蛛后之战(被遗忘的国度系列英文版)-第1部分

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War　of　the　Spider　Queen　1　　Dissolution
　
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　e　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。
　
C　h　a　p　t　e　r　　
ONE
　　　Gromph　Baenre；　Archmage　of　Menzoberranzan；　flicked　a　long；　obsidianskinned　finger。　His　office　door；　a　black　marble　rectangle　incised　all　over　with　lines　of　tiny　runes；　swung　noiselessly　shut　and　locked　its　self。
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　plex　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　sigiladorned　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　mon　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　minutes；　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　Menzoberranzan　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。
Dusting　a　few　specks　and　smears　of　the　flying　vermin　from　his　nimble　hands；　Gromph　moved　to　the　section　of　the　room　containing　an　extensive　collection　of　wizard's　tools。　Humming；　he　selected　a　spiralcarved　ebony　staff　from　a　wyvern'sfoot　stand；　an　onyxstudded　iron　amulet　from　its　velvetlined　box；　and　a　wickedly　curved　athame　from　a　rack　of　similar　ritual　knives。　He　sniffed　several　ceramic　pots　of　incense　before　finally　selecting；　as　he　often　did；　the　essence　of　black　lotus。
As　he　murmured　an　invocation　to　the　Abyssal　powers　and　lit　a　brazen　censor　with　the　tame　little　flame　he　could　conjure　at　will；　he　hesitated。　To　his　surprise；　he　found　himself　wondering　if　he　truly　wanted　to　proceed。
Menzoberranzan　was　in　desperate　straits；　even　though　most　of　her　citizens　hadn't　yet　realized　it。　In　Gromph's　place；　many　another　wizard　would　embrace　the　situation　as　an　unparalleled　opportunity　to　enhance　his　own　power；　but　the　Archmage　saw　deeper。　The　city　had　experienced　too　many　shocks　and　setbacks　in　recent　years。　Another　upheaval　could　cripple　or　even　destroy　it；　and　he　didn't　fancy　life　in　a　Menzoberranzan　that　was　merely　a　broken　mockery　of　its　former　glory。　Nor　did　he　see　himself　as　a　homeless　wanderer　begging　sanctuary　and　employment　from　the　indifferent　rulers　of　some　foreign　realm。　He　had　resolved　to　correct　the　current　problem；　not　exploit　it。
Except　I　am　about　to　exploit　it　in　at　least　a　limited　way；　aren't　I？　He　thought。　Give　in　to　temptation　and　seize　the　advantage；　even　if　so　doing　further　destabilizes　the　already　precarious　status　quo。
Gromph　snorted　his　momentary　and　uncharacteristic　misgivings　away。　The　drow　were　children　of　chaos—of　paradox；　contradiction；　and　perhaps　even　perversity。　It　was　the　source　of　their　strength。　So　yes；　curse　it；　why　not　walk　in　two　opposite　directions　at　the　same　time？　When　would　he　get　another　chance　to　so　alter　his　circumstances？
He　moved　to　one　of　the　plex　pentacles　inlaid　in　gold　on　the　marble　floor　and　traced　the　tip　of　the　black　staff　along　its　curves　and　angles；　sealing　it。　That　done；　he　swept　the　athame　in　ritual　passes　and　chanted　a　rhyme　that　returned　to　its　own　beginning　like　a　serpent　swallowing　its　tail。　The　cloying　sweetness　of　black　lotus　hung　in　the　air；　and　he　could　feel　the　narcotic　vapors　lifting　his　consciousness　into　a　state　of　almost　painful　concentration　and　lucidity。
He　lost　all　track　of　time；　had　no　idea　whether　he'd　been　reciting　for　ten　minutes　or　an　hour；　but　the　moment　finally　came　when　he'd　recited　long　enough。　The　nether　spirit　Beradax　appeared　in　the　center　of　the　pentacle；　seeming　to　jerk　up　out　of　the　floor　like　a　fish　at　the　end　of　an　angler's　line。
His　centuries　of　wizardry　had　rendered　Gromph　about　as　indifferent　to　ugliness　and　grotesquerie　as　a　member　of　his　callous　race　could　get；　yet　even　he　found　Beradax　an　unpleasant　spectacle。　The　creature　wore　the　approximate　shape　of　a　dark　elf　female　or　perhaps　a　human　woman；　bu