when she needed it. Though she wasn’t quite sure how the magic worked. Would the stone’s power to break artificial bonds of imprisonment allow her to squirm free from tons of entombing rock, too? Her stomach churned at the thought.
A click-click sound made her pause.
“Does anyone else hear that?” she said. She squeezed the Prisoner’s Stone back into glovespace.
“Shhh,” hissed Demascus, his head cocked. He’d heard it, too. The clicking sound continued, occasionally breaking off for several long moments before resuming. It came from the tunnel ahead. It might be the sound of two rocks knocking together … or two mandibles! It was too faint to be sure.
Jaul’s eyes locked on hers-wide with alarm but also with triumph. He’d led them to something, at least. Demascus took the lead, motioning for everyone else to follow. The light of Chant’s sunrod slid off the deva like water, as if he was already transitioning into a halfshadow state. Riltana followed, but not too close, in case the deva fully woke his power. She worried he’d accidentally kill her one day while he was enveloped in the vestige of what he’d once been.
The tunnel descended in a series of tight switchbacks dropping them a hundred or more yards before opening into an enormous cavern lit with a hovering pillar of purple flame. Splintered planks from an elevator lay scattered across the stone floor. Tether cord was splayed in hundred-yard loops across the room like spilled blood. Riltana realized it must be the platform Demascus had cut loose. She sucked in a breath. The driders had come up from this chamber! Where were they now?
A few dozen cocoons swayed on lines descending from the ceiling. She spied no spiders, no dark elves, no driders. She didn’t feel any relief. If their foes weren’t here, where were they?
The floor was a checkerboard of vertical lifts and drops, each level a random distance above or below its neighbor. Narrow planks connected some of the surfaces above dark crevices. Other level areas were isolated miniature mesas. Webs clogged many of the pits.
Jaul pointed straight across the cavern. “The mine face is the far wall,” he whispered, remaining quiet, it seemed, more out of awe than stealth.
Riltana squinted. The purple illumination made visibility tricky, but she made out a shape curling out of the rock. Half was free of entombment, apparently thanks to the careful work of picks and chisels. It glowed silver even in the bluish-red light.
“The arambarium mother lode?” she asked.
Arathane studied the object for a few moments. “It must be,” she finally replied.
“It’s big as a house,” said Chant. “And it looks like … Wait. That can’t be right.”
“What can’t be?” said Jaul.
“The chunk of mineral. Does it look like … a disembodied hand to you?”
asked Chant.
“Lords of shadow!” exclaimed Demascus.
Riltana agreed. The damn thing
The clicking resumed as a procession entered the vault, emerging from behind a fold of rock in the opposite corner of the cavern. The first few creatures resembled a cross between gangly humans and bloated spiders. They had long, slender arms and legs protruding from rounded, fleshy bodies. Bulbous black eyes blinked from their spider heads.
Riltana ducked behind a knob of basalt. Her companions scurried to follow her lead.
“More spider hybrids,” hissed Demascus.
“Ettercaps,” replied Chant softly. “They’re ettercaps.”
Riltana didn’t give a flying piss whether they were called ettercaps or bumbledorks. Either way, they were bad news.
The creatures pulled a sledge into view. Instead of runners, the transport slid on air itself. Three creatures rode on the sledge: a drider, a blue ogre with horns, and an ebony-skinned woman with hair like spun ice and an outfit composed of equal parts armor and bared skin. Though Riltana had never seen one before, she knew the woman was a drow.
“Oh, shit,” she breathed. The tinkle of a silly child’s rhyme started up unbidden in her head, in time to the clicking, about fat spiders and playing hide and seek in the trees.…
“The drider greeters told you to leave,” the drow said, facing their direction. She didn’t yell, but her voice carried across the irregular chamber with perfect resonance.
“She knows we’re here!” whispered Jaul. Chant shushed him.
“But you didn’t listen,” the drow continued. “So you’ve made your choice.”
Demascus sighed. He straightened and stepped forward several paces, up a plank and out onto one of the mesa-like platforms.
“You’re Chenraya Xorlarrin, with whom Master Raneger made an alliance?” the deva said, his voice loud enough to carry. Lord Pashra and the drider tensed, but the drow murmured something to them Riltana couldn’t hear.
“You’ve followed us far,” she said, her voice again as audible as if she were standing next to them. “Even onto the Demonweb. Very rash. Lolth knows your scent.”
Demascus waved his hand as if the drow’s words were irrelevant. “So Raneger remains your ally?”
She laughed. “Of course not! No priestess of Lolth would long pollute herself pretending to treat another as an equal. Especially that overinflated worm.” She sniffed. “But the fool Raneger served his purpose. If not for the blind of his warehouse, I might’ve learned too late that someone else had discovered my interest in this ridiculous country.”
Queen Arathane broke cover and joined Demascus. Her bodyguard hustled to follow her.
“You’ve made your last mistake, Mistress Xorlarrin,” announced Arathane. “I rule this ‘ridiculous country,’ as you name it. I’m more than capable of ending your threat to Akanul’s sovereignty.”
Chenraya was too far away for Riltana to make out any expression on the dark elf’s face, but her momentary stillness spoke volumes. The drow was surprised, perhaps even suddenly afraid to find the monarch of Akanul was there. Some of the tension that had been building in the windsoul’s jaws and throat eased. Not that she was yet ready to stand up and expose her position; she remained huddled behind cover with Chant and Jaul.
Finally Chenraya said, “I don’t doubt you are strong. But I’m under Lolth’s protection. The Demon Queen gave each of her daughters-all the drow, in fact, even the sniveling husbands and sons of the drow-a challenge. Mine is to recover this piece of ejecta from the forgotten twin of Toril, for Lolth’s coming transformation. You’ll not stop me.”
Chant whispered, “Arathane’s got the drow talking-we should attack while she’s distracted. Or better yet, run.”
“Shhh. I want to hear what she’s saying,” Riltana said. She was no intellectual, but if Lolth was mobilizing the drow for some sinister scheme, it probably wasn’t a bad idea to find out why.
Chant sighed, but lapsed back into silence.
The dark elf was still speaking, “… this relic limb of the dead primordial Arambar, slain in the ancient wars before Abeir-Toril became two. I have as much right to it as anyone. Indeed, I found the mother lode first, despite all your feeble scratching in the earth to collect its residue. It’s mine.”
Arathane shook her head. “Whether it’s a mineral deposit or a relic of some long dead creature, it’s the property of Akanul-we’ve claimed this isle for decades, and have worked the stone, extracting its resources. And regardless, you’ve slain my people who labored here under my protection. There’s no scenario under which you’ll leave this place alive and unpunished.”
“So much for the diplomatic option,” Chant murmured.
“Then come stop me, genasi,” purred Chenraya. The drow and her party stepped off the sledge. She glanced at the cluster of ettercaps. “Remove the Hand of Arambar from the stone and secure it.”
Demascus glanced at Arathane and her remaining bodyguard, then back at Riltana and the others. His slow grin of excitement spoke volumes. The idiot was eager to fight.
Dozens more ettercaps crawled up from web-clogged pits scattered across the vault floor. They were accompanied by spiders of every size, including one as large as a half-grown dragon. The cocoons hanging from the
