“We should get ready,” Ingara said. She turned to Icelin and Ruen. “Our family is overseeing the defense of the city near the main gate. We’d be honored if you joined us there.”

“The honor is ours,” Ruen said. “Lead the way.”

Icelin hesitated. She glanced back at the great hall. “I need to do something first.”

“You’re not thinkin’ of goin’ back in there to see the drow?” Sull asked. “He’s … she’s out of her head, lass.”

“Then it won’t matter one way or another,” Icelin said. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll come with you,” Joya said. “She might benefit from healing.”

“Don’t be long,” Garn said. “The king walks among his people for a purpose. He’ll be getting the army into position, and we don’t know yet if this ‘parlay’ is going to happen.” His tone left little doubt what he thought of negotiating with the drow.

Icelin followed Joya back through the hall to the library door. Joya drew her axe. “Just in case,” she said in answer to Icelin’s questioning glance.

When they entered, Zollgarza was sitting up by the fire. Icelin blinked in surprise when she recognized the seneschal standing over her.

“Any change?” Joya asked, tension stiffening her posture.

The seneschal looked up at them and smiled faintly. “I knew you would come back one last time,” she said, addressing Icelin. “I am pleased you found what you sought.”

“Thank you,” Icelin said, “for everything.” She glanced at Zollgarza and was surprised again when the drow met her gaze. A bright, feverish light danced in her eyes. Icelin didn’t know if that was a sign that she was coming out of her madness or descending further into it.

“You,” Zollgarza said. She had a beautiful voice, soft and husky. “You’re the one I need.” She spoke with an effort. “I can’t … kill you.”

“Better you don’t try, either,” Joya remarked, though she made no move to brandish her axe.