war of the spider queen 4 extinction-第50部分

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　　　The　words　echoed　in　Ryld's　mind。
　　　Die。　。　。　die。　。　。　die。　We　must　die。　We　must　take　our　place　beside　the　others；　it　is　your　duty。　You　must　die。　。　。
　　　Rooted　to　the　spot　by　the　intensity　of　the　mand；　Ryld　tried　to　obey。　He　turned　Splitter；　holding　it　by　the　blade　and　placing　the　hilt　on　the　ground　between　his　feet。　All　he　had　to　do　was　lean　forward；　and　his　agony　would　be　at　an　end。　His　honor；　hanging　in　tatters　like　the　banners　of　his　fallen　army；　would　be　restored。
　　　Letting　his　head　droop；　Ryld　stared　down　at　his　hands…and　the　point　of　the　blade　he　held　between　them。　He　leaned　forward　until　the　magically　keen　blade　punched　through　his　breastplate　to　prick　his　chest；　and　felt　the　eyes　of　his　manding　officer　watching　him　approvingly。　All　he　had　to　do　was　allow　his　weight　to　fall　forward；　and　the　defeat　of　the　army　of　Lord　Velar　would　be　。。。
　　　Ryld's　eye　was　caught　by　a　ring　on　the　finger　of　his　own　left　hand。　Shaped　like　a　small；　twisting　dragon；　it　was　obviously　an　insignia　of　some　sort。　The　army　of　Lord　Velar　had　been　laid　low　by　dragons…what　was　a　ring　shaped　like　one　of　those　foul　creatures　doing　on　his　finger？　It　was　just　plain　wrong。　。　。
　　　No　。　。　。　the　ring　was　the　only　thing　that　was　right。　It　marked　Ryld　as　a　Master　of　Melee…Magthere　and　triggered　in　him　a　realization。
　　　He　was　not　an　officer　in　some　army　that　was　defeated　centuries　before　he　was　born。　He　was　Ryld　Argith；　Weapons　Master　of　Melee…Magthere；　citizen　of　Menzoberranzan。
　　　Shaking　his　head　violently；　Ryld　threw　off　the　last　of　the　magical　pulsion。　He　let　Splitter　fall　from　his　hands　and　drew　his　shortsword…a　weapon　that　had　been　enchanted　with　just　such　a　foe　as　this　in　mind。　The　weapons　master　leaped　forward；　plunging　it　into　the　undead　officer's　chest。
　　　His　blade　met　resistance；　just　as　if　it　had　been　thrusting　into　solid　chain　mail　and　living　flesh；　and　the　thrust　did　the　job。　Glancing　down　at　the　sword　that　was　buried　in　its　heart…beside　its　own　dagger…the　undead　officer　let　out　a　groan。　Ryld　yanked　his　short　sword　free　and　danced　back　out　of　range。
　　　A　wisp　of　dark　mist　spurted　from　the　puncture　the　sword　had　made　in　the　undead　officer's　chest。　The　smokelike　substance　that　was　its　lower　body　began　to　swirl。　Within　the　space　of　a　few　heartbeats　its　stomach；　chest；　arms；　and　neck　dissolved　into　dark　mist。
　　　The　head　was　the　last　thing　to　disappear。　As　it　did；　the　undead　officer's　lips　curled　into　a　smile；　and　its　eyes　brightened。
　　　Thank　you；　it　whispered。
　　　A　heartbeat　later；　it　was　gone。
　　　Shuddering　at　his　close　escape；　Ryld　stared　at　the　sword　in　his　hands。　The　blade　was　unblemished；　its　plunge　into　the　undead　officer　didn't　seem　to　have　tarnished　it。　He　peered　carefully　in　each　direction　to　make　sure　there　were　no　more　of　the　foul　creatures。　Seeing　none；　he　returned　his　short　sword　to　its　sheath；　then　picked　up　Splitter　and　sheathed　it　as　well。　He　resumed　his　journey；　following　Halisstra's　trail。
　　　The　sooner　she　finds　this　sword　she's　looking　for　and　leaves　the　Cold　Field；　the　weapons　master　thought；　the　better。
　　　
　　　Halisstra　sank；　exhausted；　into　a　crouch；　feet　crunching　the　dusting　of　snow　that　had　fallen　just　after　the　moon　rose。　She'd　been　searching　for　a　night　and　a　day…and　on　into　a　second　night…without　pausing　for　rest。　She'd　tried　to　cast　the　spell　that　would　help　her　to　locate　the　Crescent　Blade　several　times；　but　though　she　was　certain　she'd　mitted　the　words　of　the　song　to　memory　correctly；　she　might　have　confused　the　melody　slightly。　Either　that；　or　the　darksong　was　still　beyond　her　limited　reach。　She'd　felt　none　of　the　tingling　certainty　that　should　have　led　the　way　to　the　object　she　was　seeking。　The　only　thing　she'd　felt　was　the　incessant　cold　wind　sweeping　across　the　desolate　plain。
　　　She　sat　in　the　darkness；　peering　through　the　gloom　at　the　object　she'd　just　pulled　from　the　breast　pocket　of　her　piwafwi：　her　House　medallion。　When　she　converted　to　Eilistraee's　faith；　she'd　decided　to　set　it　aside　with　the　rest　of　her　past；　but　something　had　made　her　hesitate。　The　brooch　was　magical；　after　all；　and　gave　her　the　ability　to　levitate…but　there　was　more　to　it　than　that。　She　sensed　that　it　was　not　only　a　link　with　her　past　but　with　her　future　as　well。
　　　Setting　the　brooch　beside　her　on　the　snowy　ground；　she　drew　Seyll's　songsword　from　its　sheath　and　raised　the　hilt　of　the　weapon　to　her　lips。　How　did　that　melody　go　again？　It　seemed　strange　to　be　playing　a　song　from　the　bae'qeshel　tradition　on　an　instrument　forged　for　a　priestess　of　the　Lady　of　the　Dance　。。。　or　did　it？　Wasn't　the　raising　of　the　skills　and　talents　of　the　Underdark　to　the　World　Above　the　very　end　for　which　Eilistraee　strove？
　　　For　a　time；　Halisstra　concentrated　on　her　fingering；　trying　the　melody　in　different　keys　and　pausing；　from　time　to　time；　to　warm　her　fingers　by　blowing　on　them。　Though　she　tried　to　concentrate；　her　mind　kept　drifting；　and　her　eyelids　felt　heavy。　After　more　than　a　cycle　and　a　half　of　constant　searching；　she　was　desperately　in　need　of　the　release　that　Reverie　could　give。　She　longed　to　let　it　claim　her；　to　drift　among　her　memories　until　they　soothed　her；　but　she　couldn't　give　up　her　search。　Exhausted　though　she　was；　she　would　master　the　spell　before　she　rested。　But　the　bitterly　cold　wind　seemed　to　snatch　away　the　notes　and　fling　them　into　the　night；　scattering　her　efforts　like　dead　leaves　in　a　wind。
　　　Lowering　the　songsword；　Halisstra　stared　at　the　scraps　of　bone　and　rusted　metal　that　protruded　through　the　snow　all　around　her。　Centuries　before　an　army　had　taken　the　field　against　a　foe　who　counted　dragons　among　their　allies。　Knowing　that　they　would　almost　certainly　be　defeated；　those　soldiers　had　nonetheless　marched　bravely　into　battle…and　been　slain。
　　　Centuries　later；　at　the　urging　of　a　dead　priestess；　Halisstra　was　about　to　face　even　more　impossible　odds。　It　was　madness　to　think　that　she　could　defeat　a　goddess。　Even　armed　with　the　Crescent　Blade…assuming　she　could　find　it…Halisstra　would　surely　be　defeated。　Lolth's　power　was　unimaginably　vast　and　all　enpassing；　no　one　could　escape　her　web　of　destruction　and　vengeance。　Halisstra　was　foolish　to　even　think　of　trying。
　　　Perhaps　it　would　be　better　if　she　didn't　find　the　Crescent　Blade。
　　　Suddenly　Halisstra　sensed　someone　looking　over　her　shoulder。　Someone　whose　breath　came　in　thin；　chill　gasps。
　　　Startled；　she　sprang　to　her　feet；　songsword　in　hand。　She　whirled　but　saw　no　one。　Quickly；　she　sang　the　spell　that　would　allow　her　to　see　invisible　creatures。　The　few　flakes　of　snow　sharpened　as　the　air　took　on　a　magical　shimmer；　but　still　she　saw　nothing。
　　　Then　a　ghostly　figure　materialized　right　in　front　of　her。
　　　It　was　a　drow　female；　but　one　who　had　been　horribly　disfigured。　Long　white　hair　clung　in　straggling　clumps　to　a　scalp　that　was　puckered　with　deep　pits；　and　her　face　was　terribly　burned。　Where　the　nose　had　been　was　nothing　but　a　gaping　hole；　and　the　eyes　were　likewise　missing。　Skin　had　bubbled　in　enormous　blisters　on　the　face　and　on　those　portions　of　the　arms　and　legs　that　were　bare。　The　torso；　thankfully；　was　hidden　by　a　chain　mail　tunic；　but　the　metal　links　were　corroded　and　loose　as　though　the　armor　had　been　hurled　into　a　lake　of　acid。
　　　Halisstra　clutched　the　broken　songsword；　heart　pounding；　wishing　desperately　that　she　held　a　better　weapon。　The　ghostly　figure；　however；　made　no　threatening　moves。　Instead　it　stooped　and　reached　for　something　on　the　ground：　Halisstra's　brooch。　As　it　did；　a　medallion　that　hung　from　its　waist　by　a　metal　chain　swung　forward。　Like　the　chain　mail；　the　medallion　was　blackened　and　pitted；　but　Halisstra　could　see　a　faint　trace　of　the　design　it　once　bore：　Eilistraee's　symbol。
　　　Halisstra　glanced　at　the　corroded　sheath　at　the　figure's　hip…a　sheath　that　was　curved　like　a　crescent　moon。　Slowly；　she　lowered　her　sword。
　　　〃You're　Mathira　Melarn；〃　she　whispered。
　　　The　ghost　nodded。
　　　〃I'm　looking　for　the　Crescent　Blade；〃　Halisstra　told　the　ghost。　〃Will　you　help　me？〃
　　　Once　again　the　figure　gave　a　slow；　mournful　nod。
　　　〃Where　is　it？〃　Halisstra　asked。
　　　The　ghost　opened　its　mouth；　but　all　that　came　out　was　a　gurgling　groan。　The　tongue　was　missing；　burned　away　by　the　acid　that　had　consumed　the　rest　of　the　woman's　body。　The　wyrm　that　had　killed　her　must　have　been　a　black　dragon。　Halisstra　shuddered　at　the　thought　of　the　agonies　its　acid　spittle　must　have　wrought　upon　the　priestess　in　the　moments　just　before　her　death。
　　　Can　you　sign？　Halisstra　asked。
　　　In　answer；　the　ghost　let　Halisstra's　medallion　fall　to　the　ground　and　raised　hands　that　were　lumps　of　pitted　flesh；　the　fingers　burned　away　to　skeletal　stubs。　Then；　turning　stiffly　as　if　still　suffering　the　agonies　of　her　wounds；　she　motioned　with　one　arm　in　a　gesture　whose　meaning　was　clear　enough：　e。
　　　Halisstra　glanced　at　her　House　insignia　and　saw　that　the　ghost's　touch　had　left　it　pitted　and　blackened。　Not　wanting　to　touch　it；　Halisstra　left　the　medallion　where　it　lay　and　followed　the　ghost。
　　　
Chapter　Thirty
　　　When　Ryld　saw　the　metal　object　peeking　out　of　the　snow；　he　thought　it　was　another　bit　of　battlefield　debris。　Corroded　and　pieced　with　black　spots；　the　brooch　looked　centuries　old。　Then　the　shape　of　the　piece　caught　his　eye。　Quickly　he　stooped　to　pick　it　up；　then　winced　as　something　on　the　brooch　stung　his　hands。　Holding　the　brooch　by　the　edges；　he　sniffed；　and　caught　an　acrid　odor。　Acid？
　　　Turning　the　brooch　over　confirmed　his　guess。　Only　portions　of　it　looked　ancient。　The　clasp　on　the　back　was　undamaged；　and　sections　of　the　metal　were　still　brightly　polished。　It　was　no　battlefield　remnant。
　　　He　peered　at　it　more　closely；　trying　to　make　out　what　design　had　been　on　the　front　of　it。　When　he　at　last　confirmed　his　guess；　he　shuddered。
　　　It　was　Halisstra's　brooch…the　insignia　that　marked　her　as　a　noble　daughter　of　House　Melarn。　Something　must　have　surprised　her；　out　on　the　wind…blasted　plain。　Had　she　been　wearing　the　brooch　on　her　piwafwi？　If　so；　she　might　have　been　injured　when　whatever　had　aged　the　metal　had　struck　her。
　　　Searching　the　ground　carefully；　Ryld　saw　none　of　the　usual　signs　of　a　struggle。　Two　deep　footprints　and　a　mark　m