"Realms of the Underdark 2.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthologies) Realms of the Underdark PREFACE At the
Publishing House The
offices of Tym Waterdeep Limited, the most successful publishing firm in all
Faerun, had been fraught with tension for several weeks. Justin Tym, Faerun's
most successful publisher, was worried about the upcoming list. It was common
knowledge throughout the City of Splendors that TWL (as it was known to the
bookselling community) was on the verge of publishing their two most eagerly
anticipated titles yet. Cormyr:
A Novel had received numerous prepublication endorsements, and initial orders
were at an all-time high for a first novel. Likewise, Volo's Guide to the
Dalelands had all the earmarks of becoming the most successful volume in the
guide series written by the gazetteer rumored to be the most successful
traveler in all the Realms. Without
a doubt, TWUs current list was their best ever .. . yet Justin Tym was still
worried. Unlike the common book buyer, seller, or reader, a book publisher
seldom worried about the titles currently being released. His concerns were
typically the next season's list, titles currently being edited and readied for
publication; and next year's roster, those titles to be contracted to assure
that the firm maintains the strength of its list in the times ahead. Justin
Tym was deeply concerned because, as of yet, no new surefire success had found
its way to his desk and onto the list to follow up the current crop of titles. Though
a follow-up novel to Cormyr: A Novel was under discussion (perhaps a sequel, or
perhaps something totally different, such as Evermeet: A Novel), the author in
question, Greenwood Grubb, was beginning to show signs of becoming a prima
donna, toiling over every word. Where Cormyr: A Novel was written over the
course of the aged scholar's seasonal sabbatical, Grubb had already indicated
that the new title would probably take at least thrice as long to write,
commenting that artists need time for the creative juices to flow. Tym
suspected that the juices that would be flowing were of the more distilled
variety, that they would continue to flow until the advance from the earlier
book had been completely spent, and that the scholar would not apply himself to
his next opus until he absolutely had to: when the gelt ran out. Unfortunately
this could be, depending on the extravagance of the author's tastes, several
seasons from now. True, success for the next title was almost assured once it
was published, but no one, particularly not TWL's creditors, expected the house
to stop the presses until thai time. Weighing
even more heavily on Justin's mind, however, were the curious set of
circumstances connected to the other title. TWL had
always been sole publisher of the works of the legendary Volothamp Geddarm, and
Tym had always considered the success of the numerous Volo's guides to be the
product of a true publishing partnership. He thought Volo considered him more
than just a publisher, maybe even a father figure (or perhaps an older brother,
since their ages weren't really that far apart). Likewise, he considered Volo
more than just a travel writer or some hack author; he was the house's cash
cow, the goose that laid the golden volumes. He was that rare commodity: a
bankable author. Theirs
was a relationship blessed by the gods; at least it was until a few months ago. Justin
scratched the top of his pate. It was long forlorn of hair and most recently
the home of more than a few wrinkles, which had been creeping upward from his
brow line. He still couldn't understand what could possibly have come between
them. A lunch
meeting had been set, as was their custom, but Volo sent a message canceling
the appointment due to some other more pressing commitment. Justin didn't think
much of it at the time. He simply figured Volo was embarrassed by not having a
new project ready to feed into the TWL publishing pipeline, especially since
his Guide to Shadowdale was already about halfway through its production cycle.
With a shrug, Justin decided to take the rest of the day off. The
next day, when he returned to the office, he discovered that Volo had come by
that very afternoon demanding payment for some manuscript he claimed to have
delivered that very morning. Had Justin been in, something might have been
worked out; but an overzealous employee (who was later dismissed) ushered the
star author rather rudely off the premises and gave him a sound tongue-lashing
for having stood up the venerable publisher for lunch. Not a
word had been heard from the author since that day, and Justin was more than a
bit worried. "Where
will I send the next royalty payment?" the publisher fretted. "And,
more importantly, what will I do for a new Volo's guide? We had discussed doing
the next one on the Moonsea area. Without it, my next year's list is as barren
as the Battle of the Bones." Paige
Latour, Justin's latest in a long line of secretaries and the most curvaceous
to date, entered the publisher's office, undetected by her preoccupied boss.
"Justin, I mean, Mr. Tym," she said, interrupting him from his
worrisome speculations while proffering a sealed parchment pouch. " A
messenger just dropped this off for you." "Probably
just another wanna-be submission," the publisher offered absently. "Send
it back unread. You know the procedure." "But
I think you might want to read it." "Not
now," he retorted curtly. "Just handle it, and don't bother me." "But,
boss," she insisted, "I really think you should read it. It's from
some guy named Volothamp, and I figured maybe you could talk him into
shortening his name and taking over those Volo's guides you've been worried
about." "Volothamp?"
Tym inquired, jolted out of his preoccupations. "Yeah,
boss," she replied. Patting herself on the back, she added, "Pretty
neat plan I've come up with, huh?" "Give
me the pouch," the publisher ordered. "Sure
thing," Paige replied. "Can I be an editor now? You promised you'd
show me the ropes, but so far you've only shown me . .." Justin
only had to glance at the writing to immediately recognize the penmanship. "Miss
Latour," Justin interrupted. "This isn't the ideal candidate for a
pseudo-Volo." "It's
not?" she asked, puzzled by her boss's reaction. "No,
this is from the real Volo," he replied. "Oh,"
she groused, not even trying to hide her disappointment. "I guess I'm not
ready to be an editor yet." Miss
Latour quickly left Tym's office as he read the short missive. Justin, All is
forgiven. Moonsea
guide is still in the works, but should be done on schedule. We can
discuss Magic volume when I return (dare I suggest over lunch?). Till
then, please spot me some gelt, care of the Shipmaster's Hall (you know my
earned royalties will make good on it and more). Best, Volo P.S.
I'm working on another project that will make the Moonsea guide look like last
year's WHO'S WHO AMONG THE ZHENTARIM, but have decided to keep you in the dark
about it until it nears completion (Hee, hee!). The
publisher stared at the missive several times while mopping his brow with a
recently untied cravat. He was happy the tension brought about by situations
unknown seemed to have been defused, but he was still concerned about the
upcoming schedule. Did this mean the Moonsea guide would be in on time or not,
and what of this other project? Volo had always been fond of puzzles, puns, and
conundrums. Perhaps there was a clue in the note, and maybe the solution would
mean TWL's salvation as well. Hmmmmm.
... THE
FIRES OF NARBONDEL Mark
Anthony Chapter
One Weapons
Master There
are a thousand deaths in the Underdark-a thousand different horrors skulking in
lightless caverns and lurking deep in still black pools, each waiting to rend
unwary flesh with fang, or talon, or caustic venom. In the overworld, far
above, animals kill so that they might eat and live. But the creatures that
haunt the dark labyrinth beneath the face of Toril do not kill to live, for
life itself is agony to them. They kill because they are driven to kill: by
madness, by hatred, and by the foul atmosphere of evil that pervades every
stone of this place. They kill because, only in killing, can they know release. With
the silence of one shadow slipping past another, Zaknafein-weapons master of
House Do'Urden, Ninth House of Menzoberranzan, ancient city of the dark elves-trod
down the rough-walled passage. He had left his lizard mount behind, clinging to
the side of a massive stalagmite some distance back. Swift and soundless as the
giant reptiles were, Zak preferred to rely on his own powers of stealth for the
final twists and turns. It would not be far now. Like a
wraith, he plunged deeper into the Dark. Dominion,
the wild region beyond the borders of the underground city. His ebon skin and
black rothe-hide garments merged with the dusky air, and he had concealed his
shock of bone-white hair beneath the deep hood of hispiwafwi, his magic-tinged
cloak. Only the faint red glow of his eyes-eyes that required no light to see,
but only the countless gradations of heat radiated by stone and flesh and all
things in between- might have belied that it was not a dark breath of air that
moved down the passage, but a living being. Zak
cocked his head, pointed ears listening for the first telltale sounds. He had
now passed beyond the farthest reach of the patrols-those merciless troops of
dark-elf soldiers and wizards that kept the tunnels around Menzoberranzan free
of monsters. Anything might lie beyond the next bend of stone, any one of those
thousand waiting horrors. Yes, death could be found in endless variety in the
Underdark. But what did he have to fear? Zaknafein laughed without sound, his
white teeth shining in the darkness. Were not the draw the greatest horror of
all? He
moved on. Minutes
later Zak came upon his prey: a band of pale, bug-eyed kobolds. Until that
moment, he had not known he was hunting the stunted, dog-snouted creatures. It
might have been bugbears, or deepspawn, or black crawlers, or any one of a
score of different monsters. It made no difference. All that mattered was that
they were evil. He had come upon the kobolds first. They would serve him well
enough. The
ragged creatures huddled in a small cave, pawing over the spoils of their
latest victim. Zak's red eyes detected the cold metallic outline of a horned
helm and a stout warhammer. A dwarf. Dwarves were fierce fighters, and kobolds
were cowardly creatures, but a dozen of them would not hesitate to swarm a lone
wanderer. No doubt the dwarf had had the ill luck to find himself alone and too
far from the underground home of his clan. Tufts of hair matted with blood
still clung to the armor and weapons. The kobolds had jumped him and ripped him
to shreds. "Mine!"
one of the creatures shrieked in the crude common tongue of the Underdark, its
eyes glowing with lust. It snatched a cloak of fine cloth from one of the
others, clutching it in grimy hands. "Mine,
it is!" the other kobold growled. "I it was who bit its filthy
neck!" "No,
mine!" hissed a third. "Gouged its foul, sticky eyes with my own
fingers, I did!" The two
hateful contenders tackled the first creature, snarling and biting with yellow
teeth, tearing the cloak to tatters in the process. Quarrels broke out among
the rest of the kobolds as they fought over the dead dwarfs goods. Zak knew he
had to act now if there was to be any work left for him to do. Tossing back his
concealing piwafwi, he stepped into the cave. "Why
don't I settle this little argument for you?" he asked in a ringing voice.
A fierce grin split his angular visage. "How about if you all
get-nothing?" The
kobolds froze, staring at the drow weapons master in surprise and dread, bits
of cloth and jewelry dropping from their bloodstained fingers. Then, as one,
the diminutive creatures shrieked in terror, scrambling and clawing past each
other to escape the nightmare before them. There was nothing in all the
Underdark that kobolds feared more than drow. For good reason. With
one hand, Zak drew his adamantite sword, while the other uncoiled the whip from
his belt. In an almost lazy gesture, he flicked his wrist. The whip struck like
a black serpent, taking the feet out from under the nearest kobold. His sword
followed. Like a dying insect, the kobold squirmed for a moment on the end of
his blade. Then Zak heaved the creature aside, turning toward the next. Kobolds
were like candy. He could never kill just one. Zaknafein's
grin broadened as he cut a swath through the shrieking tangle. He was slender,
like all elven kind, but his lithe form was as sharp and well-honed as his
blade. In a city of warriors, Zak knew he was one of the best. It was not a
matter of pride. It was simply fact. Another
kobold expired on the end of his sword, the evil phosphorescence of life fading
from its eyes until they were as cool and dull as stones. Even as one hand
wrested the blade from the dead creature, the other lashed out with the whip.
Supple leather coiled around a fleeing kobold's neck, stopping it in its
tracks. The thing clutched at its throat, fingers scrabbling in vain. . Zak
gave the whip an expert tug, snapping the creature's neck. Excitement
surged in his chest. Zaknafein had been alive for nearly four hundred years,
and he had spent almost all of those years mastering the art of battle. This
was his calling. This was what he had been born to do. Zak
spun and danced easily through the writhing throng of kobplds, falling now into
the trancelike rhythm of the fray. When killing things of evil, he felt a
clarity he did not know at other times. Unlike anything else in the tangled and
devious world of the dark elves, this made sense to him. In Menzoberranzan, all
life revolved around station. Each of the noble houses in the city was caught
in a never-ending game of intrigue, alliance, and treachery. All of it served
one goal: to win the favor of the dark goddess Lloth. Those who gained the blessing
of the Spider Queen knew great power and prosperity, while those who earned her
displeasure found only destruction and death. To Zak, climbing Lloth's Ladder
was a pointless exercise. No family stayed in Lloth's favor forever. Each was
doomed to fall eventually. He wanted no part of that meaningless game. The
machinations, the deceits, the shadowed plots: all were beyond him. But
this-another kobold died screaming under the swing of his blade-this he
understood. Zak blinked. The
small cavern had fallen silent, save for the piteous whining of a single kobold
that cowered before him. All the rest of the evil creatures were dead. Veins
thrumming with exhilaration, Zak raised his adamantite sword to finish what he
had begun. That
was when he saw it. It dangled from a silvery thread not five paces away and
watched him with eyes like black, many-faceted jewels. A spider. The
sword halted in its descent. Zak stared at the arachnid. It was only an
ordinary rock spider, no larger than the palm of his hand. But all spiders were
sacred to Lloth. And all were her servants. The metallic taste of disgust
spread across his tongue. He had slain the kobolds for himself, to quell his
own needs. But the act served Lloth as well, did it not? The kobolds were the
enemy of the drow, of her children. Their deaths could only please her. His
lips pulled back, transforming his grin into an expression of loathing. He
turned away from the last kobold, and the creature squealed in surprise,
thinking it had somehow escaped its worst nightmare. Without even looking, Zak
thrust the blade backward, silencing the creature, ending its false hope. But
there was no pleasure in the act. Not now. He glared at the spider, fingered
the handle of his whip, and knew he could crush it with a single flick. But
even he dared not harm one of Lloth's messengers. He let his hand fall from the
weapon. A gloom
settled over him, even darker and more stifling than the oppressive air of the
Underdark. After reluctantly harvesting the expected trophies, he started back
toward the city of the drow. By the
time he reached the edge of the vast underground cavern that housed
Menzoberranzan, his gloom had deepened into despair. Sitting astride the broad
back of his lizard mount, he gazed over the dwelling of the dark elves-his
home, and yet not his home. Long ago, the legends told, the dark elves had
lived in the overworld. They had dwelt along with their fair sylvan kindred,
with no comforting roof of stone above them but only a vast emptiness called
sky. As out of place as Zak felt among his people, the thought of living on the
surface chilled his blood. So changed were the drow after dwelling for eons in
the realms below that they could never live in the overworld again. They were
creatures of the dark now. Lloth had seen to that. She had made them what they
were, and for that he hated her. Zak let
his gaze wander over the eerie cityscape before him. Pale faerie fire, conjured
by the wizards of the various houses, revealed the fantastic shapes into which
the cavern's gigantic stalagmites and stalactites had been hewn. Slender
bridges leapt impossibly between the stone spires. In the five thousand years
during which the dark elves had dwelt in this place, not a single surface had
been left untouched. Every piece of stone had been carved and polished and
shaped to suit the needs of the drow. Everything that was, except for
Narbondel. The
rugged pillar of stone stood, as it had for millennia, in the center of the
great cavern. Here in the unending dark, where there was no alternation of day
and night to mark time, Narbondel served as the city's clock. Once each day,
Menzoberranzan's archmage cast a spell of fire upon the base of the pillar.
Throughout the day the enchanted fire rose, until the entire column glowed with
the heat of it, before finally fading into cool darkness - the Black Death of
Narbondel - upon which the cycle was begun anew. Despite
the magical fires that were cast upon it, each day Narbondel fell black again.
Darkness always won in the end. Zak shook his head. Perhaps he was a fool to
think he was different from the rest of his cruel and capricious kindred. He
killed only creatures of evil, but it was the killing itself he craved, was it
not? Maybe he was no different at all. That was, perhaps, his deepest fear. A faint
humming sound broke his grim reverie. Something twitched against his throat. He
reached into his neck-purse and pulled out the insignia of House Do'Urden. The
adamantite disk was engraved with a spider that wielded a different weapon in
each of its eight appendages. The coin glowed with silver light and was warm
against his hand. It was a summons. Matron Mother Malice, leader of House
Do'Urden, required the presence of her weapons master. For a
moment, Zaknafein gazed into the darkness behind him. He half considered
plunging back into the Dark Dominion and leaving the city forever. The chance
that a lone drow could survive in the Underdark was slim. But there was a
chance. And he could be free. The
metallic disk twitched again on his palm, the heat growing uncomfortable. Zak
sighed. Thoughts of fleeing evaporated. He belonged in the Underdark even less
than he did here. Like it or not, this was his home. He nudged his lizard mount
into a swift, swaying walk, heading through an arched gate into the city of the
drow. One did
not keep one's matron mother waiting. Chapter
Two Matron
Mother "Where
is he?" Matron Mother Malice of House Do'Urden demanded in a voice sharp
with impatience. She
paced with perilous grace before the adamantite railing that separated the
compound's private upper chambers from the common levels below, her dark gown
flowing behind her like shadows. The other nobles of the house-her five living
children, along with her current patron, Rizzen-watched from a prudent
distance. None dared cross the path of her ire. Malice
muttered a curse under her breath. There was no doubt Zaknafein was the finest
weapons master in the city, but that gave her little advantage if she could not
control him. A servant-especially a male servant-did not make his matron wait.
Several years ago, she had revoked Zak's position as patron and had taken
Rizzen in his stead, thinking that would show him the consequences of
displeasing her. In the time since, though, he had become only more willful and
unmanageable. Malice was growing weary of being embarrassed by Zaknafein.
Useful as he was to her, she would not tolerate it much longer. "Let
me deal with Zaknafein when he returns, Matron Malice," offered Briza,
Malice's eldest daughter. Unlike her lithe mother, Briza was a big-boned and
round-shouldered elf. Recently anointed a high priestess of Lloth, she enjoyed
wielding her new authority. "Males are not as intelligent as the rest of
us. There is only one sort of instruction they understand." With fond
fingers, she touched the writhing, snake-headed whip at her belt. The
half-dozen snake heads hissed in anticipation. "If
I have wronged Matron Mother Malice, then punishment is hers to mete out, not
yours, Briza Do'Urden." All
turned to see a feral form step out of midair and float over the adamantite
railing. Zaknafein drifted to the floor before Malice, waving a hand to end the
levitation spell of which all highborn drow are capable-a fact that accounted
for the lack of stairs leading to the upper level of the house. Briza glared
daggers at the weapons master but held her tongue. All knew that his rebuke had
been correct, and that she had overstepped her bounds in her eagerness to
punish him. Malice
folded her arms over her breasts, her expression cold. "I do not like
waiting, Zaknafein. Tell me quickly why I should not give you to Briza and her
whip." "There
is no reason, Matron Mother," Zaknafein replied, bowing his head and
assuming a submissive posture before her. "But allow me to present you
with these before you do what you will." He laid
a grisly bundle at her feet-a dozen hairy kobold ears bound together with
twine. Malice raised a single eyebrow, impressed despite her anger. Kobolds
were wretched creatures, but they were vicious when cornered, and slaying a
dozen alone was no mean feat. Such an act could only please Lloth. She
felt her anger receding. The gift was a good one, and Zaknafein was now acting
suitably repentant. Perhaps his punishment should be to come to her bedchamber
and serve her there. She knew she should resist the temptation. Zak needed to
know how he had displeased her. And yet... She glanced at Rizzen. Her current
patron was handsome, yes, but so docile, so pliant, so utterly dull. Maybe it
was her lack of control over Zak that made him desirable. Danger could be ever
so alluring. Whatever
her decision would be, Malice decided to save it for later. Zaknafein's
offering had mollified her for the moment. Besides, there were more important
matters to attend. Malice rested
her pointed chin on the back of her hand, her dark eyes glinting. "You and
I will consider the matter of your punishment later, Zaknafein. Alone." At that
last word, an expression of surprise crossed Briza's broad face. Rizzen shot
Zaknafein an open look of hatred, then remembered himself and averted his gaze,
lest he attract his matron mother's wrath. Zaknafein only gave an emotionless
nod. Satisfied
the matter was resolved, Malice decided it was time to tell the others why she
had gathered them together. "I have concocted a plan," she announced
in a bold voice. "A plan that, if it succeeds, will bring the favor of
Lloth upon House Do'Urden. Vierna
and Maya, Briza's younger sisters, exchanged puzzled looks. "But
do we not already enjoy the favor of the Spider Queen?" Vierna asked in a
tentative voice. Maya's
tone was more confident. "After all, we are Ninth House of Menzoberranzan
now." Malice's
eyes narrowed as she regarded her two youngest daughters. Though both were
nearly high priestesses, they were not such yet, and should not have spoken
without her leave. Yet their words served her, and she chose to let the affront
pass without comment. "Yes,
we are the Ninth House," Malice replied. "But is it not better to be
eighth than ninth?" A hot light
ignited in the eyes of her daughters, and Malice knew she had chosen well.
Being Eighth House meant gaining a seat on the ruling council-a seat that one
of her daughters would one day inherit. A smile coiled about the corners of
Malice's dark red lips. Desire was a stronger motivator than punishment. Now
Vierna and Maya gazed at her with eager expressions. Malice
raised a hand to her throat. "I am thirsty. I require wine." Throughout
the discussion, her two sons had stood in silence to one side. It was not a
male's position to speak concerning house affairs unless directly asked. At
eleven years, and by far the younger of the two, Drizzt had only recently
become page prince, and was not yet a true noble. Thus, serving the matron
mother was his duty. However, the boy seemed not to have heard her words; he
continued to gaze at his feet, as a page prince was taught to do in the
presence of nobles. After an uncomfortable moment, Dinin, who was elderboy of
House Do'Urden, boxed Drizzt on the ear, jerking the boy out of his stupor. "You
heard the matron mother," Dinin hissed. "She requires wine." The boy
Drizzt blinked and gave a jerky nod. He hurried to a gilded table upon which
rested crystal glasses and a decanter of dark mushroom wine. Malice
did not wait, but went on. "The Festival of the Founding approaches, the
day on which we recall the founding of Menzoberranzan over five thousand years
ago. Do any of you know what is to happen on that day?" "I
know." All
stared in shock at the boy Drizzt. He stood before Malice, holding out the cup
of wine. For Dinin, a full-grown elf, to speak without leave would have been a
grave offense. For a page prince, it was unthinkable. However, before Malice
could react, the boy continued. "On
the Festival of the Founding, the Spider Queen is supposed to appear somewhere
in the city." Drizzt frowned as he thought out the details. "Only she
appears in disguise. I suppose that's so she can see what the drow really think
about her." Briza
was the first to recover. She lunged forward, gripping her snake-headed whip.
"You idiot!" she snarled. "That's only an old story." She
raised the whip. Drizzt stared at her in fear but did not flinch. A hand
shot out, halting the whip's descent. "It
happens to be a true story, you fool," Malice hissed, her rage now
directed at her daughter. Briza
stared in dull astonishment. Malice
made a sound of disgust. "Perhaps you were given the mantle of high
priestess too soon, Briza, if a child - and a boy child at that - knows more
than you." Briza
started to stammer an apology, but Malice turned away. She bent over the boy,
gripping his chin tightly in her hand, lifting his head with cruel force. The
cup fell from his fingers, and wine spilled across the floor like dark blood.
She gazed into the boy's eyes, holding them by force of will, so they could not
look elsewhere. His eyes were an unusual color. Lavender. As always, Malice
wondered at this. What did they see that other eyes did not? "Tell
me what else you know about the Festival," she commanded. The boy
stared at her in mute terror. She tightened her grip, her fingers digging into
his flesh. "Tell
me!" Despite
his fear, Drizzt managed to speak. "I don't really know anything
else," he breathed. "Except that on the festival day, you have to be
nice to everybody, even goblins and bugbears, because there's no telling what
shape Lloth might put on. That's all." She
searched his strange purple eyes a moment more, then nodded, satisfied he spoke
truth. He was peculiar, this youngest son of hers, and difficult to train in
the most basic matters of behavior and respect. However, there was a power in
him. She sensed it. Right now it was unshaped. But if she could forge it with
her will and temper it with the proper experiences, he would be a powerful
weapon in her hands one day. Malice
released the boy. Drizzt stared in confusion until Dinin, face angry, motioned
for him to return to his side. No doubt Dinin would punish the boy later for
embarrassing him with disobedience, as it was his role to instruct the boy in
the proper manners of a page prince. Malice would not intervene. That was
Dinin's right. And it would only strengthen the boy. Malice
addressed her family then. "Child though he is, Drizzt is correct. The
tale is not simply a legend, though many believe it to be. On the Festival of
the Founding, the Spider Queen will indeed appear somewhere in the city. And if
she were to appear within a noble house that house would know great honor and
would surely prosper in the coming year." Her voice dropped to a
self-pleased purr. "And my plan will make certain it is House Do'Urden
where Lloth chooses to appear." Zaknafein laughed at this. "With all
due respect, you are very sure of yourself, Matron Mother." "As well
I should be," Malice snapped. What had she done to be cursed with such
precocious males? At least Dinin knew his place. "How do you intend to
bring Lloth here?" Briza asked in meek tones, clearly attempting to regain
her mother's favor. Malice
let Briza believe she had succeeded. "With this," she answered. From
her gown, she drew out a small, dark stone carved in the shape of a spider. A
single red ruby glistened on its abdomen. "This spiderjewel will lead
whoever bears it to the resting place of an ancient and holy relic-a dagger once
wielded by Menzoberra, she who founded our city in the name of Lloth so long
ago. I have been assured by the one who gave me this spiderjewel that, were we
to regain the Dagger of Menzoberra, Lloth would certainly grace us with her
presence as a reward." The
others absorbed this information and nodded- except for Zaknafein, who again
asked a skeptical question. "And how did you come by this information and
this jewel?" Malice
gave him a flat glare. "I summoned a yochlol." The
others stared at her in horror and amazement- including, to her satisfaction,
Zaknafein. "Yes,
I did it myself," she went on. "A great risk, but then Lloth favors
those who take risks." Despite
her pleasure, Malice shuddered at the memory of the dark, secret ceremony. One
did not summon one of the Handmaidens of Lloth on a whim. Though Malice was
five centuries old and matron of the Ninth House, even she had trembled at the
sight of the bubbling, amorphous being that had appeared in the midst of the
magical flames she had conjured. Had it been displeased with her call, the
yochlol might have turned her into a spider and squashed her with a shapeless
hand. But the time had seemed propitious to risk the summons, and Malice had
been right. The yochlol had been pleased with her obeisance, and had given her
the spiderjewel and the answer to her question-how to increase her stature in
the eyes of Lloth. She
approached the weapons master. "Zaknafein, I charge you with the
spiderjewel, and with finding the Dagger of Menzoberra, in the name of House
Do'Urden." She held out the dark gem. Zak
stared at the jewel but did not reach for it. Rage
warmed Malice's cheeks for all to see. "Do not defy me in this,
Zaknafein," she warned in a dangerous voice. "I have been indulgent
in the past, but I will suffer your embarrassments no longer. If you fail me in
this task, it will be for the final time." The
others held their breath as matron mother and weapons master locked gazes. For
a moment Malice was not certain she would win. At last Zak lowered his gaze and
took the spiderjewel. "I will find the Dagger, Matron Mother, or die
trying," he uttered through clenched teeth. Malice
bit her tongue to keep from sighing in audible relief. She did not always enjoy
being so harsh with her children and servants, but she was matron mother, and
the well-being of the house took precedence over all else, even her own
feelings. "A wise choice, Zaknafein," was all she said. After a
moment, she spoke in a brisk voice. "Now, I wish to be alone with my
daughters." At this,
the three males bowed and retreated toward the adamantite railing. As one, they
rose over the railing, then levitated to the ground below. "Finding
the Dagger cannot be so easy a feat," Briza said when the males were gone.
"What if Zaknafein indeed dies in the attempt?" Vierna
and Maya looked at the elder women in concern, wanting to speak their own
worries, but remembering their places this time. Malice
tapped her cheek, musing this over. "If Zaknafein dies in an attempt to
gain the glory of Lloth, the Spider Queen will certainly consider it a
sacrifice in her honor." Malice allowed herself a throaty laugh.
"Either way," she crooned, "Lloth is bound to be pleased with
House Do'Urden." Malice's daughters joined in her laughter. Chapter
Three Page
Prince Never
lift your gaze from the floor. That
was Drizzt Do'Urden's first lesson as page prince, and it had been one hard
learned. He couldn't count the times he had felt the stinging bite of his
sister Briza's snake-headed whip as punishment for breaking that all-important
rule. It wasn't that it was so hard a thing to remember. Drizzt knew that he
wasn't supposed to look up without permission. But knowing something wasn't as
easy as doing it. No matter how hard he tried to stare at his boots, it seemed
that something peculiar, or interesting, or wonderful always caught his
attention, lifting his gaze before he even knew it was happening. Unfortunately,
more often than not, Briza would be lurking behind him, waiting for just such a
transgression to occur. With an evil grin, she would uncoil her hissing whip
and rake the fanged serpents across his back. Drizzt never cried out or tried
to dodge the blows. To do so would only win him more lashes. He was page
prince, and as far as he could tell, that meant he was the lowest form of life
in all House Do'Urden. "Page
Prince, come here!" a voice called out across the house's main enclosure.
"I have a task for you." This
time Drizzt remembered to keep his head down. He could not see the speaker, but
he knew the voice well. It belonged to his sister, Vierna. For the
first ten years of his life, before he had become page prince, Vierna's had
been the only voice he had known, save for his own. Vierna had been his
word-wean mother. She had been given Drizzt as an infant, and as he grew she
had taught him the language of the drow-both the spoken tongue and the complex
system of hand signs that the dark elves used to communicate in silence. She
had also taught him how to use and control his innate magical abilities: the
power to levitate by force of will, and to conjure glowing faerie fire from
thin air. More than anything else, however, she had taught him his place as a
male in drow society. Females were his superiors, and he was always to defer to
them. She had made him repeat this doctrine so often that sometimes he still
woke at night to find he had been speaking it in his sleep. Though
Vierna's teachings had been anything but gentle, she had seldom used her whip
on him, and when she did it was without the open relish Briza always displayed.
However, in the year since he had become page prince, Vierna had resumed her
studies at Arach-Tinilith, and would soon be anointed as a high priestess. As
that time approached, Drizzt knew he could expect less and less kindness from
his sister. High priestesses of Lloth were not known for their mercy. Keeping
his eyes on the floor, Drizzt hurried in the direction of the voice, relying on
his keen senses of hearing and touch to avoid objects he could not see. In
moments, he stood before a pair of supple leather slippers he knew belonged to
his sister. "Listen
well, Page Prince, for I do not have time to instruct you twice," Vierna
said in curt tones. "The Festival of the Founding is but two days hence,
and the matron mother has ordered that the house be made ready for the Spider
Queen's imminent visit." "If
she bothers to come at all," Drizzt mumbled under his breath before he
could think to stifle the words. To his good fortune, Vierna either did not
hear the statement or chose to ignore it. "A
green fungus has grown on the walls in the feast hall since the last revel was
held," the young drow woman went on. "Briza wants you to clean all
the stones. With this." Into
his hand she thrust a bent copper spoon. He gaped in astonishment at the small
spoon. Clearly it was utterly inadequate for so large a task. "I'm
supposed to scrape all the walls in the feast hall with this?" he groaned,
forgetting himself. "Do
not question me, Page Prince!" Vierna warned in an overloud voice. "Expect
a lash of the whip for every speck of fungus you leave on the walls!" Knowing
better than to question her again, Drizzt started to bow in submission. Then,
to his surprise, Vierna leaned over and whispered in his ear. "I have
placed an enchantment of sharpness on the spoon, little brother, so perhaps the
task will not prove quite so impossible. But I swear, if you tell Briza-or
anyone-about what I have done, I will beat you until your skin slips from your
flesh like a rothe-hide coat." Drizzt
shivered at her chilling words. He did not doubt that she meant them. Before he
could answer, Vierna whirled around and disappeared through a side door. Drizzt
studied the spoon in his hand, his thumb testing the magically sharpened edge.
Perhaps the priestesses of Lloth at Arach-Tinilith had not yet bled all the
mercy out of Vierna. Not
wishing to get caught with the enchanted object, Drizzt dashed down a stone
passageway. At eleven years, he was much like other dark-elven youths- small
and slender, but quick as Briza's whip. In moments, he reached the empty feast
hall. Unlike
most of the noble houses of Menzoberranzan, which were typically built within a
stalactite-stalagmite pair, House Do'Urden was set into the western wall of the
cavern. The feast hall delved deeper into the surrounding rock than did any
other room in the house, and so was damp and prone to mold. Drizzt
groaned in renewed dismay as he stared at the walls. The stones were covered
with spongy growths of a fungus that exuded a noxious green glow. He sighed.
Procrastinating would only give the fungus more time to grow. Gripping the
spoon, he trudged toward one of the walls and started in on the task. Vierna
had underestimated the power of her enchantment. As
Drizzt scraped the spoon across the wall, a strip of glowing fungus darkened
and shriveled, falling to the floor, where it turned to dust. Not believing his
eyes, he ran the instrument over the fungus-covered wall again. A swath of
smooth, black stone appeared in its wake. A grin crept across the youthful
drow's face. It looked as if the task Briza had concocted for him was not going
to be nearly as horrid and tedious as she had hoped. With
buoyant energy, the young dark elf threw himself into the task. Concentrating
briefly, he rose into the air, using his natural-born powers of levitation to
reach the high walls and ceiling. Soon it became a game as he whirled and dived
through the air, swiping at bulbous patches of fungus with the enchanted spoon.
He imagined each was Briza's homely face as it shriveled and disintegrated, and
soon peals of elven laughter rang out across the hall. After what seemed almost
too short a time, Drizzt sank back to the floor, panting for breath and
grinning. He surveyed the walls. Not a speck of fungus marred the smooth onyx
surfaces. A
scrabbling sound reached his pointed ears. Drizzt looked up to see a rat
scramble out of a crack in the dark stone. The small creature scuttled across
the floor of the hall, its eyes hot and red as blood, making for a hole in the
opposite wall. With a fierce cry, Drizzt sprang into the air and landed in the
rat's path, brandishing the glowing spoon before him. The spoon wasn't exactly
a sword, but then the rat wasn't exactly a fierce monster of the Underdark.
Neither fact mattered much to Drizzt. Sometimes,
from a secret vantage point high above the main courtyard, he watched as the
weapons master, Zaknafein, trained the house's three-hundred soldiers. For
hours on end, Drizzt would watch them practice their weapons skills. He wasn't
sure why, but a thrill coursed through his veins every time he heard the
clanging of their adamantite swords, and the feral, dancelike offensive
maneuvers of Zaknafein fascinated him. Drizzt was doomed to life as a page
prince for five more years, but after that-if Briza hadn't managed to kill him
with all her evil chores-he would become a noble proper, and it would be time
to train in skills that would benefit the house. Drizzt knew that it was
possible he would be sent to the towers of Sorcere in Tier Breche, to learn the
dark secrets of magic. But in his heart he hoped that he would be given to
Zaknafein, to study with the weapons master. He wanted to learn to dance that
dangerous dance. Performing
his best imitation of the weapons master, Drizzt stalked around the rat. The
creature hissed, raising its hackles and baring yellow teeth. Drizzt lunged
forward with the magically sharpened spoon. Quick as he was, the rat was
quicker. It scuttled past him, running from the feast hall. With a whoop,
Drizzt ran after, careening down a corridor. He gained on his enemy, then
sprang forward, landing in front of it. The creature backed into a corner,
hissing and spitting, eyes glowing with hate. Drizzt closed in to finish off
his foe. As he had seen Zaknafein do a hundred times, he raised his weapon,
then spun around to bring it down in a swift killing blow. He
froze, halting the spoon a fraction of an inch from disaster. Sensing its
opportunity, the rat dashed between Drizzt's legs and disappeared through a
crack. Drizzt did not watch it go. Instead, his eyes remained riveted on the
object before his face. A web.
The silvery strands stretched like gossamer across the corner of the corridor.
In the center of the web, like a plump jewel, clung a small spider. Had he not
halted his swing at the last moment, his arm would have plunged right through
the fragile strands. With great care, Drizzt lowered the spoon. All spiders
were sacred to the goddess Lloth. To disturb one's web would have earned him a
long appointment with Briza's whip. But if he had accidentally killed the
arachnid ... Drizzt
let out a low breath. The punishment for killing a spider was death: quick,
painful, and with no chance of reprieve. Despite
the fatal nature of his near accident, Drizzt drew closer to the web in
fascination, studying the spider in the center. "I don't understand this
Lloth of yours," he murmured aloud. "Everybody seems to want her
favor. My mother. My sisters. All the other noble houses. They'll do anything
to get it. But they're terrified of Lloth, too. Sometimes I even think they
hate her. But that only makes them worship her all the Harder. Why? Why is
Lloth so important if she's so awful?" The spider only clung in silence to
its web. Drizzt frowned in annoyance. "Well, I don't care what everyone
else thinks," he decided. "I'm not afraid of spiders. If Lloth
appears to me on the Festival of the Founding, I'll say so to her ugly
face." Oddly
heartened by this bold exclamation, he turned and strode down the hallway, back
to the capricious world he knew as page prince, leaving the spider to spin its
tangled webs alone in the darkness. Chapter
Four Into
the Fire Zaknafein
did not want this mission. The
weapons master stood on a parapet high above the wrought-adamantite gates that
guarded the entrance to House Do'Urden. Right now, the gates were only half
raised, so that house nobles might levitate over them easily while goblins,
gnomes, and other rabble could not. But in times of crisis the gates could be
raised to cover the entire opening in the cavern's wall, so that none could
pass through. Sometimes Zak wondered at the true purpose of those impervious
metal bars. Perhaps they had been forged not to keep drow out of the house, but
to keep them in. Zak
glanced across the compound at the balcony, beyond which lay the private
chambers of the house's nobles. He glimpsed shadowy figures within. What dark
plans were Matron Malice and her daughters concocting now, he wondered? Just as
Zak was about to turn away, a small form hopped over the balcony and half fell,
half levitated to the ground below. A second later, Briza reached the railing
and leaned over, shouting as she brandished her snake-headed whip at the object
of her wrath. The smaller figure, however, had already vanished into the mouth
of a corridor. Her face twisted with rage, Briza turned and stamped back into
the interior of the upper level. Despite
his bleak mood, a faint smile touched Zak's lips. So the young Do'Urden page
prince-what was the boy's name? Drizzt?-was causing his eldest sister
consternation once again. Zak would not have expected such bold character in
one of Rizzen's sons. Drizzt could grow up to be a strong and willful elf one
day-if all that character were not crushed out of him first, as it was bound to
be. Once Zak had held similar hopes for his own daughter, Vierna, but then the
masters at Arach-Tinilith had sunk their pincers into her. Every day, she
became more like Malice, more caught up in the matron mother's tangled plots to
win Lloth's favor. Ah,
Malice. Zak thought back to the years when he had been patron of House
Do'Urden. For a time, he had thought that he loved Malice, and she him, until
the day she had stripped him of his rank, and he had realized that all she
cared about was station and the position of House Do'Urden in Lloth's Ladder.
On occasion, Malice still beckoned Zak to her bedchamber, and he complied. A
matron mother's orders were not to be refused. And it was not unpleasant.
Still, Zak knew now that whatever feeling there was between him and Malice, it
was not, and never had been, love. A
gigantic spider hewn of dark green stone rested on the parapet behind Zak. A
jade spider. Dozens of them scattered House Do'Urden to serve as a defense
against any who might somehow pass the gates. Such was their enchantment that,
in the presence of an intruder, a jade spider would animate and attack with
swift and fatal force. "Why
do you not assail me now, spider?" Zak hissed in a voice filled with
loathing. "I am an impostor here. Can you not sense that I am your
enemy?" But the
spider remained cold stone. Zak
felt a prickling against his neck. He did not need to glance back at the
balcony to know that he was being watched. He could delay his mission no
longer. A puff of warm air-heated by some deep and distant lava flow-sent his
white hair streaming back from his brow. Zak stepped off the high parapet into
the swirling zephyr, using his power of levitation to ride the gust of air over
the gates and down to the ground below. Without looking back, he plunged into
the labyrinth that was Menzoberranzan. After a
short distance he paused, drawing the spiderjewel out of his neck-purse. He
laid the small onyx spider on his outstretched palm, then spoke the word of
magic Malice had taught him, which the yochlol in turn had taught her. At once
the ruby embedded in the spider's abdomen winked to scarlet life. Now animate,
the spider scuttled across the flesh of Zak's palm. Only by force of will did
he resist the instinct to clench his hand and crush it. Legs wriggling, the
spider spun in a circle, then came to a sudden halt, facing to Zak's right.
That must be the way it wanted him to go. He turned and moved down a side
street. Where
the spiderjewel would lead him, Zak could only wonder. According to the
yochlol, the Dagger of Menzoberra was hidden somewhere within the city. This
was difficult to believe. After all, there wasn't an inch of this cavern that
had not been explored by drow eyes, shaped by drow hands, and dwelt within by
drow families for centuries. The Dagger's hiding place had to be remarkable for
the relic to have remained lost for over five thousand years. Still, Zak had to
hope that the spiderjewel would indeed take him to it. Malice had made her
position clear. Whatever she felt for him still, failure this time would not be
forgiven. At
first Zak thought the ancient Dagger of Menzoberra must be hidden in
Qu'ellarz'orl. The spider seemed to be leading him toward the plateau on which
perched the city's most powerful houses, including that of Baenre, First House
of Menzoberranzan. Zak's heart sank in his chest. If the Dagger was hidden
within one of the ancient houses, he had no hope of recovering it. He could
hardly knock on the gates of House Baenre and ask if he might take a look around.
The only answer he was likely to get was a bolt of defensive magic hot enough
to roast his heart inside his chest. Just as
Zak neared the edge of the mushroom forest that demarcated the exclusive
plateau, the spider scuttled to the left side of his hand, leading him back
toward the heart of the city. Zak allowed himself a low breath of relief before
continuing on. He had
nearly reached his destination before he realized where the spiderjewel was
leading him. Zak had
reached the very center of the great cavern that housed Menzoberranzan. Coming
to a halt, he lifted his eyes from the spiderjewel. The enchanted arachnid had
aligned itself with a massive stone pillar that loomed before him in the
eternal gloom. Narbondel. Of
course. It made perfect sense. Of all the rock formations in the cavern, only
one remained in its rough, natural state as it had for millennia, untouched by
drow hands or drow magic. It was a monument to the cavern, as it had been when
Menzoberra first led her people here five thousand years ago: the pillar of
Narbondel. Only here might something have lain hidden so long without
discovery. Zaknafein
approached the pillar, creeping along surfaces closest in temperature to his
own skin, a feat which rendered him all but invisible to heat-sensing drow
eyes. It was not forbidden to draw near to Narbondel, but few ever did. The
pillar was the purview of the city's archmage, whose ceremonial duty it was to
ignite the magical fires that traveled up the column once per day. Zak doubted
Gromph Baenre would take kindly to meddling, and the thought of being on the
receiving end of an archmage's wrathful spells was not one Zak relished. The
weapons master clung to a concealing heat shadow at the base of a stalagmite
and watched with crimson eyes. The spiderjewel wriggled on his hand, as if
anxious to be nearer the relic that drew it onward. "Patience,"
Zak hissed, though whether to himself or the enchanted spider he was not
certain. Even as
he watched, the last remnants of magical heat faded from the massive pillar.
The stone grew cool and dark once more. This was the Black Death of Narbondel.
Midnight approached. Now would be Zak's only chance. At this moment the
archmage rested in his plush chambers in Sorcere, preparing himself to cast the
spell of fire with which he would begin a new day. No gazes in the city would
be turned toward the pillar while it was dark. He could move unseen. At least,
so he hoped. Leaving
the safety of the heat shadow, Zak crept toward Narbondel. The surface of the
pillar was irregular, crazed with cracks and crevices. A small knife could be
stashed in any of them. Holding out the spiderjewel, he stalked around the
gigantic column, trying to determine where the relic might be hidden. The
enchanted arachnid whirled in circles on his hand but did not stop, as if
unable to get its bearings. Zak frowned at the spiderjewel. Then a thought
struck him. He craned his neck, gazing at the top of the pillar, which scraped
the ceiling of the cavern high above. Of course. That was the one direction the
spider could not point. Upward. Zak
could have levitated to the top of the pillar in mere seconds. However, using
any magic released heat, making him more visible. He couldn't risk that. It
would not do for any of the other noble houses to see him and grow curious
concerning his actions. Gaining the Dagger would be hard enough without
competition. Zak would have to reach the top of the pillar the mundane way. He did
not pause to determine if anyone was watching him. Speed was his only hope.
With swift, supple movements, Zak began scaling the surface of Narbondel. He
shut his eyes, concentrating, letting touch alone guide his hands and feet to
those cracks and protrusions he might use to force his body upward. Soon he was
sweating with effort. He clenched his teeth and kept climbing. At last he
heaved himself over a sharp edge of stone. For a moment he lay on his back,
panting. Then he forced himself to his feet. Zaknafein
stood upon the summit of Narbondel. A gasp
escaped him. Menzoberranzan lay spread out below him like a vast web tangled
beyond possibility. Pale faerie fire danced along the edges of the city's
countless spires and stairways, emphasizing the darkness rather than driving it
back. It was a glorious yet forbidding sight. "What
is this beautiful nightmare we have wrought?" Zak murmured in awe to the
dusky air. Distant
specks of light caught the corner of his eye, breaking his trance. He turned to
see several tiny blobs of purple magelight bobbing as they descended the long
stairway from the academy of Tier Breche into the city. The archmage had left
his chambers in Sorcere and was even now making his way toward Narbondel with
his entourage. Zak did not have much time left. Reaching
back into his neck-purse, he pulled out the spiderjewel once more. To his
surprise, the magical creature crawled to the edge of his hand and jumped to
the rough stone at his feet. The little arachnid scuttled across the top of the
pillar. Zak followed the winking light of the ruby in its abdomen. Without
warning, the red spark vanished. Zak swore, thinking he had lost the
spiderjewel. A second later he realized it had scurried into a small hole in
the rock. Kneeling
beside the hole, he slipped a hand inside. His fingers brushed a smooth knob of
some sort, and it sank beneath his touch. At the same moment, a hiss of dry air
rushed upward, along with the sound of stone grating on stone. A circle of rock
sank into the top of the pillar and vanished, leaving an opening large enough
for an elf to crawl through. A low
laugh escaped Zak's lips. So the spiderjewel had done its work after all. Ready
for anything, the weapons master crouched beside the opening in the pillar. He
peered within, but his preternatural eyes met only cool darkness: black, and black
again. There was nothing to do but go down. Zak lowered himself into the
opening, and his feet met stone steps. It was a staircase. At his feet, a spark
of scarlet light glinted. The spiderjewel. He scooped up the gem and slipped it
back into his neck-purse. Alone,
he descended the staircase, spiraling deeper and deeper into the heart of
Narbondel. With every step, the air grew thicker, more stifling. Walls and
steps alike radiated the same uniform coolness, so that all was a featureless
blur to his drow eyes and he was forced to make his way by touch alone. Soon he
was certain he had descended farther than the height he had climbed. He must
have been below Narbondel now. Still, the staircase plunged downward, through
solid rock, delving ever deeper into the bones of the world. Without
warning the staircase ended at a sheer drop. Zak barely caught himself in time,
teetering on the last step. Beyond was only emptiness and a faint blue
phosphorescence, floating on the air. Blinking, Zak forced his eyes to see in
the realm of light. A low path escaped his lips. He
stood on the edge of a vast web. Thick, silky strands formed a gigantic net
over a bottomless chasm. It was from the cords that the faint glow emanated. He
glimpsed something resting at the very center of the gigantic tangle. A bundle
of some sort. No, not a bundle. A cocoon. Purple light pulsed within. Something
was inside. Zak had a hunch, but there was only one way to find out for
certain. Concentrating,
Zak attempted to levitate, but his body felt strangely leaden. A ward against
sorcery lay upon this place. Magic would not work here. He would have to reach
the center of the web by other means. One of the web's strands passed within
several feet of the last step. Zak judged the distance, then sprang from the
staircase. He landed on the thread-no more than two fingers thick-with the ease
of an acrobat. Displaying
the eerie grace known only to elvenkind, the weapons master moved along the web
strand. The silken material pitched and swayed beneath even his slight weight,
but this caused him no difficulty. Without glancing down, he danced along the
interconnecting threads. Soon he reached the center of the web. The
cocoon was large, an orb of matted threads longer than his arm. Mottled violet
light continued to throb inside, as though from a living thing. Drawing the
knife at his belt, Zak slashed at the cocoon. The threads were tough and
resilient, and the knife bounced back. He hacked at the cocoon again. On the
third try, the adamantite knife snapped, but not before slicing a deep gouge in
the cocoon. Zak tossed the broken haft into the chasm below, then reached into
the slit in the cocoon. His fingers closed around something smooth and cool. He
pulled back, staring in wonder at the ornate silver knife he gripped in his
hand. The large jewel embedded in its hilt winked like a purple eye. The Dagger
of Menzoberra. Zak let
out a whoop of victory. He rose, balancing on the web and gripping his prize.
The cocoon was dark now. Even as he watched, the slit he had made in it grew
and the tangled threads began to snap and unwind. Yellowed bones fell out of
the cocoon, dropping into the chasm. So this had been a tomb, the final resting
place of Menzoberra. A
sudden sound, like the cracking of a whip, echoed off the stone walls. At the
same moment the strand beneath Zak's feet shuddered, nearly sending him
tumbling into the depths below. The web was unraveling. Nearby, another of the
ropy strands parted. Like a giant's whip, one of the broken ends hissed past
Zak, tracing a line of fire across his cheek. Blood trickled from the wound. An
inch nearer, and it would have struck his head from his shoulders. The entire
web shuddered as more strands snapped and unraveled. Thrusting
the Dagger into his belt, Zak ran down an undulating thread, somehow managing
to keep his balance. A high-pitched groan gave him a moment's warning. He leapt
from the thread a heartbeat before it broke. Landing on another strand, he kept
moving, toward the thread that passed near the base of the stairway. Three more
times he was forced to jump from a thread just as it parted beneath his feet.
Clumps of web were dropping into the chasm now. But he was almost there. Zak
paused on the strand, tensing his legs, ready to jump to the stairs. He was too
slow. Before he could move, the cord snapped beneath him. Zak tried to leap to
another strand, but there were none left. The last remnants of the vast weaving
unraveled. Together, web and weapons master plunged into the darkness below. Instinct
summoned his levitation ability, and this time, power flooded through him. Zak
rose through the air as the falling web vanished below. He laughed at his own
foolishness. Of course! The aura of unmagic had come from the web. When the web
had broken, so had the aura, and his magical powers had returned. Zak
landed on the bottom step of the stairs, then started climbing. He had ascended
some distance before he heard, faintly but clearly in his sensitive ears, a
voice. "Midnight
approaches. The moment has come. Let the fires be lit." Zak
froze. The voice could only belong to one: the archmage. Zak had climbed to the
base of Narbondel. By some trick of cracks and crevices, the archmage's words
had reached the interior of the column, and their meaning renewed Zak's dread. Let the
fires be lit... . Filtering
through the stone, faint words of magic drifted on the air. A spell. Zak did
not wait to hear the end of it. With redoubled urgency, he hurled himself up
the staircase. He had gone no more than three twists of the stairwell when he
heard the roar of fire. Orange light burst up from below, along with a blast of
scorching air. Midnight had come. The archmage had cast his spell. The fires of
Narbondel were rising. Zak
kept climbing. The parched air burned his lungs and nostrils, and tears
streamed down his face. The orange glow brightened beneath him. It would take
hours for the magical heat to spread throughout the pillar's stones, but in the
meantime the spiral stairwell in the center of the column acted like a chimney.
Enchanted flames coursed upward with the terrible speed of dragon's breath. Zak was
faster still. Choking for air, he reached the top of the stairwell. A circle of
cool darkness appeared above him. The trapdoorway. He reached for the edge of
the opening. The mission was a success. Malice would have her precious Dagger.
. . . Zak
halted. Searing light welled up the stairway. A roar filled his ears. The
magical fire was mere seconds behind. Despite this, the weapons master
hesitated. He pulled the Dagger of Menzoberra from his belt and stared at it,
filled with sudden, overwhelming disgust. He had risked his life to gain this
relic, and for what? So Malice could please Lloth and win at her wicked little
games of intrigue and treachery? The purple jewel in the Dagger's hilt glinted
like an evil eye. Zak's lip curled back in loathing. No, he would have no part
in gaining Lloth's favor. There was only one thing he could do, and damn the
consequences. "I
will do nothing that pleases you, Lloth!" he shouted above the deafening
roar. "If you want your precious Dagger, you can go look for it in the
Abyss!" With that, Zak hurled the Dagger down the stairwell, into the
heart of the rising fire. The relic flashed, then was lost in the roiling crimson
flames. Zak's hair began to curl and crisp. Steam rose from his leather
clothes. In another heartbeat he would be roasted alive. With a cry of rage and
defiance, he heaved himself up through the opening and pulled the circle of
stone shut behind him. Fire
and noise ceased. Zak sprawled atop the pillar, pressing his singed cheek to
the cool stones. Only after a long moment did he realize he was still alive.
With a groan, he pulled himself to his feet. Below, the procession of purple
magelights was already winding its way back to Tier Breche. Only the base of
Narbondel glowed with heat now, belying the fires that raged within. Zak drew
in a deep breath, steadying himself. He stepped off the edge of the pillar and
levitated to the street below. By the
time he reached House Do'Urden, Matron Malice was waiting for him. "I
have returned." Zak
drifted over the adamantite balcony and landed on the onyx floor. Malice
whirled around, stalking toward him with dangerous grace. "So
I see." Her eyes were half-lidded, her expression unreadable. "Did
you gain the Dagger?" Zak
could not hesitate if he was to have any chance of deceiving her. "I fear
not, Matron Mother," he said, feigning regret. "The spiderjewel led
me to a tomb beneath Narbondel. I have no doubt that it was once the resting
place of the Dagger. But the relic was gone. Stolen by grave robbers long ago,
I imagine." Malice
slipped her arms around him. Zak stared in amazement. Had she forgiven him so
easily? Then she bent her lips to his ear, whispering a single word. "Liar." Zak
stiffened in shock, stepping backward, fumbling for words. "It is no He,
Matron Mother . . ." "Silence!"
she shrieked, her eyes alight with unholy fury. "I saw everything, you
fool. Everything!" She reached a hand toward his shoulder. A small spider
scurried up her arm to perch on her own shoulder, many-faceted eyes glistening. Zak
swore a silent oath. So she had sent one of her little spies with him. He
should have guessed. Dread was replaced by chill resignation. He bowed his
head. "I do not regret what I have done." "You will,
Zaknafein," Malice hissed. "You will." She made a sharp gesture.
Three forms stepped out of the shadows. Her daughters. Vierna and Maya grasped
his arms while Briza bound his hands together with cruel leather thongs. Zak
glanced up, hoping to see sorrow in Vierna's eyes. Instead, he saw nothing at
all. "What
are we going to do, Mother?" Briza asked, jerking on the bonds to tighten
them further. "The Dagger was to bring us the favor of Lloth. Surely this
blasphemous act will bring the Spider Queen's displeasure instead." "We
are doomed!" Maya wailed in despair. "Not yet," Malice snapped.
"Not if the crime is atoned for properly. Then Lloth will be appeased.
Zaknafein must be punished for this heinous act. And there can be but one
punishment." "Death?"
Vierna asked, her voice emotionless. Malice shook her head. "Death would
not be enough to satisfy Lloth's anger." Her lips curled in a wicked
smile. "No," she crooned, "Zaknafein's punishment will be
something far worse than mere death." Zak
stared at her in growing horror. What could she mean? But even his darkest
fears were nothing compared to the reality of her words. "For
your crimes against Lloth and House Do'Urden, Zaknafein, I sentence you to be
made into ... a drider!" Zak reeled at this pronouncement. Even Malice's
daughters gasped. There was no more terrible punishment known to the dark
elves. To be made into a drider was to have one's body twisted into an accursed
form that was half drow, half spider, a transformation that could never be
reversed. "Take
him to the Cavern of the Lost," Malice commanded. "And let me look
upon his face never again!" Zak
strained against his bonds, but it was no use. He was powerless as Malice's
daughters dragged him off to meet his doom. Chapter
Five Invitation
to Glory With
white-knuckled hands, Matron Malice gripped the adamantite railing and gazed at
the slaves working like insects in the compound below. "Whither
now, Daermon N'a'shezbaernon?" she murmured, using the ancient name of
House Do'Urden. "Has your march to glory come to an end already?" Hands
reached from behind, caressing her shoulders, running down the smooth flesh of
her back. She felt warm breath against the nape of her neck. "Come to bed,
Malice. I will help you forget your troubles." With a
sharp jerk, Malice shrugged off the hands and whirled around. "That's
Matron Malice to you, Rizzen," she said in a venomous tone, glaring at her
current patron. She had had more than enough that day of disrespectful males
who did not know their places. Rizzen's
eyes bulged in alarm. He fumbled over a clumsy apology. Malice
sighed then, dismissing his words with an annoyed wave of her hand. There was
no point in taking her anger out on Rizzen. He was weak and malleable, and he
crumbled far too easily to give her any satisfaction. She shook her head. Had
Zaknafein only been more like Rizzen, this disaster would never have occurred.
But then, had Zak been like Rizzen, he never would have had the strength to
gain the Dagger of Menzoberra in the first place. Zaknafein had always been her
bane and her boon. But he would be neither ever again. "Leave
me, Rizzen," she commanded. Rizzen
gave a deep bow, backing from the room. Malice forgot him before he was even
gone. The
matron of House Do'Urden turned her mind to the matter at hand. It was crucial
to understand every possible implication, to foresee every possible consequence
of what had occurred. She had to be certain her house had not been placed in a
position of weakness by all this. If it were, some lower-ranked house could
seize this opportunity to rise in station by launching a covert attack against
House Do'Urden. Again
and again, Malice went over all the potential outcomes in her mind. At last she
nodded, satisfied that House Do'Urden was safe, at least for the moment.
Zaknafein had thrown Menzoberra's Dagger into the Fires of Narbondel. There was
absolutely no hope now that Lloth would appear within the walls of House
Do'Urden tomorrow, on the Festival of the Founding. However, for his
blasphemous act, Zaknafein had been sentenced to the most dire punishment known
to drow. Surely that would appease Lloth and tip the scales of favor back into
balance. Malice had gained no ground for her efforts, but she had to believe
that she had lost none, either. A
shudder passed through her then at the thought of the judgment she had passed
upon her weapons master. It was not something she had done with relish. Even as
she had uttered the terrible words, her heart had cried out for her to stop. To
be transformed into a drider was a fate she would hesitate to wish upon even
her worst enemy. By her order, Zak would become a monster: a tortured creature
of hideous aspect, forced to live out his days in pain and madness and loathing,
haunting the labyrinth of the Dark Dominion. Yet
what choice had Malice had? None. What she had done was done to protect House
Do'Urden. She was matron mother. The prosperity of the house came before all
else. She could not forget that. Still, the awful weight of her actions pressed
upon her, dragging her to her knees. A moan escaped her lips. Most days she
reveled in her power as matron mother of a noble house. But sometimes power was
a terrible burden. A low
humming reached her delicate, pointed ears. Malice looked up in surprise to see
a small disk hovering before her. The metal circle glowed with sapphire light
as it whirled in midair. A message disk! But from whom? She
held out her hand, and the disk alighted upon it, warm against her skin. An image
appeared, translucent but clear, hovering over the disk's surface. It was the
visage of an ancient elf woman, her dark flesh withered, her hair yellowed and
scraggly, but her eyes as bright as polished stones. Malice gasped. The image
was that of Matron Baenre, leader of the First House of Menzoberranzan. To
Malice's further surprise, the image of the dark elf crone began to speak. "Greetings,
Matron Malice." Matron Baenre's spindly voice emanated from the image. "Greetings
. . ." Malice started to reply, but the image continued to talk without
pause; by that, Malice knew she was not really speaking with Matron Baenre.
Rather, this was a prefashioned message embedded in the disk itself. "The
Festival of the Founding is nearly upon us," the image of Matron Baenre
went on. "As you know, it is the tradition on that day for the nobles of
two houses that do not customarily dine together to do so. If House Do'Urden
would deign to host House Baenre on this holy occasion, I would be most
grateful." Malice's
heart skipped a beat in her chest. Baenre wanted to dine with House Do'Urden on
the Festival Day? What marvelous fortune! Malice's plot to win a visit from
Lloth had unraveled, but without doubt this was the next greatest honor.
Certainly this meant that Matron Baenre favored the recent rise in station of
House Do'Urden. And once it was known that House Baenre had chosen to feast
with House Do'Urden for the Festival, the status of Malice's clan could rise
only further. "Will
Matron Malice accept this offer?" the image hovering above the disk
finished. Though
it was phrased as a polite question, Malice knew that it was not really a
request, but a demand. To refuse would be suicide. Not that she would ever do
so. Malice
stood and spoke in a formal tone. "Please inform Matron Baenre that I am
honored to accept her gracious offer." The
image of the crone nodded, then vanished. The disk rose from Malice's hand,
then whizzed away to deliver her response to House Baenre. By
force of will, Malice banished thoughts of Zaknafein from her mind. It was
better if she forgot him. Besides, she had other matters to concern her now. A
smile parted her dark red lips. Defeat had turned into victory. Tomorrow would
be a glorious day after all. Chapter
Six Transformation They
had strapped him to an altar of dark stone, fiat on his back, his hands and
feet bound with rothe-hide thongs to the slab's four corners. A scream of utter
agony echoed around the dank cavern, underscored by the eerie sound of
chanting. Zaknafein craned his neck, straining against his bonds, trying to see
what was happening. He was not the only one sentenced to become a drider that
day. It was
difficult to see anything. Noxious smoke hung on the air, rising from ritual
fires the priestess had lit. The scent of fear was strong and sharp in his
nostrils. This was an evil place. The chanting rose to a feverish pitch as
another scream was ripped from drow lungs. For a moment, the smoke swirled,
thinning, and Zak caught a glimpse of a gruesome shadow play. To his
right, eight priestesses of Lloth gathered around an altar to which was
strapped a writhing figure. At the head of the stone slab, hovering in the
garish green flames rising from a copper brazier, was a nightmarish form. The
thing was a mass of bubbling flesh, snaking tentacles, and bulbous eyes. A
yochlol, one of the Handmaidens of Lloth, summoned from the depths of the Abyss
to work its evil here. A wave of fear and revulsion crashed through Zak at the
sight of the yochlol. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to vomit. The
priestesses raised their arms in exultation as their chanting reached a shrill
peak. The yochlol extended its tentacles, wrapping them around the head of its
victim. The hapless drow female screamed one last time, back arching off the
altar. Then, with horrifying swiftness, the change began. Wriggling legs
sprouted from the drow's waist as her belly swelled in grotesque distortion.
Her scream turned into a weird chittering that was part anguish and part mad
glee. The priestesses stepped away, and for a moment Zak saw, in perfect
silhouette, a new form standing on the altar where the dark elven female had
lain before. The thing was shaped like a drow from the waist up-now neither
male nor female-but its abdomen and legs were those of a huge, misshapen
spider. Then the smoke swirled once more, and the ghastly sight was lost from
view. Twice
more Zak listened to agonized screams and evil chanting as those who had dared
to defy the Way of Lloth were punished for their crimes. Then the chamber fell
silent. It was his turn now. He strained against his bonds, but the effort was
futile. Tensing his body, he waited for the moment of his doom to come. Before
it could; a strange thing happened. A tiny form pulled itself up over the edge
of the altar and walked in halting fashion across the stone slab. Zak stared,
his fear replaced by puzzlement. What was this creature? It looked like a
crude, clay figurine of an elf, no bigger than his hand. Only it was alive. No, not
alive, Zak realized then. Ensorcelled. With
jerky steps, the tiny clay golem approached Zak's right hand. It raised a stiff
arm, and green firelight glinted off cold metal. A small knife had been
fastened to the thing's hand. Zak's eyes widened as the golem slashed downward.
The sharp knife struck the leather thong that bound his wrist, cutting it
through save for a small thread of leather. "We
can rest when our work is finished, my sisters," spoke a voice out of the
hazy air. "Come, let us see to the fate of our last offender." With
clumsy but surprising speed, the clay golem scuttled into Zak's pocket.
Black-robed forms appeared out of the swirling smoke. Cruel smiles cut across
dark drow faces. Emerald light pierced the gloom as a fire was lit just behind
Zak's head. The flames roared, and something rose from them. Zak arched his
head back and caught a glimpse of half-melted flesh and spongy tentacles.
Unholy dread turned his guts to water. As one, the priestesses began their
chant. A slimy tentacle brushed across his brow. Zak grimaced, feeling the
first tug of pain deep inside his body. Now was his only chance. In a
single motion, he jerked his right hand upward, snapping the weakened leather,
and snatched a ceremonial dagger from the belt of one of the priestesses. He
made a slashing arc with the spider-shaped dagger, taking out the throats of
two wide-eyed priestesses, and finished the action by slicing his remaining
bonds. Even before the bodies had slumped to the floor, Zak leapt to his feet,
standing atop the altar, brandishing the dagger before him. He
found himself facing the yochlol. The
nether being hovered in the magical flames of the brazier, mere inches from his
face. It shrieked in fiendish outrage, reaching for him with glistening
tentacles, ready to tear him limb from limb. Zak did not hesitate. He lashed
out a boot and kicked the brazier, knocking it over. Sparks flew. The yochlol
shrieked again, then disappeared in a puff of smoke, banished back to the Abyss
as the magical fires that had summoned it were snuffed out. Zak
spun around. The remaining priestesses had recovered their wits. They lifted
their daggers and whips, surrounding him. One raised her arms, speaking the
words of a spell. Zak kicked out, crushing her jaw before she could finish
uttering the enchantment. She fell to the floor, moaning. Another priestess
raised a wooden rod that glowed with fell magic, ready to strike him down. Zak
lashed out with the dagger, and the rod fell to the ground, still gripped by
the priestess's severed hand. She clutched the bloody stump of her wrist and
staggered away. Despite
himself, Zak grinned. They had sought to work their justice upon him. Well this
was his justice. Again he felt that clarity that came to him only when slaying
things of evil. These were the ones who worked Lloth's wicked will, these
priestesses of Arach-Tinilith. These were the ones who gave the Spider Queen
her power. Maybe he was a killer. Maybe he was no better than they, than any
drow. But if he was going to kill, at least let it be creatures of evil, like
this. His
grin broadened as he plucked a second dagger from one of the corpses. The hilts
hummed against his two hands. These were enchanted blades, wickedly sharp. Terror
blossomed in the eyes of the four remaining priestesses. To them he seemed a
fiend, a fey thing, more terrible than a creature of the Abyss. They turned to
flee, and two more died as Zak drove a dagger into each of their backs,
piercing their hearts. He started to pursue the remaining two priestesses, but
was brought up short by a quartet of male soldiers. The
first thrust out his sword. As he did, Zak performed a move he had invented
himself long ago. He poised one dagger high, the other low, and both slightly
offset. The torque vise, he called it. As the soldier lunged forward, Zak
brought the daggers together, catching the other's arm between. Bone shattered
with a sound like glass grinding. The soldier went down screaming. Zak laughed,
making quick work of the remaining soldiers with the magical spider daggers. In
seconds, four corpses slumped at his feet. He leapt over them, no longer
thinking, driven by instinct to pursue the evil priestesses. Three
shadowy forms lowned before him. The smoke swirled and parted. Zak halted,
gazing up at the hideous creatures. Half drow, half spider. Murder and madness
glinted in their red eyes. Driders. The
newly created monstrosities advanced, wielding weapons in drow hands, reaching
out with barbed legs. Now Zak was on the defensive. He lashed out, and a
severed spider leg fell writhing to floor. Again he struck, and another leg
fell. But the driders kept advancing. In their bloodlust they seemed to feel no
pain. They bore down on him until his back came up against rough stone. His
breath grew short in his lungs. His arms ached. He could not keep the driders
at bay much longer. The abominations grinned, green spittle running down their
chins, as they sensed their imminent victory. Zak
looked around in desperation, searching for a way out. There was none. Then his
eyes locked on something above. It was a long shot, but it was his only chance.
Taking aim, he hurled a dagger with all his might at a clump of stalactites
hanging from the cavern ceiling. The dagger bounced off the stone without
effect. Zak dodged a spider leg, weighed his one remaining dagger, and threw.
This one broke as it struck the stone. The blade burst apart in a spray of
violent purple magic as its enchantment was released. The force of the
explosion knocked loose several stalactites. The heavy stone spikes plunged
downward. As one the driders shrieked in agony. Zak
edged away from the dying creatures. Each of the driders had been pierced
through its bloated abdomen by one of the stalactites. Foul ichor bubbled from
the wounds. Even as he watched, the driders fell over, their spider legs
curling up. The crimson light flickered in their eyes and went dark. Zak shook
his head. He had done them a favor. Better to die than to live for centuries as
monsters. Zak
gazed down at his blood-spattered clothes. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"Ah, but are you not already a monster, Zaknafein?" Distant
shouts echoed off cold stone, approaching. The two surviving priestesses had
gone for help. Soldiers would arrive soon. More than Zak could fight. Glancing
around, his preternatural eyes detected the empty opening of a side passage.
Levitating, so as not to leave any telltale warm footprints, he passed through
the opening and plunged into the winding ways of the Dark Dominion. Minutes
later, Zak sank back to the stone floor of the tunnel, his powers of levitation
exhausted for the moment. He listened with pointed ears but heard no sounds of
pursuit. Weary, he leaned against a rough wall, and only then realized he was
trembling. He had escaped spending the rest of his life as a drider. Yet now
what would he do? He was an outcast, a pariah. He could never return to
Menzoberranzan. And all that awaited a lone elfin the Underdark was death. It
was a fate preferable to becoming a drider, yes, but not by much. Something
wriggled inside the pocket of his black rothe-hide jerkin-his peculiar,
diminutive savior. He pulled out the clay golem. The crude figurine turned its
head to stare at him with dull pebble eyes. Zak set the golem down and squatted
beside it. He scratched his chin. Who had sent the golem? he wondered. To whom
did he owe his escape? Without
warning, the golem started to shamble down the tunnel. The figurine made a
jerky motion with its clay arm. Zak gaped in surprise. It beckoned him to
follow. But to where? Perhaps to the answer to his question. Zak stalked after
the golem. Though its legs were short and stiff, it moved with surprising
speed, leading the weapons master through a tangled labyrinth of tunnels,
caverns, and natural passageways. He was beginning to think the golem was in
truth leading him nowhere, but then it came to a sudden halt. The
golem stood on the edge of a circle of smooth white stone. The white disk stood
in sharp contrast to the rough rock all around. Clearly, it was not a natural
formation, but had been placed here in this dead-end tunnel. The golem
continued to stand motionless. Zak supposed there was only one thing to do. He
stepped onto the pale stone disk. His
surroundings blurred, then snapped back into focus. "I
see my little servant was successful," spoke a sibilant voice. Zak
swayed, clutching his stomach. For a moment, he thought he would vomit from the
terrible sensation of wrenching he had experienced. "My
apologies," the voice went on. "Traveling by means of the disk can be
disconcerting. But the feeling should fade in a moment." Even as
the other spoke these words, Zak found his dizziness receding and lifted his
head. He stood on another circle of white stone, in the center of an octagonal
chamber littered with parchment scrolls, glass vials, nameless metal
instruments, and bits of mummified animals. Before him stood a figure swathed
all in black robes, face hidden behind a shapeless gray mask. Zak
tensed, ready to defend himself. "Who are you?" he demanded. Muffled
laughter emanated from the mask, mocking but not altogether cruel. "One
who could have destroyed you a dozen times over in the last few seconds,
despite all your prowess, weapons master. But be at ease, I beg you. I did not
go to all the trouble of saving you from the foul priestesses of Lloth only to
snuff you out with a fireball." Zak
eyed the other, still wary. "I am safe here then?" Again
the eerie, whispering laughter. "No, Zaknafein. You are anything but safe.
But if you are referring to physical harm, none will come to you. It is your
soul that is imperiled by being here." These
words intrigued Zak. Despite himself, he lowered his guard, stepping off the
white disk. "You still haven't answered my question. Who are you?" "I
am Jalynfein," the other replied, "though few know me by that name.
To most I am simply the Spider Mage." Zak
stared in renewed shock. This confirmed his hunch that he stood now in a
wizard's chamber, somewhere within the towers of Sorcere, the academy of magic
in Tier Breche. But this was not simply any master of sorcery. The Spider Mage
was one of the most infamous and mysterious wizards in all of Menzoberranzan.
It was said his power was exceeded only by his zeal to serve Lloth, and that in
turn only by his madness. Yet the wizard before Zak seemed neither insane
nor-by his actions and words-a lover of Lloth. Zak's
interest and confusion were apparent to the Spider Mage. "Come," said
the wizard, gesturing to a pair of chairs beside a table. "I will explain
what I can. But we do not have much time. Her eye has turned away for the
moment, gazing elsewhere, but it will turn back before long. She is always
watching." A
shiver coursed up Zak's spine. He did not need to ask who she was. Moments
later they sat at the table, sipping pale wine, as the Spider Mage spoke on.
"There is something I must show you, Zaknafein. You will not wish to see
it, but you must in order to understand what I am going to tell you." Without
further words, the wizard reached up and removed his gray mask. Beneath was . .
. not a face. Instead, it was a mass of writhing spider legs. Hundreds of them.
Thousands. Zak gagged, turning away. When at last he dared to turn back, the
mask was in place once more. "How
. . . ?" Zak croaked. It was all he could manage. "I will spare you
the details," the wizard said in crisp tones. "Suffice it to say that
a yochlol did this to me, one of the Spider Queen's servants. Now you will
believe me when I tell you that I despise Lloth utterly." In the following
fevered minutes, Zak listened in rapt attention as the Spider Mage spoke of his
hatred for the Spider Queen. Jalynfein loathed Lloth not just for what she had
done to him, but for what she had done to all the drow-for the wicked, hateful,
heartless creatures she made them with her evil manipulations. The dark elves
had been noble creatures once, beings of enlightenment and compassion. That was
before they were driven into the Underdark and became tangled in Lloth's web of
deceit, depravity, and lust. To the Spider Queen, twisting the drow was simply
a cruel and capricious game, and one at which she excelled. These
words struck a deep chord within Zaknafein. He shook his head in dark wonder.
"I had always thought I was alone, that I was the only one who hated what
the drow had become, what had become." "No,
you are not alone," the Spider Mage countered. "There are others who
are . . . different. Others who believe that drow do not have to dwell in evil
and infamy. I have brought some of them here, to speak with them, just as I
have brought you. We are not many, but we are. Don't you see?" The wizard
clenched a hand into a fist. "It means that Lloth's corruption of the drow
is not complete. If it were, those who are different, those like us, would
never be born into this dark world!" Zak
stared at the wizard as the import of these words sank in. Deep amid the
shadows of his heart, a faint spark of hope ignited. "But how can we fight
her?" "Not openly," the Spider Mage said in a sharp voice.
"You have learned what one gains for openly defying the will of Lloth.
Death or driderhood. No, if we are ever to defeat Lloth, it will be at her own
game." Zak
didn't understand. "Consider
myself," the Spider Mage went on. "By posing as a loyal disciple of
Lloth, I avoid her close scrutiny. Yet even as I pretend to serve her, I work
against the Spider Queen. I use the power she grants me and turn it against
her. I must be subtle, yes. Cautious. Patient. It may take centuries. But
slowly, surely, we can erode her hold upon the drow." Zak
shook his head, his doubts rising. "I don't know, Jalynfein. I am a
fighter. I am not trained to befriend my enemies, but to defeat them head
on." The
wizard's voice was urgent. "You must trust me, weapons master. Return to
your house. Serve your matron mother and her high priestess daughters. Give
them no reason to believe that you are anything but a loyal and devoted tool in
their hands. But while you do, watch and wait. When the opportunity comes to do
some good, to thwart Lloth in her evil plots, you will see it." The Spider
Mage reached out and gripped his shoulder. "By serving Lloth we can master
her, Zaknafein. It is the only way." "But
even if you're right, I can never go back," Zak protested. "Yes you
can." The
Spider Mage passed his hand over a crystal globe. Within appeared the image of
a great column, the last glow of heat fading from its stone surface. Narbondel. "You
thought that you destroyed the Dagger of Menzoberra when you cast it into the
fires, but that is not so. Even the magical flames of the archmage are not
enough to destroy a relic as powerful as the Dagger." A
dangerous light ignited in Zak's eyes. If he were to regain the Dagger and
present it to Matron Malice, she would have no choice but to grant him his
place as weapons master once more. At that moment, he made a decision. Master
her by serving her. Yes, it was the only way. Zak
stood in an abrupt motion. "I have to go." He shot the wizard a nasty
grin. "I have a dagger to fetch for my beloved matron mother." Perhaps
it was only the shadows, but a smile seemed to touch the Spider Mage's gray
mask. "Farewell, Zaknafein. It would be too dangerous for us to ever speak
again. So let me say that it has been an honor to meet you." At a
loss for words, Zak could only nod. "Use
the disk," Jalynfein finished. "It will take you to Narbondel." Without
further words, Zak stepped onto the pale circle, and once again the world
blurred around him. Chapter
Seven To
Serve ... Jalynfein
sat in the silence of his chamber, deep in the heart of Sorcere. He gazed into
the crystal, at the glowing pillar, thinking of the peril of which he had not
warned the weapons master. To
pretend to serve Lloth was the only hope of finding a chance to undermine her
power. But there was a grave danger in it as well. In posing as a slave of the
Spider Queen, an elf might one day wake to find he has actually become one.
Time was their ally, but it was also their enemy. In time, all things-even a
drow of good and true heart-could become corrupted. "Each
day we burn in the Fires of Narbondel, my friend," Jalynfein whispered to
the crystal. "For each day brings a chance to do good, and a chance to
become evil." Jalynfein
sighed. It was beyond his power now. He waved a hand, and the crystal went
dark. The Spider Mage stood. It was time to go serve Lloth. Chapter
Eight Relics Drizzt
knew he shouldn't be here. Briza had charged him with the task of polishing
every doorknob in the entire house. She hadn't said anything about opening any
of them. The
door clicked shut behind him. It was too late. "Well,
since I've already earned a whipping, I might as well look around," the
young drow reasoned. For a
moment, Drizzt enjoyed the silence of the small antechamber. At present, all of
House Do'Urden was astir with the final preparations for the Festival of the
Founding, as well as for the imminent arrival of Matron Baenre and her
entourage. Even by Briza's standards, the task she had assigned him was a
tedious one. House Do'Urden was not the largest house in Menzoberranzan, but neither
was it the smallest. After polishing a hundred knobs, Drizzt had lost count.
Then he had come to the very last knob, set into a small door at the end of a
seldom-trod hallway. Drizzt
wasn't certain what had first piqued his curiosity about the door. All of the
other doors in the house were large and grand, graced by intricate carvings of
webs and spiders and ancient drow heroes. This portal was so small and drab
that he almost hadn't noticed it. Perhaps that was what had caught his
interest. He hadn't even really meant to turn the knob, but as he buffed it one
last time with the cloth, the knob had spun, and the door had swung open. Now
Drizzt gazed around the small chamber. After a moment he let out a sigh of
disappointment. The room was empty, save for a few broken chairs and some
rotting tapestries. Drizzt turned to leave. If he could slip out unnoticed,
maybe he wouldn't get a beating after all. He reached for the knob. That
was when he noticed it. The walls of the chamber were all speckled with purple
mold-except for a small circle in the center of the wall to his left. Drizzt
frowned. That didn't make sense. Mold would grow on any surface that wasn't
often disturbed .. . In a
second, he moved from door to wall, gazing at the circle of smooth stone. There
was only one possible reason mold hadn't grown over that patch of wall. Testing
his hunch, he lifted his hand and pressed against the circle. I
hadn't expected this, Drizzt thought as the floor dropped out beneath him. He
tried to levitate but was too slow. With a soft, "Oof!" he landed on
a heap of something cold, hard, and clinking. Coins,
he realized after a stunned moment. It was a pile of adamantite coins. He
glanced up at the opening a dozen feet above his head. It would be no problem to
levitate out of here. But first. .. He
pulled himself to his feet, shaking off a handful of coins, and gazed around. A
gasp escaped his lips. His lavender eyes made out cool shapes wrought from
silver, ruby, and pearl. He let his fingers run over ivory cups and jeweled
scepters. Excitement rose in his chest. This was the house's secret treasure
chamber! If his mother or sisters found him here, they would beat him within a
hairbreadth of his life. Had he any sense at all, he would leave at once. But
life as a page prince was dull, and everything his eyes found was so
fascinating. Besides, he wouldn't stay long. Drizzt
donned an emerald crown and lifted a pale sword, pretending he was a great king
of some deep, dark realm. He spun, waving the sword, imagining the terrible
creatures of the Underdark he would slay. A glint
caught his eye. Sitting on a marble pedestal was a bowl of beaten gold. The
sword slipped from Drizzt's fingers as he approached. The vessel was unadorned,
but something told him this was no ordinary bowl. He reached out and touched
the golden rim. As he did, clear water-springing from no visible source-filled
the vessel. He bent over the bowl. At first all he saw was his own reflection,
but then the water went dark, blacker than the deepest crevices of the
Underdark. A sound of fear escaped Drizzt's throat, but he could not look away. Images
began to appear. They floated across the still surface of the water, quick and
fleeting. He glimpsed his mother talking to his sisters, their heads bent
together as they schemed some wickedness. The image changed and became his
brother Dinin practicing with his swords. Then, in quick succession, came a
dozen scenes scattered around the city: faces and places Drizzt did not know. At last
he understood. This was a scrying bowl. He had heard Matron Malice mention such
a thing to Briza once, when she had not realized he was within earshot. This
was one of the greatest treasures of House Do'Urden. You
should leave this place now, Drizzt, warned a voice in his head. The advice,
however, was drowned out by exhilaration. The scrying bowl could show him
anything he wanted! But what should he ask to see? Maybe he should let the bowl
decide for him. He
gripped the rim. "Show me something important," he commanded. The
metal seemed to hum beneath his hands. For a
moment he thought his request had confused the magical vessel, for the water
went dark again, so black that it hurt to gaze upon. Then darkness turned into
fire. The flames receded, revealing in their wake a dagger. It was beautiful.
The dagger rested on what appeared to be a stone step. A purple gem winked in
its hilt, and its blade still glowed with the heat of the fire. Drizzt bit his
lip. The dagger seemed so real-so real that, before he even knew what he was
doing, he reached into the bowl, his hand slipping beneath the cool surface of
the water. His
fingers closed around hot metal. With a
yelp of surprise and pain, Drizzt snatched his hand back. The water bubbled,
and there was a great hissing of steam. At last the vapor cleared. Drizzt
stared in fear and wonder. "What
have I done?" he whispered. In his
hand he gripped the dagger, its metal now cool, quenched by the water in the
scrying bowl. Chapter
Nine Spiderjewel Reality
melted, flowed, then condensed again around Zaknafein. Once more he stood high
atop the center of the tangled web that was Menzoberranzan. Narbondel. The
stone was cool beneath his feet, but already the purple magelights bobbed
through the streets of the city-the approach of the archmage. A new day was
about to begin. The Festival of the Founding. Zak did not have much time. The
weapons master searched along the craggy top of the pillar until he found the
small crevice. He snaked a hand inside, depressing the switch. As before, a
dark hole opened in the stone. Without hesitation, Zak lowered himself into the
stairwell below. His elven eyes adjusted to their new surroundings. In
minutes, he knew the Dagger of Menzoberra was gone. It could not have fallen
far down the stairway, and the bright jewel in its hilt would have stood out
against the dull stone steps, making it easy to detect. Zak swore as he padded
up and down the staircase one more time, just to be certain. But he knew he
would not find the relic, and he was right. He climbed out of the opening, back
to the top of the pillar, then slammed the portal shut in disgust. "Where
is it?" he rasped to the darkness. The
Spider Mage had said the Dagger was not destroyed, and Zak did not doubt the
wizard's words. "Jalynfein
would not lie to me. We are kindred spirits, he and I." Yet if
the relic had not been destroyed, that left only one possibility. Someone else
had retrieved it. But who? And where had it been taken? The Festival of the
Founding was about to commence. He did not have time to search even a fraction
of the city, let alone all of it. It seemed his quest for redemption had come
to a premature and bitter end. All at
once, low laughter escaped Zak's throat. What a fool he was! Of course-he had
possessed the power to find the relic all along. Reaching into his neck-purse,
he pulled out the spiderjewel. He set the gem on his outstretched palm. The
ruby embedded in its abdomen winked to life. The arachnid spun a moment, then
stopped. Zak followed the spider's orientation with his gaze. West. There
was no time to waste. Zak stepped off the pillar and into an updraft, wrapping
himself in his piwafwi and letting the warm air conceal his body heat from
prying eyes. He sank to the ground, vanishing into the city's streets, just as
the regal procession reached the base of Narbondel. The
archmage laid his hands upon the ancient pillar. Fire welled forth. Stone
glowed crimson. The Festival had begun. Chapter
Ten A
Goblin at the Gate Matron
Malice gazed around herself, eyes glittering with satisfaction. Everything was
in place for the Festival. On her orders, the servants had brought House
Do'Urden's most opulent treasures into the feast hall: chairs fashioned of
dwarf bones, onyx tables resting on dragon claws, crystal goblets colored
crimson with a tincture of faerie blood-taken from the hated light elves in a
raid on the surface world. Malice's was not the richest house in
Menzoberranzan, but it could muster a remarkable display all the same. Matron
Baenre could not help but be impressed. Malice
smiled, but the expression felt hollow. Despite her imminent victory, her
satisfaction was marred. Something was missing. In chagrin, she realized who it
was. Yet she was better off without the unruly weapons master, she told herself.
She would find others to replace him, in her bed and in her heart. It was
foolish to waste her thought on Zaknafein. This was to be her day of glory. Dinin
hurried into the feast hall and bowed low before her. "Forgive the
intrusion, Matron Mother, but you asked me to inform you if anyone-anyone at
all-came to the house's gate. A lone goblin has shown up, and it begs
hospitality." Briza
let out a snort of outrage. "The brazen little worm." She gripped her
snake-headed whip. "I'll take care of it, Mother." Malice
glared at her daughter. "And earn us the further disfavor of Lloth?"
she sneered. "I think not. Put away your whip, Briza. You like the feel of
its grip far too much. Perhaps it would do you good to remember what the other
end of it feels like." Briza
stared in slack-jawed shock, then hastily coiled her whip, lest she feel its
bite herself. Malice
stroked her jaw in thought. "The Spider Queen will appear somewhere in the
city today, and there is no telling what form she'll take. We cannot take the
risk of turning any stranger away." She turned to her son. "Dinin,
bring the goblin here. Whatever it wants, it shall get." Dinin
stared in surprise, but had the sense not to question his matron mother. He
returned minutes later with the goblin: a small, sniveling creature with green
skin and a warty face. Malice resisted the urge to stick her dagger into the
loathsome thing's throat. There were too many stories of families who had
turned away some wretched creature only to learn it had been Lloth in disguise,
even as they died from food turned into poison. Malice forced herself to smile. "Welcome
to House Do'Urden," she spoke. "Would you like some wine?" The
goblin nodded, rubbing gnarled hands together and baring yellow fangs in a
grin. "Garn, but I love the Festival of the Founding!" it croaked. Malice
herself was bathing the goblin's crusty feet in a silver basin when the feast
hall doors opened and Matron Baenre entered. "Don't
forget to wash between the toes," the ancient elf said in her rasping
voice. "Goblins are not known for thoroughness in hygiene." Malice
leapt to her feet, wiping her hands against her gown. "Matron Baenre! I
was only . . . that is, I was just trying . . ." Her cheeks glowed with
warm embarrassment. Baenre
cackled, leaning on her staff. "Fear not, Matron Malice. I appreciate a
matron mother who knows the value of tradition. But I think you have shown this
goblin as much hospitality as tradition warrants this day." The
goblin looked up, eyes bulging as it realized its fun was at an end. Malice
nodded to Dinin, and her son grabbed the goblin, dragging it kicking and
screaming from the hall. Malice breathed a sigh of relief. Things had gotten
off to an awkward start, but it seemed no harm had been done. Perhaps this was going
to turn out well after all. Recovering her sense of protocol, she lowered her
head in formal greeting. "We
are honored by your presence on this day of celebration, Matron Baenre." With an
impatient hand, the ancient dark elf waved the words away. "Well, of
course you are. Now, where is the mushroom wine? I'm thirsty." "This
way," Malice spoke, leading Matron Baenre toward a table. "I'm sure
you'll find everything to your satisfaction." "Oh,
I'll be the judge of that." Matron Baenre cackled again, and this time the
sound of her laughter was not quite so congenial. Malice
clenched her teeth. Maybe this wasn't going to be so easy after all. Chapter
Eleven Intruder Zak
pushed back the hood of the ragged robe he had donned over his piwafwi. He glanced
in either direction down the corridor, but there was no one in sight. It had
been easy enough to gain entrance to House Do'Urden by posing as a beggar. No
one was turned away on the Festival of the Founding. Once inside, Zak had used
his intimate knowledge of the compound to slip away. He had gone first to his
old chamber, to retrieve his swords. Then he had begun his search. Opening
his hand, Zak glanced at the glowing spiderjewel. At first he had been shocked
when the arachnid had led him here, to House Do'Urden. Someone here had
retrieved the Dagger of Menzoberra. Zak did not know how this could be, yet it
was. He could only hope the relic was not yet in Malice's hands, or he would
have no chance of regaining her favor. With silent speed, he moved down the
corridor. Soon
the sounds of revelry reached his ears. The feast hall was near. And by the
gleaming of the spiderjewel's ruby, so was the Dagger. Zak moved through an
archway and pressed himself into the concealment of a heat shadow. A figure
came into view, walking down the corridor, face hidden by a tray heaped with
dishes. The enchanted arachnid spun in agitation. This is
the one, Zak realized. This is the one who has taken the Dagger. He thrust the
spiderjewel into his pocket and gripped the hilts of his two swords. He
waited until his quarry was near, then leapt out, tripping. With a loud crash
of breaking crockery, the tray struck the floor. Zak thrust his swords down in
a crossed position, thinking to trap his quarry against the floor by the neck,
but the blades bit only stone, not flesh. His foe was more wily than he had
guessed. In the chaos, the other had rolled to the side and was even now trying
to crawl past Zak's legs. Fast as his quarry was, Zak was still a weapons
master. Before his prey could wriggle away again, Zak lashed out a boot,
pinning his enemy in a prone position. He lowered his sword until the tip bit
into the skin of the other's neck. At this, all wriggling stopped. "Turn
over," Zak ordered. "Let me see your face. But do it slowly, or
you'll lose your head in the process." The
other rolled over. Zak raised an eyebrow in surprise. This was hardly the foe
he had expected. "Hello,
Master Zaknafein," Drizzt Do'Urden said in a polite voice. Despite
himself, a chuckle rose in Zak's throat. The boy was a good fighter, and even
though he had been defeated, there was no fear in his eyes. The young drow had
spirit. More's the pity, Zak thought, for it would only be ground out of him in
the years ahead. But right now, Zak had other matters with which to concern
himself. He hauled Drizzt to his feet and flipped back the boy's piwafwi.
Tucked into Drizzt's belt was an ornate knife, a large purple gem winking in
its hilt. The spiderjewel had not erred. Zak
gave the boy a sharp stare. "Tell me how you came by this. Now." Drizzt
nodded in quick compliance. In even tones, he told of stumbling on the treasure
room and the scrying bowl, and how he had reached into the water to grasp the
relic. Zak listened in growing amazement. He did not doubt the boy's words. It
was clear he was no liar- another trait that would cause him trouble in the
dark world of the drow. "Are
you angry with me, Master Zaknafein?" Drizzt asked when he had finished. Zak did
not know how to answer that one. For some reason, he wished to reassure the
boy. Impossible as it seemed-this was one of Rizzen's scions, after all- Drizzt
reminded Zak of himself. He knelt and started to tell the boy that everything
was going to work out now. That
was when he heard the chittering. Zak jerked his head up. A cold edge of dread
sliced into his gut. He had forgotten about the jade spiders. Two
massive forms scuttled toward them, green and glistening, smooth stone made
animate. The function of the house's jade spiders was to protect the compound
against intruders. By attacking a scion of the house, Zak had made himself an
intruder, and he had seen what jade spiders did to intruders. Usually there
wasn't enough remaining to even identify the victim's race. Smooth
legs clicking against the stone floor, the jade spiders approached. "What's
happening?" Drizzt asked, glancing in confusion at the magical monsters.
"Why are the jade spiders attacking us?" "They're
not attacking us," Zak growled. "It's me they're after. Now get
back." He drew his swords, one in each hand. A grim
light flashed in the boy's strange purple eyes. "No, I'm going to help
you." Zak
stared in astonishment, then shook his head. He started to tell the young drow
to get back, but it was too late. The chitinous clicking sound crescendoed as
the jade spiders attacked. The
weapons master was ready for them. His two blades formed a whirling barrier
before him. The spiders reached out only to have their barbed legs beaten back.
However, the swords did nothing more than keep the spiders at bay. Even the
adamantite blades could not bite through enchanted stone. Zak continued to
swing his swords in a dizzying pattern, fending off the spiders, but step by
step, he lost ground, inching back toward the open archway. He
heard the chittering behind him almost too late. A third jade spider approached
from the rear. He glanced over his shoulder to see it lumber through the
archway, right toward Drizzt. In its attempt to get at Zak it would kill the
boy. "Drizzt, run!" he shouted. But the
boy held his ground. He gripped the Dagger of Menzoberra in one hand, and with
the other scooped up a carving knife from among the broken crockery on the
floor. With an intent look, he waved the blades at the spider. His motions were
wild and ineffectual, and the spider batted the knives aside, opening its
pincers, ready to sink them into the boy's flesh. Zak tried to break away from
the other spiders but could not disengage. The third spider lunged toward
Drizzt for the killing blow. It
happened with such speed Zak almost didn't believe his eyes. Face grim with
determination, Drizzt thrust out both knives in a distinctive position: one
high, one low, both slightly offset. The higher knife descended even as the
lower knife rose, catching one of the spider's hooked mandibles between them.
As the two contacted, the Dagger of Menzoberra flashed with violet radiance.
The stone mandible shattered to dust. The jade spider reared back, emitting a
piercing wail of pain. So
amazed was Zak that he nearly let down his guard. A leg swiped at him, and he
renewed his onslaught even as he glanced again at Drizzt. The motion had been
crude and clumsy, but there could be no doubt. It was the torque vise. Zak had
performed the move a thousand times himself on his enemies. But it was his
signature trick. He had never taught it to another. How was it that this young
boy seemed to have known by instinct just how to perform it? Then
the truth hit Zak. Of course. Why had he not seen it before? Drizzt's spirit,
his instinctive skill with weapons, the light of defiance in his strange
lavender eyes . . . Malice had lied to him eleven years ago. This was no child
of Rizzen's. "My
son . . ." Zak breathed in wonder. The
third jade spider was recovering. Even a blow from the Dagger of Menzoberra had
not been enough to keep it at bay for long. Drizzt had the instinct of a
fighter, but he lacked the experience. That first blow had been lucky. The
second might not be. Zak
launched a furious attack at the jade spiders, driving them back for a moment.
He jerked open the door of a side chamber and pushed a surprised Drizzt inside. "Lock
the door, Drizzt!" he shouted. "And don't open it until I tell
you!" Drizzt
shook his head in protest. "But I want to help you fight!" This
was no time to be soft with the boy. "That's an order!" Zak snarled.
"Do it!" Drizzt
hung his head, his expression wounded, then nodded, shutting the door to the
side chamber. Zak waited to hear the heavy lock slide into place. Satisfied, he
turned to engage his foes. The three jade spiders had recovered and scuttled
toward him as one. A fierce grin spread across Zak's dusky visage as he raised
his swords. He had something to fight for now. "Come
on, you magical vermin," he growled, and the jade spiders did. Chapter
Twelve Dagger
Bearer "Hello,
Drizzt Do'Urden," spoke a sultry voice. Gasping
in surprise, Drizzt spun around. At first the small storeroom appeared empty.
Then the shadows unfolded before him. He blinked and found he was not alone
after all. She was
the most beautiful drow lady he had ever seen. Her skin was as dark as onyx and
as radiant as faerie fire, and her bone-white hair fell over her smooth
shoulders in a single lustrous wave. She was clad in a trailing gown of what
seemed thick black velvet. Her deep red lips parted in a small smile, revealing
pearl-white teeth. Most remarkable of all were her eyes. They were purple, just
like Drizzt's own. Muffled
but clear, Drizzt heard the sounds of battle outside the door. "I should
be out there, helping him," he protested. "I'm going to be a warrior
one day, you know." The
lady laughed-clear water on dark stone. "Oh, yes. I know. But your place
right now is here, Dagger Bearer." Drizzt
gazed at the ornate dagger in his grip. Its purple gem winked back like a
secret eye. He looked up at the lady. "How
do you know me?" he demanded. "I
know many things," she replied. A breath of wind seemed to ripple the
fabric of her gown, but Drizzt had felt no breeze. With a start he realized the
truth. It was her dress itself that was moving. The gown was not fashioned of
black velvet, but of tiny spiders, each clinging to another, weaving a living
fabric. Drizzt
licked his lips. "I'm not. . . I'm not afraid of spiders, you know." "Truly?"
Her smile deepened, a perilous expression. "Then come closer, child." The
lady in the dress of spiders raised a slender arm, beckoning him, and Drizzt
could not resist her power. Chapter
Thirteen The
Favor of Lloth Matron
Malice strode down the corridor toward the sounds of commotion, furious someone
had dared disturb her celebration. Curious-or hoping to see blood-much of the
feasting party followed in her wake, including, to her chagrin, Matron Baenre.
Malice could only hope whatever she found would not embarrass her in front of
the powerful matron of Menzoberranzan's First House. Her
hopes were dashed when she rounded a corner and took in the scene before her. A
mixture of emotions crashed through Malice: astonishment, rage, and an
inexplicable feeling of... exultation The
three jade spiders had him cornered. One of his swords had been knocked from
his hand, and the other was broken a foot from the hilt. Blood trickled from
the corner of his mouth. One jade spider he could have handled with ease, two
with difficulty. But even for him, three was too much. They closed in for the
kill. "Is
that not your weapons master, Matron Malice?" a voice croaked in her ear.
Matron Baenre. Malice
shook her head in confusion. "No . . . yes. I mean ... he was, but
I..." "Make
up your mind, Sister," Baenre crooned in a mocking voice. Anger
cleared Malice's clouded mind. She would not be made a fool in her own house.
Not by her intractable weapons master. Not even by Matron Baenre herself. She
raised her voice in command. "Stop!" At once
the jade spiders heeded her order. The ensorcelled creatures retreated, then
folded themselves up, inanimate stone once more. Zaknafein leaned against the
wall, chest heaving, clutching a small wound in his side. Briza's jaw dropped
at the sight of the condemned weapons master, but for once she remembered to
keep silent, as did the other members of the household. All held their breath
as Malice approached him. "How?"
Her voice was flint: cool, hard, with a spark to its edge. "How did you
survive the ceremony of transformation in the Cavern of the Lost?" A
roguish gleam touched Zaknafein's eyes. He bared his bloody teeth in a sardonic
grin. "What can I say? Lloth's favor shone upon me." It was
a lie. They both knew it. But Malice did not dare probe deeper. He would only
defy her, and she did not wish to reveal her lack of control over him in front
of Matron Baenre. No one should have to suffer such a willful male. Whatever
feelings for Zaknafein still burned in her heart, they were eclipsed at that
moment by the dark blot of her outrage. "If
you are so favored by Lloth, you will be glad if I send you to her side in the
Abyss!" Malice cried. She plucked a spider-shaped dagger from between her
breasts and held it aloft. To her
astonishment, Zak did not resist. "As you wish, Matron Mother." He
bowed his head before her, presenting her with his bare neck. Malice
hesitated, regarding the weapons master in suspicion. What was Zaknafein up to? "It
is your right to take my life," Zak went on. "Of course, I do happen
to know where the Dagger of Menzoberra is at this very moment." Malice
drew in a hissing breath. So that was his game. Well, she would not be taken in
by his trickery. "Prove it," she snapped. "Or die." "Very
well." Zak
stood and opened a side door. All gasped as a small form stumbled out, lavender
eyes vague and distant. "Drizzt?"
Malice snarled at this increasingly bizarre charade. "What does the boy
have to do with this?" Zak
placed a hand on the young drow's shoulder. "Show them, Drizzt. Show them
the Dagger." The boy
blinked, his violet gaze coming into focus. A shiver passed through him.
"I can't, Master Zaknafein. I don't have it anymore." "What?"
Zak cried. A look of horror racked his face. He gripped the boy's shoulders in
desperation. "But what happened to it?" Drizzt
frowned, as if finding it difficult to recall just what had occurred. "It
was a lady. In the antechamber. She took the Dagger from me." Zak
gave the boy a rough shake. "Who? Who was it who took it from you? One of
your sisters?" Drizzt
winced in pain, shaking his head. "No. No, I don't know who she was. I've
never seen her before. But now she's gone." Zak
released the boy, shoulders slumping in defeat. Malice pressed the
spider-shaped blade against the weapons master's neck. "You have lost,
Zaknafein," she spat. "Whatever subterfuge you arranged to trick me,
it has failed. You escaped your doom once. You will not do so again." "Wait
a moment, Matron Malice. The spider is swift in dispatching its prey, but it is
never hasty." Malice
hesitated, holding the knife against the taut skin of Zaknafein's throat. She
watched in surprise as, with stiff movements, Matron Baenre approached the boy
Drizzt. The ancient drow reached out a gnarled hand, cupping his chin, raising
his strange lavender gaze to hers. "Tell
me more of this lady to whom you spoke, boy." Drizzt squirmed under the
crone's glare but could not escape her pincerlike grip. He gasped the words.
"I already said, Matron Baenre, I don't know who she was." "Oh?
Then why did you give her the Dagger?" Drizzt bit his lip, as if puzzled
himself. "She . . . she told me that I should give her the Dagger, that
Matron Mother Malice would be glad if I did. Somehow, when she said it, it all
made sense." Malice
could stand it no longer. All her carefully laid plans had been cast into ruin.
These males had made an utter mockery of her. House Do'Urden would not gain
station this day, but lose it. She would never gain a seat on Menzoberranzan's
ruling council now. "Liar!" she shrieked, moving away from Zak to
turn the knife on the boy. "No,
Matron Malice, the child does not lie," Baenre rasped in annoyance.
"See? The truth is written across his face." She waved a stunned
Malice back, and returned her piercing gaze to Drizzt. "Tell me, boy. What
did this lady look like?" A look
of awe crossed Drizzt's face. "She was beautiful, the most beautiful lady
I've ever seen. Only her dress. It was ... it was made of spiders." At
this, a gasp of shock ran through the gathered drow. Matron Baenre nodded, as
if this confirmed some suspicion. Drizzt
blinked, his expression of wonder gone, replaced by trepidation. "Did I do
something wrong, Matron Baenre?" The
crone cackled. "No, child. Do not fear. You did very well." She
released him from her grip. "Now leave us, boy. We have important matters
to discuss. Matters too great for small ears." Drizzt
gave a relieved nod, then scampered down the corridor, though not before
flashing an impertinent grin back at Matron Baenre. When he
was gone, Malice shook her head, her anger replaced by confusion. "I don't
understand." "Nor
do I," echoed Zak, approaching. "So
I see," Matron Baenre replied in a dry voice. "Let me be more
clear." At this the wizened drow raised her bony arms, addressing the
feasting party. "Rejoice, dark elves!" she cried in a high voice.
"Let all in the city know that our mistress Lloth, Dark Queen of Spiders,
Mother of the Drow, has appeared this day in House Do'Urden!" "All
hail Lloth!" the gathered dark elves echoed as they sank to their knees. At last
Malice understood. The lady in the dress of spiders ... it could be none other.
The last of Malice's rage vanished, replaced by sudden elation. Lloth had
appeared in her house on the Festival! And Matron Baenre had been here to witness
it. It was everything she had desired-everything she had schemed for. She
turned toward Baenre, her eyes glowing. The
ancient drow woman nodded. "Yes, Matron Malice, you have scored a great
victory this day." Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "But
remember, the favor of Lloth is a two-edged sword. The Spider Queen will be
watching you more closely now." In her
joy, Malice paid little heed to the crone's admonition. "House Do'Urden,
Eighth House of Menzoberranzan," she murmured the words to herself as her
daughters gathered around her. Yes, she liked the sound of that. Briza
chewed her lip with a glum expression. "It isn't fair," she sulked.
"Drizzt is only a child, and a male child at that. Why didn't Lloth appear
to me?" "Shut
up, you dolt," Malice snapped, but her annoyance was only half-hearted.
Even Briza could not dampen her satisfaction that day, or for many days to
come. Epilogue "Thank
you for responding to my summons in such a prompt manner, Zaknafein,"
Malice said in a pleased tone. Zak
strode past Malice's children and knelt before her chair. "Of course,
Matron Malice." The words came to him with ease now. He was already
getting used to playing the role of obedient servant. Her deep red lips parted
in a wicked smile. It was clear she liked him this way. "I
have had word from the council concerning your fate, Zaknafein," Malice
spoke then. "Because you escaped becoming a drider, it is as if the
sentence was never passed. You are absolved of your crimes." A wave
of relief coursed through Zak. He had feared that his sentence of driderhood
might still stand, but he should have known better. In Menzoberranzan, if one
could get away with a crime without being caught, it was as if the infraction
was never committed. Such was the nature of drow justice. He gave a curt nod. "I am pleased I will be able to
continue serving you, Matron. Will you be arranging any personal punishment for
my lapse?" At this, Malice beckoned him nearer. He approached, and she
whispered so that only he could hear. "I do not know what game you are
playing, Zaknafein. It does not matter. Even though you tried to defy me, you
gained me exactly what I craved." Her voice became a mocking croon.
"You speak of punishment. Let this be your punishment, then-know that whatever
you try to do, whatever your will, you serve me. You serve me, Zaknafein." Even as
she spoke this, Zak suppressed the urge to grin. Yes, he would pose as Malice's
willing servant. He would play her-and Lloth's-dark and twisted game. And all
the while he would wait for a chance to counter evil when Lloth's own tangled
rules allowed it. Once again, the Spider Mage's words echoed in his mind.
Master her by serving her. Zak would not forget. Outwardly,
the weapons master bowed his head. "As you wish, Matron Malice," was
all he said. He took his position behind her chair, next to Rizzen, who shot
him a scathing look, clearly unhappy Zak had regained the matron's favor. Zak
ignored the patron. Malice
and her daughters began to concoct some new scheme to further House Do'Urden's
rise in station. Zak did not listen. Instead, his eyes fell upon the boy
Drizzt. My son, he thought in wonder for the hundredth time. The boy stood to
one side of the chamber, eyes cast down at the floor as befit a page prince .
.. and stifling a yawn. On Matron Baenre's recommendation, they had not told
the boy the significance of his encounter or the true nature of the elf lady in
the gown of spiders. The matron mothers had deemed Drizzt too young to
understand. Zak knew they were wrong. But he was glad all the same. Better that
the boy not yet realize that, like all drow, he was doomed to become tangled in
Lloth's web. Zak sensed that the young drow was different, like himself. Lloth
had not corrupted him-not yet. And if Zak had anything to do with it, she never
would. Now Zaknafein did grin, and damn if anyone saw. Yes, he thought, perhaps
there was some good he could do in this dark world after all. A SLOW
DAY IN SKULLPORT An
Underdark Escapade Ed
Greenwood Eyes
blinked in the darkness, a prologue to a rare sound in Undermountain: a deep,
grating chuckle. Xuzoun had not been this excited in a long, long time. In the
damp, chill depths of the vast subterranean labyrinth that is the infamous
killing ground of Undermountain, in the winding ways not all that far north of
Skullport, a certain passage has its birth at an archway surmounted by a
smiling, reclining stone nymph. The carving lacks the unearthly and deadly
beauty of the real creature it represents, but is still strikingly attractive,
and word of it has spread over the years. Some folk even believe it represents
a goddess-perhaps Sune, the firehaired lady of love-and bow to it or pray
before it... and who is to say they're wrong? There
is certainly more to the statue than its lifelike beauty. Everyone who has
attempted in earnest to dislodge it and carry it away has been found dead-in
small, torn pieces-in the room before the arch. The bloodstained chisel one of
them let fall has now been left behind as a mute warning to enthusiasts of
portable sculpture who may happen upon the chamber of the arch in the future. Who
carved that arch, and why, are secrets still held by the mysterious builders of
this stretch of Waterdeep. The careful-and lucky-adventurer can, however, learn
what lies beyond the arch. A simple, smooth-walled passage, to be sure (so much
can readily be seen by someone looking at the nymph). But for some reason, few
walk far along this way. Those
who do will find that the passage soon narrows, descends sharply, and becomes a
rough tunnel hewn through damp rock. In several places, the ceaseless murmur of
echoes fill this route: fading but never silent remnants of distant cacophony
that seems to involve loud speech ... in tongues not understood or identified by
even the most careful listener. As the
intrigued traveler moves on, the grinning bones of human adventurers and
larger, snakelike things adorn the deepening way, and pits begin to occur.
Above several of these deadly shafts, palely shrouded in cobwebbed bones, hang
dark, ancient tree trunks that end in sharp points. Years have passed since
they fell like fangs to impale victims who are now mere twisted tangles of bone
and sinew, dangling silently, their lifeblood spilled long ago. Few
explorers come so far. One may have to wait days for a crumbling bone to break
free and fall into the depths with a small, dry sigh . . . and such sights are
the only exciting action hereabouts. Any
intruder who presses on past the area of pits- and manages to avoid personally
discovering new ones-will soon meet the endless gaze of a skull taller than
most men. A giant's head goggles down the passage, its empty sockets eerily lit
by the glowworms that dwell within. Their faint, slowly ambulating radiances
show what dealt death to the giant, waiting in the dimness just beyond: a
boulder almost as large as the riven skull, bristling with rusted metal spikes
as long as most men stand tall. The bands that gird the stone about and clasp
its massive swing chain are still strong. The many-spiked boulder hangs in the
passage like a waiting beholder, almost blocking the way, swinging slightly
from time to time in response to distant tremors and breezes of the depths. Only a
fool-or an adventurer-would come this far, or press on past the gigantic trap
in search of further perils. A bold intruder who does will soon come to a place
where a band of glowstone crosses the ceiling of the rough-hewn way, casting
faint, endless ruby light down on an old, comfortable-looking armchair and
footstool. These stout, welcoming pieces stand together in an alcove, flanked
by a little side table littered with old and yellowed books-lurid tales of
adventure, mostly, with a few tomes of the "lusty wizard" genre-and a
bookmark made of a long lock of knotted and berib-boned human hair. A
fortunate intruder will find the chair empty, and wonder forever how it came to
be there, and who uses it. An unlucky explorer, or one rash enough to take or
damage any of the items, will soon learn that it is one of the retreats of a
certain old and mad wizard known as Halaster, called by some the Lord of
Undermountain. Only he can call into Faerun the ghostly ring of floating,
skeletal liches that surround the chair, which hurl spells at those who offer
him violence. The fortunate visitor who found the alcove empty and lived to
walk on would soon find a stretch of passage where human bones drift and whirl
endlessly, awaiting a living foe to rake and bludgeon. These bones circle with
a slow patience that stirs into deadly hunger when an intruder comes within
their reach. Beyond
the bones the passage turns to the right and comes to its end in a vast
emptiness-a cavern large enough to hold some cities of the world above. ... A
cavern where many eyes now blinked again, as a point of light winked into
sudden life in the darkness. The
light pulsed, whirled about in a frenzied dance, and grew swiftly larger,
blazing up into the bright, floating image of... a human woman, all long silken
hair, liquid grace, fine attire, and dark, darting eyes. The
deep chuckle came again, and its source drifted close to the life-sized glowing
phantom, peering with many eyes at the vision. "Let
us begin," a deep voice rumbled in tones of triumph, and a thing of dusty
tentacles and flowing flesh rose almost wearily from the rocks of the cavern
floor to approach the image. As it
came, its tentacles fell back into a melting bulk that rose up, thinned, and
shaped itself with frightening speed into a twin of the phantom lady. Above
the glowing image and the shapeshifting thing, the many eyes watched critically
as one strove to match the other .. . many eyes on restless, snakelike stalks
belonging to a sphere split by a broad, jagged mouth of myriad teeth. A huge,
lone central orb in the floating sphere gleamed with excitement, and a deep
rumble of satisfaction rolled around the cavern. Xuzoun
was old even as beholders go, but to its kind there comes a time when the
patience of long years and cold cunning runs out. . . and for Xuzoun, that time
had come. The eye
tyrant drifted with excited speed around its enthralled doppleganger, looking
for the slightest difference from the conjured image . . . and emitting another
rumble of satisfaction when it found none. Motes of magelight swirled in its
wake as it went, working mighty magics. If all
went well, the shapeshifting thrall that now looked so beautiful and
delicate-every inch the breathless, cultured, sheltered human noble maiden-
would soon be wearing another shape: that of a certain Lord of Waterdeep. And
thereby would Xuzoun, through eyes and shapeshifting hands unshakably linked to
its will, reach at last into the World Above, and the rich, bustling city of
humans too stupid even to notice when they were being manipulated. Waterdeep,
City of Splendors, where gold coins flowed in rivers and folk came from all
over Faerun-and beyond-to dip their hands in the passing riches. And more: to
taste and smell power, wielded with subtlety or brute force. Power.
To be a part of it all, and shape ends and happenings to one's own desires.
That was the lure Xuzoun could taste, even here in the hidden dark. With this
thrall standing in the boots of the one called Durnan, master of the famous inn
called the Yawning Portal, Xuzoun would be able to readily convey items and
beings between Skullport and Waterdeep (for stiff fees) when desired . . . and
at a stroke become a channel for those flowing coins, and a part of all the
darkest intrigues of the Sword Coast. To live
again, after so much skulking and waiting in the endless dark! A long,
cold time ago, the Phaerimm had come, and the city of Ooltul had fallen.
Beholders had been rent and hurled down its labyrinthine passages in
spell-bursts until their gore-drenched husks choked the very avenues of the
City of Tyrants. Ooltul had once bent purple worms and illithids alike into
mind-thralled guardians, cut new passages and chambers out of solid rock with
melting ease, and casually slaughtered drow war bands and whelmed dark elven
armies alike, whenever they appeared. It had been the city of Xuzoun's birth.
The beholder could still scarce believe it had fallen, even after a slow
eternity of fleeing across the lightless Underdark from the relentless
Phaerimm, to come at last to fabled Skullport, the Source of Slaves, the most
famous of the places Where the World Above Met the World Below. ... The
place where Xuzoun had vowed to stay and flee no more. The eye tyrant looked
again at its thrall, and with an impatient thought, blew the glowing image of
the human maiden into a thousand dancing motes of magelight. They swirled in a
brief chaos, and then sped to the cavern walls to cling and glow palely there,
shedding the radiance necessary for the next spell to work. Aye,
the next spell. The lure that would bring the doomed Lord of Waterdeep to
Xuzoun. The old hero would come warily down into the depths of Undermountain to
rescue a young, pretty noble lady in need: Nythyx Thunderstaff, the daughter of
Durnan's old friend Anadul, who was brother to Baerom, head of the noble House
of Thunderstaff. And here he would die. The
beholder looked again at its doppleganger thrall, standing in the shape of
Nythyx, and through the mind-link made it shrink back and put one delicate hand
to its mouth in terror. A perfect likeness. Xuzoun smiled at the sight. Soon
Durnan would be within reach. Aye,
soon ... if all went well. As things so seldom did when one had dealings with
humans, Xuzoun thought wryly. Then it shrugged, eyestalks writhing like a nest
of disturbed caterpillars, and a few motes of magelight obediently rushed
together in front of it. They swirled briefly and became an eye-an eye that
watched the fearful maiden as she spoke the words Xuzoun bid her to. When
the message was done, the beholder rumbled in satisfaction as the glowing eye
circled it once before flying forth to find the human called Durnan. Durnan
the Lord of Waterdeep. Durnan the Master of the Portal. Durnan the Doomed. "And
so our blades beyond compare ..." Durnan sang, breaking off to bend down
and rummage in the bottom rungs of the rack. Selecting a bottle, he drew it
forth. "Did
brightly flash through haunted air," he continued, and blew sharply on
gray, furry dust that did not whirl up from the bottle's label, but merely slid
reluctantly sideways and fell away. Dantymer's Dew, 1336. Hmm. No Elixir of
Evermeet, but not a bad vintage. Azoun of Cormyr had been crowned that year . .
. and who was to say that he'd fared better than this wine? Durnan
ran the end of his dust-sash along the bottle and set it in the silently-floating
basket at his elbow. What else had he-? Ah, yes: Best Belaerd! Urrh. Why folk
liked the black licorice whiskey from far Sheirtalar was beyond him, but like
it they did, in increasing numbers, too, and one must move with the times. Huh. A
golden dragonshower upon that. Lads scarce old enough to shave swaggering into
his inn night after night with loud, arrogant voices and gleaming
dazzleshine-treated swords, which they eagerly waved around and bragged about.
. . Were we ever that crass when we were young, that. . . unsubtle? I suppose. Time is
the great healer of hurts and the lantern of favorable light; no doubt it was
making his youth brighter in his eyes even as it made his back creak, these
days, and his bones ache in damp weather. They were aching now. Durnan hefted a
brace of belaerd bottles into the basket and strode on, not bothering to look
back to be sure it was following him. Of
course it was. Old Engult cast proper spells, enchantments to last, not fade
and . . . die, as he had done, old and crabbed and feeble. They'd sung the
spell dirge for him not a tenday ago. Durnan
shook his head, ducked through a low arch into the next cellar, and defiantly
resumed the old battle song. "And a dozen dragons I slew there!" That
bellowed chorus echoed back at him from half a dozen dim corners, and he
grinned and put some hearty volume into the next line: "Six old ores and a
medusa fair!" The
words brought memories to mind, as the echoes rolled around him. This wasn't
just the deepest wine-cellar of the Yawning Portal. It was also the home of
many trophies of his sword-swinging days: that lich periapt glimmering over
there, where he'd hung it up as a lamp; this pair of ore-tusks, from the only
giant ore he'd ever met-well, if he'd lost that fight, it would've been the
only giant ore he'd ever meet; and the swords of fallen foes, seized from
lifeless, bloody hands on battlefields, or carried off as prizes from
spectre-haunted tombs and dragon hoards. A score or more blades hung here,
there, and everywhere about him, the pale gleams of their slowly failing
enchantments marking the walls of these dusty chambers and anchoring his
expensive web of spell wards. Durnan
looked around at them all, shook his head, and wondered how life had become so
dull and routine. His thoughts leapt to blazing, pitching decks on ships that
had sunk long ago, and dragons erupting out of ruined castles now fallen and
forgotten . . . the faces of snarling foes and welcoming ladies . . . and
around it all, the bright flash and snarl of swords, skirling in a deadly dance
he'd always won. Absently, Durnan hummed the rest of the song, and took up
another battle song of his youth as he strode on, the obedient basket in his
wake. Just how many old helms and blades and suchlike had he stashed and
well-nigh forgotten down here . .. ? And
then in the chamber before him, his wards flared into brilliant life, and the
burly old tavernmaster hadn't even time for an oath before the magical defenses
failed in a flash, and something bright burst out of a blazing gap in the
suddenly torn air, spat deadly spell energies in all directions, and swooped
toward him. Durnan
ducked low, snatching at the unseen basket behind him for a bottle to hurl, and
drew his belt knife. The glowing thing was small and round, and . . . splitting
open to reveal a scene within itself. As it widened into a magical frame and
glided to a smooth stop in the air in front of Durnan, the wards repaired
themselves with a last fitful snarl of magical fire, and peace returned to the
cellar. "Durnan?
Lord Durnan?" The face of the lass in the sending was familiar, though
he'd never heard that small, soft voice so atremble with fear before. Nythyx
Thunderstaff was standing in a dark cavern somewhere, a smudge of dirt on her
face and one bare shoulder gleaming above a torn and disarranged gown. Her dark
eyes were wide with terror. "If this reaches you, please come to me. I'm
in"-the noble maiden swallowed, bit her lip, and went
on-"Undermountain. The others have all run off, and . . . things are
following me. I think I'm somewhere near your cellars, but I'm not sure . . .
and my glowfire is dying down fast. Th-There's something following me. Please
come." The
scene darkened, and dwindled away to nothing, leaving Durnan still staring at
where those pleading eyes had been. The sending was genuine-it must be. Only
certain nobles dared openly address him as "lord," and he'd seen
Nythyx at a moonlit revel at the palace not four days ago. It was truly the
lass, all right, and she was scared. The cavern behind her might be anywhere in
Undermountain except nearby; around the Portal, the dungeon was all chambers
and smooth-cut halls. Her statement that "the others have all run
off" sounded like one of those daring forays by young noble boys with
bright new swords or dashing cloaks, a few flagons of courage, and a pressing
need to impress ladies. Such forays seldom ventured more than a few rooms
through the uppermost level of the endless labyrinth of Undermountain before
fear-or real danger-sent the hitherto-giggling participants hastening back to
the city above. So a
little girl with whom he'd laughed and played courtier-dolls, and later talked
of life and adventure and escaping the boredom of living as a dignified young
lady of a great house-hmm, not all that different, it seemed, from the boredom
of a retired adventurer- was lost and in distress somewhere in Undermountain.
And he was the only competent source of aid she knew to turn to. Durnan sighed.
His duty was clear. Not
that this was likely to rank with the daring deeds of his youth, but. . . The
tavernmaster frowned and strode to a certain pillar. Now, was it the fourth
stone down, or-? The
fourth stone held firm under his fingers, but the fifth stone obligingly ground
inward, revealing a slot with a lever in it. He pressed that finger of stone
down, and something unseen squealed slightly and clicked. He remembered to step
back before the stones, swinging out, dealt his knee a numbing blow, and then
glided forward again, feeling the old excitement leaping inside him. He peered
into the dark niche within. The
quillons of a blade glimmered as if in greeting. Durnan took it out and slid it
from its sheath-the long, heavy broadsword that had come from a tomb in a
frozen, nameless vale somewhere north of Silverymoon, one desperate day when
he'd been fleeing a band of ores. He'd hewn his way across half the northlands
with it, and then from deck to pirate deck up and down the Sword Coast. There'd
been a time when he could make a man's head leap from its shoulders. . . . The
muscles under his arm rippled just as they always had when he swung the blade,
narrowly missing the basket hovering behind him. It cut
the air with that sinuous might he loved so well . . . but seemed a lot heavier
than it once had- gods, had he run around waving this all day and all night?
Durnan brought it down to set its tip to the floor, and leaned on it as he
thought of where Nythyx might be ... lost somewhere in the dark and dangerous
ways beyond the walls of his cellars. For a
breath or two, the tavernmaster fingered the sword's familiar pommel and grip,
and then shrugged and did something to the plain ring on the middle finger of
his left hand. A tiny pinwheel of silver motes arose to silently circle the
ring; he bent over the swiftly fading, rushing radiances and whispered,
"Gone into Undermountain to rescue Nythyx Thunderstaff, old friend; I may
need help." The
last motes of magelight died. Durnan looked at the ring, sighed, and hefted the
sword again. His second sigh was louder. He shook his head grimly at his
failing strength, hung the sword back in the pillar, and went down the room to
where a shorter, lighter blade hung on the wall. This one had felt good in his
hand, too. It slid
out of its sheath in swift, eager silence. He tossed it in the air, caught it,
and instantly lunged at an imaginary opponent, springing up without pause to
whirl around and slash empty air just a hair or two above the bottles in the
basket floating behind him. It seemed to shrink away from his leaping steel,
but Durnan didn't notice as he bounded through an archway that his wards would
let only him pass through, and down the steep dark steps beyond. For the first
time in long, dusty years, he was off to war! The
floating basket of bottles, forgotten behind him, tried to dart through the
wards in his wake. There was a flash of aroused magic and a reeling rebound. The
basket seemed to sigh for just an instant before it crashed to the floor,
shattering at least one bottle of belaerd. Dark whiskey gurgled out to run
across the floor . . . but no one was there to hear it. "Transtra?
I know you're in there! Come out and fight, all the gods damn you, or
I'll-" The
speaker did not wait to finish his threat, but dealt the door a heavy blow. It
shuddered sufficiently that neither occupant of the chamber beyond the door
needed to see the bright edge of the axe blade breaking through on the second
blow to know that the door would not withstand a third strike. The
fat, red-faced man in the room broke off his muttered negotiations and stood
hastily back to give his business associate the room she needed. Serpentine
coils slithered around his feet as she drew herself up, swaying slightly, and
frowned in concentration. Transtra's
flame-red hair and beautiful, unclad upper body remained unchanged; the string
of rubies she wore still winked between her breasts. Below her slim waist,
however, the scales melted away, and her tail shrank into long human legs. Mirt
stepped firmly forward between them, the magic that protected him from her
touch flaring into life, and swept her into an amorous embrace just as a
splintering crash heralded the collapse of the door. The
shrieks and cart-rumbles of bustling Skullport flooded into the room. A
minotaur's long-horned head ducked through the wreckage of the door, warily
following the huge broadaxe. Its nostrils flared as it roared,
"Transtra?" Mirt
lifted his head from yielding, cherry-flavored lips and rumbled in testy tones,
"Ye've got the wrong room, hornhead . .. and I've paid for this one." The
minotaur bellowed its anger and lurched forward-but came to an abrupt halt as a
slim blade rose smoothly from between the floorboards in front of it, rising up
with deadly stealth. "The next one'll rise between your legs," the
fat moneylender growled, "unless they walk on out of here right swiftly.
Hear me?" The
minotaur glared at him, stared hard at the woman Mirt held, muttered,
"Sorry," and withdrew. The
stout moneylender held up a hand and let the second ring on it do its work,
enshrouding the open doorway and the walls all around them in a cloaking mist.
The sounds of Skullport died away abruptly as the ward took effect, and in the
sudden stillness a steely voice close by his throat said firmly, "My
thanks for your quick-witted courtesy, Mirt. You can let go of me now and step
well clear, grinning-faced codpiece and all." "Anything
to avoid unpleasantness-and gore," the moneylender quipped, complying.
"Ye make a fine lass, Transtra." "Not
for you, I don't," the lamia noble replied sharply as scales began to
reappear on her lengthening legs. "Let us keep to matters of trade-bars
and importation, shall we? I believe we'd gotten to six score casks of belaerd
and ten strongchests of heavy chain." "Ye
don't want to throw in a ruby or two?" Mirt rumbled in reply, raising an
eyebrow. The
lamia regarded him coldly. "No," she said shortly, "I
don't." "Ah,"
Mirt said airily, "then I've something of thine to return, it seems."
He held out a string of rubies in one stubby-fingered hand. Transtra
frowned at it, and then looked down to where her unbound hair cascaded over her
bosom. The bottom three stones on her string were missing. She snarled in anger
as she raised blazing eyes to his. Mirt
bowed gravely to her as she snatched her rubies back, and with his chin close
to the floor, he looked up and flashed her a momentary, rolling-eyed idiot's
grin. Transtra's
tail lashed the floor for a perilous moment or two thereafter before the
lamia's hiss of fury slowly relaxed into a rueful, head-shaking chuckle. "You've
never played me false yet," she said in quiet surprise, watching the
shaggy-haired man straighten up with a grunt and wheeze. "How is it, then,
that you make any coins at all?" "My
boundless charm," Mirt explained nonchalantly, "leaves rich women
swooning in my arms, anxious to make gifts of their baubles to one so attentive
and-er, gifted-as I. 'Tis what has brought me all this grand way, to where I am
today." "A
rented upstairs escort's chamber in the worst brothel in Skullport?"
Transtra asked sardonically, gliding toward him. Mirt
stuck hairy thumbs in his belt and harrumphed. "Well, lass, 'tis no secret
that my discretion-" "Has
slipped indeed if you dare to call me 'lass,' " was the acidic reply. The
lamia noble folded her arms and drew herself up, tapping the floor with the tip
of her tail in irritation. Mirt
waved a dismissive hand. "If ye think a little assumed pique will make me
remorseful and somehow beholden when we talk more trade, think awhile again, little
scaled one." "Little
scaled one?" the lamia noble hissed, truly angry now, bending toward him
with blazing eyes. "Why, I've a-" She
reared back, startled, and hastily raised her hands to hurl a spell as a
pinwheel of tiny lights suddenly appeared in midair in front of her. Transtra's
angry gaze went to the merchant, but saw that this apparition was no doing of
his; Mirt was as surprised as she. The lamia backed silently away, hands raised
in readiness. From
those circling lights arose a whisper familiar to Mirt. "Gone into
Undermountain to rescue Nythyx Thunderstaff, old friend; I may need help,"
it said. The first ring on his hand quivered in response, silently tugging Mirt
in the direction of the Yawning Portal, Durnan's distant inn. Mirt
followed that urging, striding in his battered, flopping old boots across the
floor and toward the shattered door. Transtra drew smoothly aside to let him
pass; he seemed to have forgotten she was in the room. The wards parted
soundlessly at the frowning old merchant's approach, and he stepped out into
the passage, finding it unencumbered by minotaurs. A few steps took him to the
nearest window. The fat
merchant looked out and down over the walled, warded courtyard of Bindle's
Blade, the newest tankard house in dark and dangerous Skullport. On his
arrival, he'd glanced at the tables there and had seen .. . aye, he had. . . . A
recent venture in Skullport were guide torches, which could be hired for an
evening and were carried about wherever one willed by floating, disembodied
skeletal hands. Many of these flickering innovations were bobbing and
glimmering among the carefully spaced tables of the Blade right now, and one of
them shone quite clearly on the face of Nythyx Thunderstaff. She sat calmly
with several slave-dealing women. A long, tall flagon of amberjack was in her
hand, and a slim long sword at her hip. As he watched, she laughed at someone's
jest, slid back in her chair, planted one delicately booted foot atop the
table, and raised her flagon in salute to the slaver who'd amused her. If that
was a woman in distress, Mirt thought he'd hate to see a confident and
contented one. Mirt
watched the young woman stretch in her chair, catlike, and glance around. He
drew back before she might happen to look up at the window, and shook his
shaggy head. "Well," he said slowly, "Well, well." "This
. . . thing that has befallen," the lamia noble said from close behind
him. "It has put an end to our trade talk for now, has it not?" Mirt
turned to look into eyes the color of flame, and noticed-not for the first
time-just how beautiful Transtra was. "It has," he said almost sadly,
and his business associate gave him a little smile ... as the flickering fire
of a ready spell faded from one slim, long-nailed hand. "There'll
be ... other evenings," she said, and slithered past so closely that her
leathery scales brushed along his arm. Mirt watched her go down the stairs into
the darkness before he stirred, harrumphed, and shook his head. It was a pity
he was so stout, and that lamias ate human flesh. He'd started to want that
little smile to mean the other thing. He
stepped back into his room and did something to the first ring. A tiny pinwheel
of silver motes obediently arose to silently circle it. He bent over them and whispered,
"Gone out into Skullport to answer Durnan's call for aid in rescuing
Nythyx Thunderstaff; I've seen her safe here, so suspect a ruse." The
magelight faded. The fat, aging Harper and Lord of Waterdeep muttered something
over his other ring, drawing the tatters of his ward in around him so he'd be
cloaked against flying death on his walk through Skullport. Shops and faces in
the undercity changed with brutal rapidity, but the place grew no more tolerant
of the weak and unwary. Mirt looked all around and took something small from
his belt pouch to hold ready in his hand as he trudged along the passage,
toward a hidden stair out of the House of the Long Slow Kiss. He left the door
of his room open behind him so that Hlardas would know he was gone and could
turn off the foot-treadle blades. He'd best shout a reminder as he passed the
kitchens. One could lose good chambermaids that way. Asper
hurled herself into a somersault over the startled guard's head and spun around
as her bare feet bounced to a landing on the cold flagstones. The city
guardsman turned with smooth speed, magnificent in his splendid armor-in time
to see the gleaming pommel of the young lady's poniard a finger's width from
his eyes, where its wicked point should have been. He'd barely begun to gape at
it when he felt the pommel of her reversed long sword nudge his ribs, in just
the place where it would have driven all the breath out of him had this fight
been in earnest. He
stared into the sweat-slick face of the grinning ash-blonde girl and shook his
head in surrender, drops of his own sweat flying from the end of his nose.
"I see ye do it," he growled, "but I still don't believe
it." "Consider
yourself slain, Herle," said the guardcaptain from behind him, "and
next time, try not to turn like some sort of sleeping elephant. She could have
put her blade through your neck and been gone out the door before you were well
into your pivot!" "Aye,
Captain," Herle said heavily. "Just once, I'd like to see y-" He fell
silent, gaping at a pinwheel of tiny lights that were silently appearing in
midair in front of his leather-clad sword-foe, one by one. In wary silence,
Asper watched them spin into bright solidity. She held up a hand to bid the
guardsmen keep still. A
hoarse whisper she knew well arose from those circling lights. "Gone out
into Skullport to answer Durnan's call for aid in rescuing Nythyx Thunderstaff;
I've seen her safe here, so suspect a ruse." The
motes of light then faded until only Asper could see them, thanks to Mirt's magic.
They drifted into a line leading north-and sharply downward. Into
Undermountain, below even this deep, dank cellar of the castle. Asper
frowned at those tiny points of light. She knew her man had sent her the
message in case Durnan's call had been false-a ruse to lure Mirt himself into
danger. And, ruse or not, unless either of the old Lords of Waterdeep had
changed a goodly amount in the last few days, they'd sorely need her aid in
some way, ere long. She turned and bowed to the watching guardsmen. "It's
been a pleasure breaking blades with you, as always, gentlesirs," she told
them, wiping the sweat from her brow with one leather-clad forearm as she
stepped into her boots. "I must go; I am needed." "Is
it something we should know about?" the guard-captain asked, frowning. Asper
shook her head. "Lords' business," she said, and ran lightly out of
the room, leaving all the arms-men staring after her. "How
can one woman's blade--even that woman's- matter to the Lords of
Waterdeep?" one guard asked in tones of wonder. "What is she, that
they need her to aid them so often?" "Friend,"
Herle replied, "you try to best her at blade-work next time, and then come
and ask me that again." He casually cast the blade in his hand end over
end down the length of that vast chamber, into the glory-hole in the far
corner-an opening no larger than his fist. The blade settled home to its hilt
with a rattling clang, and all his fellows of the guard turned to look at him
with whistles of awe. Herle spread his hands, without a trace of pride on his
face, and added, "You all saw what she did to me. However good one is,
there's always someone better." Another
guard shivered. "I'd not like to meet whoever is better than she." "And
now for the other working," the eye tyrant breathed, turning an eyestalk
toward a certain shadowed cavity high in the cavern wall. Obediently, something
small and glossy rose into view and drifted smoothly out into the greater
emptiness of the main cavern: a shining sphere of polished crystal, the size of
a large human head. It winked and sparkled as it glided toward the beholder,
and then suddenly grew brighter, a pale greenish glowing awakening within it. "Yessss,"
Xuzoun gloated as an image became apparent in the depths of the globe. A scene
of woodlands, wrapped about a young, slim human female who was turning smoothly
in her saddle to laugh, unbound blonde hair swirling about her shoulders. Her
mirth and unheard words were directed to a young man riding into the scene,
humor dancing in his own eyes. The watching beholder's mouth twisted in what
might just have been a sneer. "Shandril
Shessair within my power, and knowing it not," the eye tyrant purred.
"Only a few enchantments more, and then . . . ah, yes, then spellfire will
be drawn forth from her at my desire, to be hurled at any who defy me! Many
shall pay the debts they owe me, very shortly thereafter." A
stalactite elsewhere in the cavern yawned, and then muttered, " 'Only a
few enchantments more' before I rule the world? How many times have I heard
that before, I wonder?" A black
bat, hanging upside down from a nearby stalactite, turned its head and blinked.
"Elminster?" it asked. "It is you ... is it not? You felt the
weaving too?" "Of course, and of course," the rocky fang
replied. "I can feel all bindings laid on the lass. If Halaster did more
in his domain than just watch the free entertainment, I'd not be here, but. .
." "Watching
is almost always best," the stalactite beneath the clinging bat's claws
said coldly, and quivered slightly. "You always did act too swiftly, and
change Faerun too much, Elminster." The bat
took startled wing, beating a hasty flight across to the rock that was the Old
Mage. "Halaster?" it asked cautiously as it alighted and turned to
look back. "The same, Laeral," replied the dagger of rock where it
had first clung. "Are we agreed that this Xuzoun should never wield
spellfire?" The other two murmured, "Aye," together. "Then
trust me to foil this magic, in a way that will leave Shandril and the beholder
both unknowing," Halaster replied. "I keep my house ordered as I see
fit . . . though you, Lady Mage of Waterdeep, are welcome to dabble; your touch
is more deft than most." The bat
looked from one stalactite to the other, aware of a certain tension in the air
that felt like the two ancient archwizards had locked gazes and were staring
steadfastly into the depths of each other's souls. Silence stretched and sang
between them. And then, because of who she was, Laeral dared to ask, "And
what of Elminster? Is he also welcome in Undermountain?" "What
little sanity I have I owe to him," Halaster replied, "and I respect
him for his mastery of magic- and his compassion-more than any other living
mage. Yet, for what he did to me . . . what he had to do to me ... I bear him
no great love." Two
dark, hawklike eyes were fading into view in the rock, and they flickered as
the Master of Undermountain added quietly, "This is my home, and a man may
shut the gates of his home to anyone he desires to be free of." The
stalactite that was Elminster said as gently, "I have no quarrel with
that. Know that my gate is always open to you." "I
appreciate that," the dark-eyed stalactite told him grudgingly before it
faded silently away. He
hadn't used this passage for years, and had almost forgotten the trip step and
the ankle-break holes beyond. The battered old coffer was still on the high
ledge where it should have been, though. Durnan lifted out the string of
potions and gratefully slid them onto his belt, tapping the metal vials to be
sure they were still full. Then he took out the wisp of gauzy black cloth that
had lain beneath them, and bound it over his eyes. All at
once, the clinging darkness receded, and he could see as clearly in the gloom
as any creature that dwelt in the World Below. After a moment of thought, he
took the gorget out of its clip on the inside coffer lid and slid the second
night mask into its sleeve before he buckled it around his throat. After all,
it just might be needed. The
tavernmaster caught himself wondering what else he should bring along, and
sighed, banishing an image of himself staggering along under the weight of a
generously pot-and-flask-girdled pack larger than he was. It had been a long
time since he'd leapt into battle with only a sword in his hand and fire in his
eyes. It had been even longer since he'd felt that invulnerable. Durnan
drew a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders once or twice to break the tension
that had been building there, clapped a hand to the hilt of his sword to be
sure it rode loosely in its scabbard, and set off down the narrow passage. Two
secret doors ground open under his hand to let him pass, and he closed them
carefully behind him. Beyond the second was a room in Undermountain that he
knew well. Standing
just inside it, Durnan peered around to make sure nothing had changed since
he'd last seen it, then stepped carefully around the falling-block trap and
across the chamber. It was thick with dust, cobwebs, and the crumbling
skeletons of several unfortunate adventurers, still stuck to the tattered webs
of a long-slain spider. Shoving these husks aside with his blade, Durnan strode
softly out into the vast dungeon where so many creatures had died. Undermountain
was the abode of the mad wizard Halaster, and the graveyard of thousands of
fearsome monsters and foolhardy men alike. Once it had been Durnan's
playground, a place to stay limber after a long day standing behind the bar
listening to young nobles and would-be adventurers from afar boast of what
they'd do and win, down in the lightless depths. All too often, he'd come
across their bodies too late to save them from traps they should have been
anticipating, and predators they should have been ready for. Thinking
of which .. . He drew his blade and stabbed upward as he leaned through an open
doorway. The sword slid into something solid and yet yielding, and Durnan drew
back to avoid the falling body. The thing that had awaited him above the door
crashed heavily to the flagstones. It was a kobold, with a strangle wire still
clutched in its convulsing hands. Durnan
put his sword tip through its throat, just to be sure, as he kicked the heavy
stone door hard, sending it smashing back against the wall of the chamber.
There were some wet cracking sounds and a bubbling gasp from behind it, and
something fell to the floor. Something koboldish. A third
of the sly, yammering little beasts moved into view at the far end of the room,
and Durnan brought his sword up to strike aside the javelin it hurled. The
bracers he wore protected him against missiles that bore no enchantments, but
'twould be a little late, for instance, to discover that this particular
javelin was magical, once it was in his throat. The
throw was wide, and a smooth sidestep took him completely out of the whirling
weapon's path. Even before the javelin crashed off stone somewhere behind him,
the old warrior was moving. Durnan
caught hold of the door frame as he charged through, and swung himself around
hard to the right. As he'd expected, a line of three kobolds was waiting along
the wall there, their spiked clubs and wicked blades raised. The tavernmaster
had a glimpse of their startled faces before his blade found the face of the
foremost. He kept rushing, driving the dying creature back into its fellows, tumbling
them all to the floor. He kicked, stomped, and thrust ruthlessly with his
blade, knowing how vicious kobolds could be, and spun from the last fallen
victim to face the one who'd hurled the javelin. It was
snarling at him and backing away, fear in its eyes as it saw all of its fellows
dead or dying. Durnan advanced a step. It spat in his direction and suddenly
turned and fled through the archway at the far end of the room. Durnan knelt,
plucked up a kobold blade, and flung it as hard as he could. There
was a heavy crash, clang, and moan down the passage beyond the arch, but Durnan
was already running after the kobold he'd felled. The wise man leaves no foes
alive behind him in Undermountain. A
thrust ended the kobold's feeble crawl, and Durnan picked up its bleeding body
and hurled it into the next room. As he'd expected, something greenish-yellow
flowed swiftly down the wall toward the corpse. Durnan peered into the
room-paying particular attention to the ceiling. Satisfied that it held only
one carrion crawler, he sprinted across the chamber and through the right-hand
door at its far end, pulling the heavy stone barrier closed behind him.
Something far off and in agony screamed in the dark distance ahead. The
passage in front of him formed the only link between the warren of rooms around
his cellars and the rest of Undermountain. It was always a place to watch
warily for oozes, slimes, and other silent, hard-to-see creeping things. Scorch
marks and unpleasant twisted and bubbling remnants on the stones around told
him that the kobolds had recently cleared this way of at least one such peril.
Durnan stalked cautiously on, wondering how Mirt was faring, and how soon
they'd meet. It felt good to be in action again, though the glory days of the
Four were long gone. Once
the brazen, impudent band of adventurers he and Mirt had led together had been
the toast of Waterdeep, and a common headache of honest merchants up and down
the Sword Coast-the heroes of impudent tales that men roared at in half a
hundred taverns. The years had passed, though, and such things had faded ...
as, he supposed, they always did. All that was left of those times were some
happy memories, the deep trust they yet shared, and the linked message rings
all of the Four still wore. Durnan
saw Mirt and Asper often, but Randal Morn was off fighting in the distant hold
of Daggerdale, to keep his rightful rule over that fair land. And the ranger,
Florin Falconhand, who'd stood in for Asper on a foray or three, was a Knight
of Myth Drannor these days, and seldom seen on the Sword Coast. There were even
whispers that he'd spent time in Evermeet recently. Durnan
was still recalling splendid victories the Four had shared when sudden motes of
magelight welled up all around him in the empty passage. He'd just time to feel
disgusted-taken by sorcery again?- when his world was overwhelmed with whirling
lights, and there was nothing under his boots anymore . . . "Beshaba's
kiss!" he swore disgustedly. The tavern-master knew a teleport was
whisking him away to somewhere worse. They
always took you somewhere worse. .. . Transtra
stood in a room that few in Skullport knew was her own, eyes narrow and face
frowning. Old Mirt's ring had spoken, and that meant one of the Four had called
on him for aid. And when the Four called, it always meant trouble for
someone-and sooner or later, if that fat old merchant didn't lose some weight
and gain some prudence in trade for it, the recipient of the trouble was going
to be him. Perhaps on an occasion sooner than he expected . . . such as this
one. The
lamia stirred into sudden life, tossing her flame-red hair so that it cascaded
down her back like languid fire, and glided across the tiles like a gigantic,
upright snake. The soft, ever-shifting spell lights she loved dappled her
gleaming flesh in a pattern that made her slave-a thin and dirty human male
cowering on his knees in a corner of the room-swallow and turn his eyes swiftly
away. Transtra was apt to be cruel when his more lusty thoughts became
apparent. . . and her cruelty often reached its climax in enthusiastic
floggings with well-salted whips. The slave shivered involuntarily at the
memories of his last one. The dry
slithering of her scales on the tiles drew closer, and then stopped. The man
kept his gaze on the corner, trying not to tremble as cold fear rose in his
throat, and he wondered just what she might do this time. "Torthan,"
she said, almost gently, "get up and go do a thing for me." Torthan
reluctantly raised his eyes to meet hers. "Great lady?" "Open
the gate that brings Ulisss, and then go to your room," Transtra told him. As he
hastened obediently away, Torthan could hear her muttering the first words of
one of the web of spells she used to lay unshakable commands on the behir. When
the twelve-legged serpent thing glided with deadly speed into the room, raised
its horned head, and gaped its jaws at her, Transtra faced it with both of her
hands held over her head, spell flames circling them. Ulisss
lowered its head in a gesture of submission and sighed in disgust. One day it
would catch its cruel mistress in a moment of weakness and slay her . . . but
not this day. Transtra
let the fires rage up and down her arms as she slithered up to the huge serpent
and embraced its head as if it were a pet, stroking it behind its horns just
where Ulisss best loved her touch. Under
her caress, warily tense muscles relaxed with a quivering surge, and iron-hard
scales slowly, reluctantly, began to rub against her as the monster purred.
Transtra let a spell image of Mirt flow into the slow, dim mind of Ulisss, and
said softly, "Hearken, oh scaly beloved, for I have a task for thee.
Follow this man- aye, his girth is amusingly enormous-and . . ." As she
whispered on, the behir's eyes grew brighter and more golden with wicked hunger
and excitement- and when she released it, it slithered off on its mission with
eager haste. Transtra
swayed upright, folded her arms across her breasts, and watched it go. Though
there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes, the smile that crept slowly onto her
face was catlike in its anticipation. She
readied the spell that would let her watch both Mirt and Ulisss and spy on what
befell from afar, and her tongue curled out between her lips in private mirth.
The possible loss of a business associate was a small price to pay for the
grand entertainment to come. "What
can go wrong? The plan is perfect," Iraeghlee said testily, its
mouth-tentacles whipping and curling in irritation. "You're
not the first being down the centuries to say those words," Yloebre
remarked dryly, twirling the slim glass of duiruin in its fingers so that the
luminous golden bubbles deep in the black wine winked and sparkled. The
illithid leaned toward its compatriot. "Any number of things can go awry." "Such
as?" Iraeghlee challenged. "Not even the Merciless Ones Beneath
Anauroch know of our whisperer. The beholder's no fool, and yet has no inkling
of its presence ... or, thus, our influence." "That
may be so only because we've not awakened any control over it yet,"
Yloebre told the depths of the glass it held. The small worms there curled and
uncurled in their endless undead dance, which kept the oily black wine from
thickening into a syrup. "Do
you doubt my skill?" Iraeghlee spat, leaning forward in its chair with a
hissing of rippling silk sleeves. "It ate the whisperer, which in turn ate
its way into what little Xuzoun has of the paltry things eye tyrants are
pleased to call their brains! I felt it take in beholder blood, and grow! I
felt it through the linkage my magic made-a link I can make anew whenever I
desire! Do you doubt me, younger one? Do you truly dare?" "Untwist
thy tentacles and hiss less loudly," Yloebre responded calmly, sipping
more wine. "I doubt nothing as to your ability to establish control over
the eye tyrant-only as to our shared ability to escape the notice of the powers
hereabouts. The whisperer is a brain node, linked to you by magic . . . and the
Place of Skulls above us, and the city above that, seem to be fairly crawling
with wizards and priests able to see magic use, and themselves governed-nay,
driven-by that appalling human fault known as 'curiosity.' What is to keep us
from coming under attack within a breath or two of your crushing Xuzoun's
will?" Iraeghlee's
mauve skin was almost black with anger. Its voice quivered with rage and menace
as it said slowly, "Hear this, feeblewits, and let one hearing be enough:
no drow nor human, from matron mothers to archmages, can detect our whisperer,
or us while we remain here." Yloebre
glanced at the stone walls around them, adorned by a single glow-shift
sculpture that chimed softly from time to time as its shape altered. The
chamber they sat in held only their floating chairs, several floating tables
(including the palely glowing one between them), and the fluted and many-hued
array of flasks and glasses that its current sample had come from. Unseen runes
of power crawled and twisted on the undersides of the tables, awaiting a call
to life from either illithid, but there were no other defenses save what they
could personally cast or wield. Not
that such things were likely to be needed. They were six shifts away from a
cesspool under the gambling house known as the Blushing Bride's Burial Pit, in
southern Skullport-a chain of trapped teleports that should be long enough to
fool or slay even the most persistent and powerful of nosy wizards. It was
at about that moment that the table between them grew two dark, grave eyes-and
exploded into blazing shards that hurled both mind flayers, broken and
sizzling, against the walls of their hideaway. The
last words Yloebre ever heard, as it struggled against searing, rising red
pain, was a man's voice saying disgustedly, "Stupid illithids. Must they
always meddle?" The
crushed, half-melted bodies of the mind flayers slid like slime down the walls
of the chamber; neither of them survived long enough to see Halaster
Black-cloak's eyes blast their tables and flasks to dancing sparks and flying
dust. When
his gaze had roved about the entire chamber and he sensed no other
mind-signatures on the whisperer in the beholder's distant brain, the wizard
sighed and turned to pass through the teleport once more ... only to pause and
glare with renewed energy at the chiming glow-shift sculpture. It had
escaped-or resisted-his destructive gaze unharmed. Halaster's black eyes
narrowed, and then hardened into rays of darkness that leapt and stabbed
through the air-only to strike the sculpture and be drained away to somewhere
else, leaving the chiming construct unharmed. "Who-?"
Halaster snarled, shifting into a more tangible, upright form. The
sculpture cleared its throat and said mildly, "Why, me, of course. We
agreed that action in thy house was undesirable if not of thy doing . . . but
we said nothing of mere watching. 'Tis how I learn things, ye see." "Elminster,"
Halaster said softly, fading back into a darkness studded with two eyes as
sharp as spear points. "One day you'll overstep the marks I set. . . and
then. .." "Ye'll
try to slay me, and fail, and I'll have to decide how merciful to be with
ye," the sculpture replied merrily. "Those who set marks, know ye,
are usually better employed doing something else." "Do
not presume to threaten me," Halaster's voice answered him, as if from a
great distance, as the darkness that was the Master of Undermountain began to whirl
about the unseen teleport. "That
was not a threat," the sculpture said mildly. "] never threaten. I
only-promise." The
reply that came back out of the teleport sounded very much like the rude
lip-flapping sound known in some realms as a "raspberry." Durnan
was still swearing when the whirling blue mists faded and the world returned: a
darkly cavernous world lit by many lamps and torches, sharp with the smell of a
recent spell blast. Smokes curled lazily past him as he stumbled on uneven,
shifting rubble for a moment, and then crouched, blade up, to look all around. There
was a murmur off to his right. Durnan looked that way first and found himself
regarding an interested crowd of mongrelmen, hobgoblins, bugbears, orcs, and
worse. They were standing on a torchlit street making bets and excited comments
- as they stared right back at him. Skullport.
He was in Skullport. The surprise on some of the faces and the sudden energy of
the betting suggested that his arrival hadn't been expected. Wherefore this
crowd had gathered to witness something else. Durnan glanced left and right
into the dark, smoking ruin around him. Ah hah. Indeed. A
beholder hung in the air off to his left, its eyes gleaming with malice as it
glared at him and through him, at ... a mauve, glistening creature with a
tentacled face and white, pupilless eyes. It stood in dark, ornate robes, well
off to his right - and was raising its three-fingered hands in clawing,
spell-hurling gestures as it coldly hissed an incantation. A mind flayer . . .
and an eye tyrant. Dueling with magic. And he was between them. "Thank
you, Beshaba!" the tavernmaster snarled in sarcastic thanks to the goddess
of misfortune. He dived headlong onto the rubble, framing a scene in his mind
of opening a certain ivory door with the dragonscale key. The mental vision
grew clear, the door swung wide-and Durnan remembered to close his eyes just in
time. The
white light in his mind was nothing to the blinding flash that marked the
breaking of the dragon rune he bore on his left wristlet. As that broad metal
band crumbled, giving his forearm an eerie tingling sensation, Durnan rolled
over a low stone wall, dropped onto a sunken floor, and found his feet. There was
a hubbub of new excitement from the crowd as the tavernmaster started his
sprint through the pillars and tumbled stones, and got his eyes open again. The
white ring of radiance that marked the rune's release of power was still
rolling outward, moving with him in a flickering, expanding dome of protection.
Spell rays and gaze attacks alike would be shattered by its touch ... for an
all-too-short time. "Tymora
aid me!" he gasped as he ran, dodging between two blackened stubs of stone
wall that stood like frozen fingers, reaching vainly for the cavern ceiling
overhead. If Lady Luck smiled on him, the dragon rune would guard his back from
the beholder's eye powers long enough for him to reach the mind flayer. Aye,
if... Dark
robes flickered ahead as the illithid dodged this way and that, trying to
glimpse its quarry darting through the ruins. Durnan snatched out his belt
knife as he ran, dust sash flapping, and the mind flayer spat one loud word
somewhere ahead of him. There
was a flash, a roar of tortured stone, and one of the walls ahead burst into
fist-sized chunks of rubble. Durnan spun around behind a pillar until the worst
of the crashings were done around him, and then sped on. If a certain old and
overweight tavernmaster could just move well enough, there'd be no time for the
thing to work another spell! He
snarled at his own slowness as he leapt on over the rubble. By the pillar he'd
had a momentary glimpse of the beholder, drifting along after him, but keeping
well back. It must not be hungry ... or at least, not very hungry. He was
close to his foe now, stones rolling underfoot in his haste as he burst through
a doorway into a room that had been blasted away, and saw the mind flayer
beyond the crumbling wall ahead. Its glistening, slime-covered hands dived to
its belt and plucked forth a broad-bladed hooked sword. A blade? Usually they
were too eager to flail at one's head with those brain-sucking tentacles to
bother with steel. The
squidlike growths around the thing's mauve mouth were writhing in excitement,
Durnan saw, as he came around one last jagged end of wall and rushed down on
his foe. A boot
coming down wrongly on loose rubble now could mean his swift death, he reminded
himself grimly, and hunkered down as he ran to keep his balance, skidding
deliberately when he reached a knob of stone he could hook one boot around. Eagerly,
the mind flayer pounced on the seemingly off-balance human, its four tentacles
stabbing greedily out. Durnan raised one arm to fend them aside, hooked the
edge of his knife around the nearest one, and slashed viciously at their roots. The
mind flayer's sword came up rather clumsily to clang against his blade, and he
used the speed he'd built to smash it aside with one shoulder and dive past the
thing, lashing out with one boot to kick it in the chest. There
were shouts from the watching crowd, and the fast-paced chatter of changing
bets as Durnan rolled to his feet, bounced off a spar of stone, and charged
back at the thing. He dare not turn his back on it and try to run for the
street-not only would it have time to hurl a spell at his back, but the crowd
might well draw steel on him, or bar his way for its own amusement, to force
him to turn and fight. The
mind flayer's body seemed misshapen; it wavered as it rose from the rubble
where it had fallen- just in time to quail and hiss under the bite of Durnan's
sword. Once, twice, the true steel slashed, hacking tentacles away . . . and
the blood that splattered forth was not the milky ichor it should have been,
but a dark, reddish-green gore! Frowning,
Durnan cut away the last tentacle and drew back his blade for a final thrust
through one of those furiously glaring white eyes. It melted away before him,
slumping down into something like a long, reddish worm or clump of worms that
slithered and flapped its wet, fast-sprouting wings in haste to escape. He
hacked at the glistening thing in disgust, backing away to keep an eye out for
tentacles heading for his ankles. There
was angry shouting from the crowd: the shapeshift had told them the thing
Durnan faced was no mind flayer, but something else . . . and who could bet on
an unknown shapeshifting thing that was swiftly being hacked apart by this
hard-breathing human? Amid
curses, & tankard flew through the air to rattle among the tumbled stones
not far away. It was shortly followed by another. Enraged bettors were venting
their feelings. Luckily, the state of things in Skullport was such that few
would dare throw daggers when a ready knife might be needed nearer to hand. "Well,
thank the gods for such grand favors," Durnan muttered aloud at that grim
thought as he ducked away from a part of the worm-thing that had suddenly grown
bony spurs and was flailing at him. He took
one numbing gash high on his arm, near his left shoulder-and then he and his
foe both staggered. Someone in the crowd had hurled at them both a blasting
spell strong enough to rock the ruins around them-and the dragon rune's dome
had flung it straight back at its source. The
packed throng of spectators was suddenly a screaming, fleeing mob generously
sprayed with blood; pulped, boneless things struggled weakly on the slick
stones around a ring of cleared space at the center of the lane. Durnan
lunged under his foe's bony, flailing arm and caught hold of the wormlike
coils, lifting them with a sudden grunt of effort. There was a horrible
shifting and wriggling in his hands as slashing teeth and talons struggled to
be born, and then the tavernmaster set his teeth and heaved, the muscles in his
shoulders rippled once, and the shapeshifting thing was flung away through the
air. It
landed with a heavy, wet smack, and flopped spasmodically once or twice-but
could not lift itself off the row of iron spikes that stuck up through its
flowing flesh like a line of blades. It sagged, burbled forth a whistling sigh,
and hung limp. Dark gore dripped slowly onto the stones beneath it. Useful
things, sword-blade fences. A deep
blue glow flickered and faded around the corpse as it melted back into the
ungainly limbs and bare-brained, fanged head of a doppleganger. Durnan's
eyes narrowed as a small white flare marked the passing of his own dragon rune
defenses. Someone-in the crowd?-had been feeding that beast spells, and
probably controlling it, too. "I
am Xuzoun," a deep voice rolled out from close behind him, heavy with
confident menace, "and you, Durnan of Waterdeep, have just slain my most
loyal servant." Durnan
spun around to find-as he'd expected-the beholder looming over him, great and
terrible. Its huge, lone central eye gloated coldly as the stones all around
him erupted into conjured, questing black tentacles. "The
teleport that brought me here was yours, then?" Durnan
asked. "And this . . . duel staged for my benefit?" His face and
voice showed no fear as his sword and knife came up smoothly to face the eye
tyrant-and the tentacles grew around him like swaying, upright eels. "Of
course," the beholder told him silkily. "I've gone to much trouble to
take you." Durnan
cast a quick look around at the slowly and carefully closing ring of tentacles.
"And why would that be?" he asked softly. "I
desire to wear the body of a Lord of Waterdeep for a time," the fell
monster said with a smile that showed him a row of jagged fangs, some of which
outstripped his sword for length. "And-unfortunately for the
sometimes-famous and often beloved-of-the-gods man called Durnan-I've chosen
you." Strange
sights in plenty are seen in Skullport, and folk who survive there long have
learned not to stare overmuch, nor linger long in one place, lest they be
marked for dealing with later. So it was that no lizard-man or scurrying
halfling moved more than a wary eyeball as a little line of drifting, dancing
sparks of radiance came out of the darkness, heading down a certain alley that
was narrow and noisome even for the Source of Slaves. A sorceress out ahunting
from the great city above, perhaps, or a fetch sent by a noble's pet wizard ...
or a brood of will o' wisp younglings? It was better not to speculate, but
merely to observe without being seen to look, and mark where the lights went. More
than a few of those watchful eyes widened as they recognized the shuffling,
wheezing bulk that trudged along in the lights' wake, worn leather boots
flopping. A Lord of Waterdeep, now . . . Many folk
skulking the streets of Skullport would fain be seeing the sun over Waterdeep
above, were it not for the lords' decrees. Mirt specifically had made rather
more than a hand-count of personal foes down the years, too. Some of them had
offered much coin for his delivery to their feet, alive and more or less whole,
or failing that, just his head, goggling on a platter. So it
was that the distinctive rolling walk and bristling mustache was noticed by
many in the circumspect crowd, and excited whispers and hurryings followed
those recognitions. It was not long before a dagger spun out of the night,
thrown hard and unerringly, coming fast at the old Harper's left eyeball. Mirt
ignored it, keeping his gaze instead on the stones underfoot, bodies that might
move to block his path, and the guiding trail of motes. The
dagger struck his invisible shields and spun away with the faintest of singing
sounds, heading back at the hand that had flung it. So, too, did a stone that
leapt out of the darkness at the back of Mirt's head- and another; the band of
slayers-for-hire hight Hoelorton's Hands were known to be deft hands with a
sling. Or a
cudgel. Mirt heard the faint scraping sound of a rushing boot on stone, and
spun around like a wary barrel, his belt dagger gleaming in one fat fist. Two
rogues were almost upon him, running fast. One swung his stout club in a deadly
arc as he came. The fat
moneylender's hairy fingers plucked at the battered wood as it whistled past,
and pulled. Overbalanced, the startled man had barely time for an apprehensive
grunt as the pommel of Mirt's dagger came up under his chin. The blow sent him
swiftly into the arms of the ladies who whisper softly to warriors in slumber:
he crashed over like a felled tree, spitting teeth from his shattered jaw, eyes
already dark. The
second man had to dance around the falling body, and met Mirt's roundhouse left
while still trying to raise his cudgel. Mirt let his knuckles take the man's
head into the nearest wall, hard, and felt something break under them before he
spun away to follow the drifting lights again, wheezing along patiently as if
nothing had befallen. The two slumped forms in the alley did not rise to
follow. Another
dagger flashed out of the darkness, and a bucketful of stones plummetted from
the air as Mirt trudged under one of the many catwalks that crisscrossed the
emptiness above most streets and passages of Skullport. His shields sent both
offerings back whence they'd come, journeys marked by strangled, gurgling
cries. Mirt
sighed in reply-Faerun certainly seemed to breed no pressing shortage of fools
these days-and hunched his shoulders to pass under a particularly low catwalk. A
garotte slipped down and around his throat as he emerged into the torchlight
beyond-but the fat old lord paid it no apparent heed, striding deliberately on.
Only the corded muscles rising into view on his thick neck betrayed the effort
it took to walk on without slowing, as the waxed cord skittered over the hard,
smooth steel of the gorget that covered his grizzled throat. It took
less than a breath before the wheezing merchant reached the full stretch of the
deadly cord and the skilled arms that wielded it. With a startled oath, their
leather-clad owner pitched forward out of the darkness above, hauled down into
the street like a grain-sack from a loft. A casual swing of one thick arm
brought a belt dagger solidly into the masked man's temple, and the garotte
fell to the cobbles alongside its limp and crumpled owner. Mirt did not even
bother to look down; this was Skullport, after all. Moreover, business awaited
him ahead . . . and if he knew Durnan, 'twould be hasty business. Three
masked figures stepped out of a side alley, down the passage ahead of him, but
Mirt showed no sign of slowing or drawing the stout sword at his belt. He
forged on steadily into waiting death, and after a tense moment one of the
three stepped back and waved at his fellows to do likewise. "Your
pardon, Mirt," he growled. "You're looking so well, I almost didn't
know you." "Prettily
said, Ilbarth," Mirt grunted, turning suddenly to glare at one of the
others, who'd sidled just a step too close to the fat old man's back. "So
ye can live, all of ye." "Generous,
White-Whiskers," that man said softly, "when it's three to one." "I'm
known for my open-handed generosity," Mirt said, baring his teeth in a
grin without slowing, "so I'll let ye live a second time, Aldon. Take care
ye don't use up all thy luck and my patience, now." Aldon
took one uncertain step in pursuit of the wheezing man. "How'd you know my
name?" "He
knows everyone in Skullport," Ilbarth said with a nervous grin.
"Isn't that right, Mirt? I'll bet cold coin you've lived all your life
down here." "Not
yet," Mirt grunted, turning to fix him with one cold and level gray-blue
eye. "Not quite yet." He
turned away from them and went on down the alley without looking back, but the
three men did not follow. They stood watching him for a time, and soon had
cause to be very glad they'd not proceeded with more violent activities. The old
moneylender strode past a tentacle that slid down from an upper window to pluck
aloft a man who'd summoned it, stepped around an ore sprawled on its face in a
pool of blood, a spear standing up in its back- and found his way suddenly
blocked by a dozen or more lithe, slim black figures, whose skin was as jet
black as the soft leathers they wore. Almost mockingly, the guiding motes of
light winked and sparkled in the distance beyond them. "How
now, old man?" one of the drow hissed. "Care to buy your life with a
careful and verbose listing of all your wealth, where it can be found, and just
how it's guarded?" "No,"
Mirt growled, "I'm in a hurry. So stand aside, and I'll let all of ye
live." Cold,
mocking laughter gave him reply, and one of the dark elves sneered, "Kind
of you, indeed." "Indeed,
but I won't tarry," Mirt growled. "Stand aside, now!" "Giving
us orders, old man?" the drow who'd first spoken responded tartly.
"For that, you'll taste a whip!" Slim gloved fingers went eagerly to
a thigh sheath. "Or
three," another of the drow agreed, as other hands made the same movement,
and slim black cords curled and cracked. Mirt
sighed, opened his cupped hand to reveal the thing he'd taken from his pouch in
the House of the Long Slow Kiss, and murmured a word. The
battered metal chevron in his palm erupted in a ringing, leaping sparkle of
steel-and the old moneylender stood, calmly watching, as the magic he'd
unleashed became a hundred slashing, darting swords that flew about the alley
in front of him in a deadly whirlwind. Drow leapt desperately for safety,
anywhere it might lie ... but died anyway, amid screams from open windows
above. Someone paused on a catwalk to watch-and someone else smote that watcher
from behind, contributing a helplessly plunging, senseless body to the flashing
carnage below. "Enough!"
Mirt growled, as he watched the unfortunate falling man get cut to ribbons. The
moneylender spat a second strange word, and the blades obediently melted away,
leaving the alley empty of menacing forms in his path. He strode on. His
next few steps were in slippery black blood, but the motes were still twinkling
in the gloom ahead, heading for a sudden, distant flash of spell light. In its
flare, Mirt saw many folk gathered to watch something off to the left, crowded
together to enjoy-a fight? a duel? Bets were being placed, and the more
belligerent were jostling for a better view. There
was another flash-which resolved itself into the blue pinwheel that marked the
appearance of someone using an old catch-teleport spell-and out of its heart
stumbled Durnan, moving fast. Mirt's old friend was in some sort of ruin,
caught in the midst of a spell duel between-gods blast all!-a beholder, and
someone ... a mage? Nay, mauve skin; that could only mean a mind flayer. Ye
gods. Hasty business indeed! "Idiot!"
Mirt described Durnan fervently, and broke into a trot, feeling in his pouch
for some handy small salvation or other. "Hearken,
all!" he panted, to the uneven stones ahead of him as his shaggy bulk gathered
speed, "and take note: 'tis the Wheezing Warrior to the rescue-
again!" Something
cold struck the back of his neck, and clung. Durnan snarled and chopped at it,
even as a pair of black tentacles twined about his blade and pulled, trying to
drag it down. Durnan
slashed out with the dagger in his other hand, seeking to free his sword. The
chill at the back of his neck was spreading, cold caressing fingers spreading
along his shoulders. "What, by the bones of the cursed-?" he snarled. The
beholder smiled down at him. "Your memories will be mine first. . . before
I take the tiny candle that you call a mind-and blow it out!" Durnan
rolled his eyes. "You sound like a bad actor trying to impress gawping
nobles in North Ward!" And then the point of his dagger found the pommel
of his sword. He pressed down firmly, and hissed a certain word. The gem
in the pommel burst with a tiny blaze of its own-and slowly, in impressive
silence, all of the black tentacles faded away. "So much for your
spell," the tavernmaster grunted, throwing the dagger hard into the
beholder's large, staring central eye. The
world erupted in a roar of pain and fury. The eye tyrant bucked in midair like
a wild stallion trying to shake off ropes, shuddered, and then rolled over with
terrible speed, eyestalks reaching out to transfix Durnan in many fell gazes. Nothing
happened. "Mystra
grant that this my spellshatter last just a trifle longer," Durnan prayed
aloud, hands stabbing down to his boots for more daggers. That great mouth was
very close now, and the roaring coming from it was shaking the tavernmaster's
body. Teeth chattering helplessly, Durnan watched those fangs gape wide. . .. Not far
away, a black cobweb quivered and seemed to stiffen. Then a hoarse, dusty voice
issued from it-a voice that squeaked and hissed from long disuse. "Someone
is using a spellshatter," it told the empty darkness of the crypt around
it. Not
surprisingly, there was no reply. After a
moment's pause, the cobweb shot forth an arm like the tentacle of a black
octopus, and plunged it into the stone of the far wall-as if the tentacle were
a mere shadow, able to freely drift through solid things. Then the entire
cobweb shifted like a gigantic, ungainly spider and followed the tentacle,
sliding into the stones of the crypt wall. A
breath later, the black tentacle emerged from a solid wall in Skullport,
wriggled out across an alley, and turned to probe up and down the narrow,
reeking way. A rat paused in its gnawings and scuttlings to watch this new,
probably edible worm or snake-but sank back down behind a pile of refuse when
the tentacle grew swiftly into a spiderlike growth that covered most of the
wall. This spiderlike thing then became a flapping black cloak . . . from which
grew the shuffling figure of a robed, cowled man, whose eyes gleamed in the
darkness as brightly as the rat's own orbs. The
man's robe swished past the cowering rodent. He stepped out of the alley,
looked out across a blackened, tumbled area of devastation where a building had
burned or been blasted apart, and said clearly, "Hmmm." A
beholder was bobbing above a lone human, the magelight of carelessly crafted
spells streaming around it, but was constrained from reaching its human by some
invisible shield or other. The spellshatter, no doubt. "Hmmm,"
the man said again, and stepped backward into the wall, sinking smoothly into
the solid stone until only two dark, watchful patches remained to mark where
his eyes must be. Wisely,
the rat scuttled silently away. With archwizards, one can never be sure.
Halaster Blackcloak was known to be both one of the most powerful arch wizards
of all, and more than a little . . . erratic in his behavior. He seemed to be
settling into the wall to watch whatever was going on in the ruins, but-if one
could ever be safe in Skullport-it was better to be safely away from him ...
far away from him. Asper
slid to a stop on a high catwalk and clutched its rail for a moment to catch
her breath. It had been a long, hard run, and more than one foolish beast had tried
to make her its supper along the way. The blade in her hand was still dark and
wet from her last encounter. The leap from the end of a little-known
tunnel-which wound down through the heart of Mount Waterdeep to end in a sheer
drop, high in the ceiling of the cavern that held most of Skullport-down to the
dark roofs below was always a throat-tightening thing. Gasping
for air, Mirt's lady tossed her head. Sweat streamed down her face despite her
frequent wipes at it, plastering ash-blonde tresses to her forehead and
dripping from the end of her nose. Asper sighed air deep into her lungs, shook
her head to hurl away more sweat, clipped the ring on her sword-pommel to the
matching one at her throat, spun the ribbon around so the still-gory blade
would bounce along at her back as she traveled on, and peered out over
Skullport, waiting for her breathing to slow. The
often-deadly place seemed somehow quiet tonight. The mysterious guardian
skulls-or whatever they truly were-drifted here and there through the gloom
high above the streets, where the stone fangs of the cavern ceiling made a
silent forest close overhead. Asper loved this world of flitting bats,
occasional screams, and muttered conspiracies. She enjoyed a leisurely prowl
among the crumbling roof gargoyles, silently glowing wards, and wrought iron
climb-nots, where crossbows waited for sneak thieves to trip their lines and
folk seldom opened shutters covered with rusting crazy quilts of overlapping,
battered old shields, whose owners no longer needed them-or anything. But
this journey had been anything but leisurely. Asper clung to the rail as if it
were a lover, and peered north. There had been something ... a flicker . . .
there! Spell
light flashed in a place of darkness-some sort of ruin, it seemed, liberally
endowed with rough heaps and pillars of blackened stone. In this second flash,
Asper saw the unmistakable sphere of a beholder, eye-stalks writhing in pain or
rage, quivering in the air low over some sort of foe . . . probably a man. It
was the sort of trouble Durnan or her beloved were almost sure to be drawn
into. Asper
vaulted lightly over the rail and fell through the cool air, ignoring the oath
uttered by a startled face at a window as she passed. Her boots found a second
catwalk, slipped for a moment on damp boards that danced back up under the
weight of her landing, and then held firm. Asper crouched low as the catwalk's
tremblings grew gentler, the fingertips of one hand just touching the boards in
front of her, and looked again at the beholder. The problem was, Skullport was
all too apt to be crawling with this sort of thing: the kind of strife Mirt and
Durnan would get caught up in ... but had they chosen this particular strife,
or found amusement elsewhere? Then
her eyes fell on what she'd been searching for- far ahead of her, along the
narrow alley that ran from beneath her catwalk to the ruins where the beholder
danced. A familiar lurching form, portly where he wasn't burly, shambled and
wheezed along with that bluff, fearless unconcern she loved so well. Mirt the
Moneylender, the man whose heart drove and carried the Lords of Waterdeep, was
lumbering like a hopping hippo over the heaped rubble where the alleyway
emptied into the chaos of the ruin-trotting up to an enraged beholder to rescue
his friend. This
was their fight, then. Asper frowned. She quickly undid her belt, plucked
something from behind its buckle, and set it down carefully on the boards
beside her. It would not do to be touched by the sort of magic a beholder's eyes
could hurl while carrying that little bauble. She
buckled up her belt again, bit her lip in thought, turned smoothly, and ran a
little way along the catwalk. There, someone bolder than most had strung a line
of washing from the high, hanging way to a balcony. Though the cord was old and
soft where glowmold had been washed away many times, it held one hurrying,
catlike woman in leathers long enough for her to reach the balcony. Asper got
one boot on the balcony rail and kicked hard; the aging iron squealed in
protest as she leapt away into darkness, fingers straining for the lantern line
she sought. It was
barbed to keep unscrupulous folk from winching down the iron basket of
glowworms that served some fearful merchant as a back door lantern. The gloves
Asper wore ended in middle-finger rings, leaving her fingers and most of her
palms bare to grip things unhampered-but she shed only a little blood as she
caught hold, swung, and let go again, heading feetfirst for another catwalk. Her
eyes were on the battle ahead. The eye tyrant seemed to be trying to bite
Durnan, who was ducking and rolling among stubby fingers of stone wall. As
Asper's feet found the boards of the catwalk, slid in something unpleasant, and
shot her right across it into empty air beyond, she saw the beholder bite down.
Blocks of stone crumbled, and Durnan dived away, a dagger flashing in his hand.
Mirt was getting close now, and beyond them all-as she brought her feet
together to crash down through the rotting roof of a bone-cart-Asper could see
a few warily watching creatures. A minotaur and a kenku were among them,
pointing at Mirt disgustedly and shouting to each other. Wagers were being
changed, it seemed. Then
Asper's feet plunged through silk that was gray with age, and into brittle bones
beyond. She shut her eyes against flying shards as she sank into a crouch,
letting her legs take the force of her landing. A rough
male ore's voice snarled, "What, by all the brain-boring tentacles of
dripping Ilsenine's sycophants, was that?" "Special
delivery," Asper told the unseen merchant, as her sword flashed out. Silk
fell away like cobwebs, and she sprang past startled, furious eyes and gleaming
tusks onto the street beyond. "Grrrenarrr!"
The ore's roar of rage echoed off the buildings around, and Asper dodged
sharply toward one side of the alley, bringing her sword up and back behind her
without looking or slowing. A heavy hand axe rang off its tip and rattled along
an iron gate beside her. Asper ran on into the darkness, calling back, "Pleasant
meeting, bloodtusks!" The ore
term of respect was unlikely to mollify a merchant whose cart-top had just been
ruined, but she was in a hurry. Up ahead, the beholder shook the air in a
roaring frenzy that far outmatched the snarls of the ore behind her. Rays
lashed out in all directions from its writhing, coiling eyestalks. Those that
stabbed down met some sort of shield and faded away, and one that lashed out
toward Mirt had a similar fate. The others were causing spectacular explosions,
bursts of flame and lightning-and in one spot, the stone was melting like syrup
and slumping down upon itself in a slow flood. Magelight
flashed and curled around the eye tyrant as it poured forth spells in a display
that had the audience scrambling for cover. The shouted adjustments to wagers
rang back hollowly from windows, balconies, and corners all around as the
ground shook, stone shrieked, and the last of the ruin's blackened walls
toppled, with slow majesty, down atop the struggling tavernmaster. Dust
rose slowly, the heaving underfoot subsided, and the ringing that had risen in
Asper's ears was not enough to drown out Mirt's roar of challenge. "About!
Turn about, ye blasted lump of floating suet! I'll look ye in all yer eyes and
stare ye down, and there'll be a blade-thrust into every one of 'em before
ye'll have time to flee! Turn about, I say!" Asper
winced at her lord's imprudence, even as a rueful smile twisted her lips. This
was her Mirt, all right. Winded
by his shouting, the fat old Lord of Waterdeep puffed and wheezed straight at
the beholder. His old boots flopped as he scrambled up a shifting pile of
rubble. At its top, he made a show of drawing his stout old sword and raising
it in challenge. "Do ye hear me, ball of offal? I-" "Hear
you quite well enough," the beholder said with menacing silence, "Be
silent forever, fat man." Beams of deadly radiance flashed from its eyes. Something
unseen in the air blocked the rays, which struck with such savage force that
the very emptiness darkened. The fat moneylender staggered to keep his footing,
thrust back under the weight of the magic that clawed and tore at his shields. The eye
tyrant screamed in fresh rage - was every puling human protected against all
his powers? - and lashed out repeatedly with spells and thrusting eye beams.
The ground shook anew, and Mirt disappeared down a sliding mound of rubble as
stones broke free from buildings all around and plunged to the streets. As
Asper crouched low and scrambled forward, a balcony broke off a large mansion
to her left and crashed to its iron-gated forecourt, splitting paving stones. A stone
shard whirled out of nowhere and laid her cheek open with the ease of a slicing
razor. Asper hissed at the close call and put a hand up to shield her face,
spreading her fingers to see Mirt struggling along like a man battling his way
into the face of a gale-force wind. Blackness sparked and roiled around him as
his shields slowly melted away - soon they would surely fail, and he would be
blasted to a rain of blood . . . and she would lose him, forever. There
was only one way she could help, and it might mean her life. Thrown away
vainly, too, if she fouled up the lone chance she'd get. Asper swallowed,
tossed her head to draw breath and blow errant hairs from her eyes, and slapped
the hilt of her sword so that the rune carved there would be smeared with the
gore still leaking from her torn fingers. She felt its familiar ridges, slick
and sticky with her blood, and nodded in satisfaction. Turning herself
carefully to face the raging eye tyrant, she firmly whispered two words aloud. The
sword shuddered in her hands and then bucked, and she clung to it grimly as the
rune's power was unleashed. It blazed away into nothingness as the sword
dragged her up into the air and flung her forward. Eerie silence fell. She was
invisible now, she knew, springing up into the air on a one-way vault that
would end in a bone-shattering encounter with the cavern wall or a sickening
plunge to the ground if she judged wrongly. The
beholder hadn't noticed her; it was still lashing her lord with futile gazes
and hurled spells as she rose out of the flashing and trembling air, passing up
and over the monster-now! The
rune's power winked out in obedience to her will, and Asper found herself falling,
sword first, as Mirt's roars and the excited shouts of the watching Skulkans
rushed back around her. Straight down at the curving, segmented body of the eye
tyrant she plunged, headed for just behind the squirming forest of its
eyestalks. Asper spread her legs and braced herself for the landing-she'd have
only a bare breath to strike before it flung her away. She'd
mixed the stoneclaw sap and creeper gum herself, and spread it on the soles of
her boots more thickly than most thieves, miners, and sailors would. It had
seen her through more catwalk and rooftop landings on this foray than she cared
to think about just now, and if it served her just once more . .. With
solid thumps, Asper's boots struck the beholder's body, and the blade in her
hands flashed once and back again before she'd even caught her balance. Almost
cut through, an eyestalk flopped and thrashed beside her, spattering her with
stinging yellow-green gore as another eye turned her way. Her boots found
purchase on the curving body plates, and Asper lunged desperately, putting her
sword tip through the questing eye and shaking violently to drag the steel free
before another orb could bathe her in its deadly gaze. Three
of the eyestalks were turning, like slow serpents, and the beholder was rolling
over to fling her off. Asper kicked out at one eye, as her balance went, and
flailed with her blade at another. She fell hard on the bony plates of the
monster's body, arm wrapped around an eyestalk. She clung to it with one hand
and drove the quillons of her blade into the questing orb that came curling at
her. Milky fluid burst forth, drenching her. Spitting out the reeking slime,
Asper grimly slashed at another eye. Then she was falling, the beholder's bony
bulk no longer under her. Stones
rushed up to meet her, and Asper tucked herself around her sword, trying to
roll. There was no time, and with numbing force, she crashed into what was left
of a wall, and then reeled back helplessly. Mists swirled in front of her eyes,
and a new wetness on her chin told where she'd bitten through her lip. Mirt
was roaring out her name and sprinting toward her, arms spread to embrace her.
Would his failing shields protect them both? Not
from this death. The
beholder's large central eye was a rent, shriveled ruin, milky liquid dripping
from a slash in the sightless bulge, but the smaller eyes on their stalks
glittered with maddened rage. They stared at her, growing swiftly nearer. The
charging monster would either ram her into the stones and crush the life from
her, or roll over at the last instant to shred her with its fangs- teeth
adorning a jagged mouth quite large enough to swallow her. Asper
shuddered, shook her head to clear it, and raised the gore-streaming blade she
still held. Mirt came gasping up to her, stout sword raised-and the beholder's
eyes vanished behind its own bulk. It rolled over to reveal the gaping maw that
would devour her. A giant
among its own kind and armed with spells that they lacked, magic enough to
overmatch many a human mage, Xuzoun had been contemptuously overconfident. It
was always a mistake with humans, he vaguely remembered an older tyrant telling
him once. It
would take many spells and long, long months in hiding to regain what had been
lost in a few moments of red, reaving pain . . . but first to still the hands
that had done this, forever! Mirt
fetched up against Asper, panting. "Are ye mad, lass? Yon-" Asper
shoved him away, hard, spun about, and dived away. Mirt staggered backward and,
with a roar of pain, sat down hard on bruising stone. The beholder crashed into
the stones where they'd stood, snapping and tearing with its teeth. Rubble
sprayed or rolled in all directions as the beholder raked the heap of stone
apart, teeth grating on rock. The impact sent it cartwheeling helplessly away
through the air-and uncovered a battered, unsteadily reeling tavernmaster. Durnan
found his feet and climbed grimly out of the heaped stones, growling at the
pain of several stiffening bruises. He'd been buried long enough to know the
first cold touch of despair and was in a mood to rend beholders. "Urrrgh,"
Mirt snarled, waddling awkwardly to his feet. "What's this the earth spits
forth? Tavernmasters gone carelessly strolling through Skullport?" "Well
met, old friend," Durnan said, grinning and clapping Mirt on the shoulder
with fingers that seemed made of iron. Mirt's
mustache made that overall bristling movement that betokened a smile. "I
saw the little minx ye came seeking, sitting as cool as ye please in Bindle's
Blade, tossing down amberjack-so I came in haste, knowing ye'd be avidly
hunting down a trap!" He cast a look at the beholder as it thudded into
the wall of a stronghouse, where pale faces had just suddenly vanished from
view. "So what did ye do to get a tyrant mad at ye? Refuse to kiss
it?" "Your
wit slides out razor sharp, as always, Old Wolf," Durnan said with a sly
smile that belied the light, innocent tone of his words. Mirt
gestured rudely in reply, and added, "Well?" "Nothing,"
Durnan said flatly, as they watched the beholder reel, steady itself, and begin
to drift their way with menacingly slow, careful speed. "I came out of the
Portal to aid a noble lady-and strode straight into a spell that snatched me
here." He grinned suddenly. "Well, at least it saved me a bit of
walking." Mirt
harrumphed. "Pity it didn't do the same for me." Rock shifted behind
him, and he whirled around, sword out and low-only to relax and smile.
"Lass, lass, how many times have I told thee how much I hate being sneaked
up on from behind?" he chided Asper halfheartedly. She gestured past him
with her sword. "You'd
better turn around again, then, my lord," she told him calmly, as a
plucking at his belt told him that Durnan had snatched one of his daggers. Mirt
grunted like a walrus and heaved himself around, puffing-in time to see the
beholder rushing down at them again, beams of reaving light lancing out from
its eyes. "Keep
behind me, both of ye!" the fat moneylender roared. "I'm
shielded!" "Against
teeth like those? That's a spell you'll have to show me some time!" Durnan
said, standing at Mirt's shoulder with a dagger in either fist. He'd lost his
blade under all the rocks, and one eye had swollen almost shut, but the
tavernmaster seemed content-even eager-as death roared down at them again. With
the ease and fluid grace of a prowling serpent, Asper slid up to stand at
Mirt's other shoulder. "It seems strange to be worrying about a beholder's
teeth," she said, "and not its eyes, for once." "Get
back, lass!" Mirt roared. "As if I haven't worries enough to-" The
beholder crashed into them, snarling and snapping. They hacked and slashed
ineffectually against its bony body plates. Its hot
breath whirled around them as they jumped and hewed vainly and ducked
aside-only to be struck and hurled away by what felt like a fast-moving castle
wall. Durnan grunted as the tyrant smashed him down like a rag doll, and then
rolled away into a gully as the beholder tried to crush him. Asper could not
keep her feet when the jaws reached for her. She slid out of sight beneath the
monster, only to duck up again, stab at it- and be thrown end over end across
the ruins, sword flying from her numbed hands to clang and clatter to its own
fall. With a gasp and a moan, she fetched up against a broken-off pillar, but
Mirt was too busy to hear her. He was
scrambling and cursing and flailing away against persistent fangs, sword
ringing off bony plates and fangs alike. In the end, he managed to avoid losing
an arm only by setting his sword upright against the closing jaws and letting
go. The eye tyrant's jaws caught on the blade, bent it, and spat it out. By
then, the three battered, wincing companions were rising out of the rubble
widely scattered about the ruin. The bettors yelled fresh wagers in the
distance. "Oh,
by the way: this is Xuzoun," Durnan said formally, indicating the eye
tyrant with a flourish. "Ill
met," Mirt growled, struggling to his feet. "Damned ill met." Then
the faint, everpresent singing of his shields fell silent: his defense against
the beholder's eyes was gone. "Gods
blast it," the old moneylender muttered. "To die in Skullport, of all
places, and win someone's wager for him . . ." "Keep
apart," Asper said warningly from the rocks off to his right, "lest
it take us all down at once." "Cheerful
advice," Durnan commented, watching Xuzoun as it turned slowly to survey
them all, unaware no shields remained to foil its magic. "Anyone still
have magic to hand?" "That'll
help us against this? Nay," Mirt growled, watching death slowly come for them.
All it would take now would be for the beast to lash out with one eye, on a
whim, and discover they were defenseless. Xuzoun
had sent forth much magic against these humans and seen it all boil away
harmlessly, or come clawing back to harm its hurler. Lords of Waterdeep were
tougher than most mortals, it seemed. How to defeat these two-perhaps three, if
the woman was one, too-without destroying their bodies? The
doppleganger was dead, so preservation of these humans-their bodies, at
least-more or less intact was important. They foiled all magic with ease, and
there seemed no way to overcome their wills. And yet, to flee from battle with
them now, before an audience of Skulkans, galled. The
beholder's advance slowed, and then stopped. It rose a prudent distance above
the ruin and hung there, considering. "Right,
then, I'm off," Mirt said heartily, turning to go. "It's not the
season for beholder-hunting, anyway, and I've business to see to, that I
left-" One of
Xuzoun's eyes flashed. A stone the size of a gauntleted fist rose from the
rubble and flashed toward the old moneylender, flying as hard and straight as
any arrow. These humans might have shields to foil magic, but what if the stone
were flying fast enough, and aimed true, when the magic that flung it was
stripped away? Turning slowly end over end, the stone shot on. "Old
Wolf-down!" Asper screamed, seeing it. Mirt had heard that tone from her a
time or two before in his life, and flopped to his belly without delay. The
stone whistled past close overhead and shattered with a sharp crack against a
wall beyond. The
beholder was descending, and at the same time a slab of stone the size of a
small cart was rising above Durnan. He ducked away, but it followed, lowering
itself with care, chasing him. The Master of the Yawning Portal spat out a
curse and started a sprinting scramble across the rocks of the ruin. The
beholder smiled as it drifted after him. If the
great weight of the stone pinned the running lord without having to strike him
down and do harm, he'd be trapped and helpless-a prisoner until Xuzoun was
ready to steal his mind and take over his body. If it worked with the one, why
then there were stones aplenty here, and only two humans more. Wheezing
to his feet and regarding the stone pursuing Durnan with horror, Mirt was
startled by a loud rattling of rock behind him. He wheeled around with a
snarl-was one of those watching gamblers trying to change the odds?-and found
himself staring at a scaly blue monster that looked like a huge and sinuous
crocodile. Its head reared up to regard him as it raced over the broken rubble
on a small forest of fast-churning legs. It was
a behir, a man-eating lizard-thing that could spit lightning bolts! "Ah,
just what we need!" Mirt snarled despairingly, raising his belt dagger and
knowing what a useless little fang it was against such onrushing death.
"Some right bastard of a mage must be toying with us!" Setting
himself the same way a weary bull lowers its head to face a fast-scudding
storm, the fat old Lord of Waterdeep prepared to fight this new foe. The behir
opened its jaws impossibly wide as it came, so that Mirt was staring into a maw
as large as a spacious doorway. A forked tongue wriggled in its depths in a
fascinating dance that plunged at him more swiftly than any man could run. Asper
screamed out Mirt's name and sprinted toward him, a small knife from her boot
flashing in her hand- but she was too far off to do more than watch. The
reptile snapped its jaws once, tilted its head toward Mirt to deliver what he
could only describe as a wink, and surged past the astonished moneylender to
spit lighting into the open mouth of the beholder. Xuzoun
screamed-a high, sobbing wail like too many cries Mirt had heard human women
make-and spun away over the ruins, lightning playing about its body. Its
eyestalks jerked and coiled spasmodically, and it was trailing smoke when it
struck a leaning pillar and crashed heavily to the ground. The rushing behir
was upon it in a breath, coiling over its foe as it snapped its jaws and tore
away eyestalks in eager, merciless haste. The three humans watched, a little
awed, and then in unspoken accord came together in the center of the stony
devastation to watch the beholder die. "Is
there any hole here small enough that we can get into it and hold off that
thing?" Asper asked softly, watching the scaly blue head toss as it tore
away beholder flesh. A last bubbling wail from the thing beneath its claws died
away. None of
them saw a crystal sphere materialize silently beside the riven eye tyrant,
flicker with the last vestiges of a spell glow . . . and then crumble to dust,
which drifted away. "A
few, no doubt," Durnan replied grimly, watching the carnage, "but
none of them would shield us in the slightest from its lightning." Asper
sighed, a long, shuddering sound, and tossed her head. Her eyes were very
bright as she said softly, "I thought so," and raised her little
knife as if it was some great magical long sword. When
the crocodilelike head turned from its feasting, it saw the little knife,
Mirt's belt dagger beside it, and the similar dagger Durnan held ready, and its
eyes flashed golden with amusement. The great jaws opened, and a hissing roar
came out. The jaws worked and rippled with effort, and for a moment, Asper
thought it was trying to speak. Then it tossed its head in disgust, drew in a
deep breath, and tried again, turning its eyes on Mirt. They all heard its
rattling roar quite distinctly: "Thank Transtraaaa . .." Then it
lowered its head, folded its legs against its body, and slithered away. They
watched it wind its snakelike way out of the ruins into the street beyond. The
audience of surviving gamblers shrank back to make way for it. It vanished
around a corner-Spider-silk Lane, Durnan thought-and left them alone with a
torn-open, quite dead beholder. "I
wonder what she'll ask you in payment?" Durnan asked the Old Wolf. Mirt
growled a wordless reply, shrugged, and then turned to his lady as if seeing
her for the first time. "Hello, Little Fruitbasket," he leered,
extending his lips in a chimplike pout to be kissed. Slowly,
Asper stuck her tongue out in eloquent reply, and made the spitting-to-the-side
mime that young Waterdhavian ladies use to signal disgust or emphatic
disapproval. And
then she winked and grinned. Mirt
started to grin back, but it faded quickly as he saw the danger signal of
Asper's eyebrows rising, and the accompanying glitter in the dark eyes boring
into him. A moment later she asked softly, "Just who is this 'Transtraaaa'
woman, anyway?" Mirt
gave her a sour look. "Pull in the claws, little one: she's no woman, but
a lamia." It was
the turn for Durnan's eyebrows to rise. "Slave-trading, Mirt?" The fat
moneylender gave him a disgusted look, and turned to start the long trudge back
up the alley. "Ye know me better than that," he rumbled.
"Slaving's work for those who've no scruples, less sense, and too much
wealth. Nobles, for instance." Durnan
groaned. "Let's not start that one again. We rooted out all we could find,
and Khel set spy spells . . . there'll always be a few dabblers, no doubt, but
nothing we can't handle-" Lightning
roared across the ruins to split the stones at his feet. "Oh?
Care to try to handle me, tavernmaster?" The voice echoed and rolled
around them, made louder by magic: the taunting voice of an arrogant young
woman of culture and breeding. The
three lords looked up whence the lightning had come and saw a lone figure
standing on the catwalk where Asper had inspected a line of washing not so long
ago: a slim, haughty figure in a dark green cloak whose folds showed the shape
of a long sword beneath it. The uppermost part of the figure was all flashing
eyes and curling auburn hair, piled high around graceful shoulders. "Young
Nythyx," Mirt roared, "Come down from there!" In
reply, two gloved hands parted the cloak from within to reveal the glowing,
deadly things they bore: Netherese blast scepters, crackling with simmering
lightning. "Come up and get me, 'fat man," Nythyx Thunderstaff
sneered. "I don't take orders from drunken old commoners." Durnan
looked up at her, eyes narrowed. "You're a slaver, then?" He strode
calmly toward the mouth of the alley, and after a moment Mirt and Asper
followed. The
scepters were leveled at them, and the young woman who held them shrugged and
said almost defiantly, "Yes." Durnan
kept on walking, but shook his head in smiling disbelief. "You've never
shackled men, or dragged ores out of carry cages. If you tried, they'd toss you
around like a child's ball!" Lighting
stabbed at him, in wordless, deadly reply. An
unclad woman whose hair and eyes shared the color of leaping flame leaned out
of a window at the mouth of the alley and stiffened. "Blast
scepters!" she hissed. As her
eyes blazed even brighter, she flowed forward out of the window. Her lower body
was human to the hips, but from there down it was the scaled, sinuous bulk of a
serpent. She slithered along the wall, drawing herself upright, and raised her
hands to weave a spell. A dark,
chill hand caught at her shoulder. She
spun about, hands growing talons with lightning speed. "Who-?" "I
am sometimes called Halaster Blackcloak," the wall told her. A cowled face
melted out of its stones to join the arm that held her. Flame-red eyes met dark
ones, and after a moment Transtra shivered and looked away. The hand released
its hold on her, and Halaster's voice was almost kindly as he added,
"They'll be fine. Watch. Just watch." Lightning
spat down at the tavernmaster, slashing aside lanterns and washing. Durnan
calmly leapt aside, rolled to his feet, and resumed his steady walk a dozen
paces ahead and to the left of where he'd been walking. He
looked up through smoking rags and swaying ropes and remarked, "Ah. You
cook every slave who says something you don't like, eh? This may be one reason
why we've never heard of your stellar slaving career." Lighting
cracked again. In its wake the young noblewoman shrieked, "Don't you dare
mock me, tavern-master! My master would have killed you, all of you, if it
hadn't been for that-that snake-thing! You're very lucky to be alive to toss
smart words my way right now!" "Ye
really should practice with that toy," Mirt growled, waggling one large
and hairy finger her way, "if ye harbor any fond hopes of ever hitting
someone with it." At his
shoulder, Asper frowned. "You served . . . the beholder?" she asked
the woman aloft. They
were close enough now to clearly see Nythyx Thunderstaff's slim lips draw into
a tight line. The young noblewoman stared down at them, pale and trembling with
rage, and said, "Yes. With Xuzoun, I wielded power and influence. Great
lords poured me their best wines in hopes of gaining just the slaves they
desired. You've ended that, you three, and will pay for doing so. This I
swear." "I've
heard of consorts that fathers disapprove of," Mirt rumbled, "but
lass, lass, how could ye be so foolish?" "Foolish?"
Nythyx shrieked, thrusting forth the scepters she held to point almost straight
down at their upturned faces. "Foolish? Who's the fool here, Old
Wolf?" She triggered both blast scepters. Asper
had been muttering something under her breath-and at that moment the catwalk
bucked and broke apart as the blast star she'd left behind on it obediently
exploded. "Ye
are, if ye know no better than to let us walk right up when ye had the power to
torch us all," Mirt told Nythyx as the young noblewoman tumbled helplessly
down, down to the cobbles at their feet. Futile lightnings sputtered forth to
scorch the buildings on either side, but found no way to slow her killing fall. Or-nearly
killing fall. A scant few feet above the stones, Durnan rushed forward, leapt
high to meet her, and cradled her deftly in his arms, crashing down into a
crouch that took the force of her descent. Nythyx
stared at him for one astonished moment. Her face twisted, and she raised the
one scepter she'd managed to hang on to, aiming at his face. The tavernmaster,
however, brought one expert fist down across her chin in a swipe that left her
slack-jawed and senseless. Durnan
watched the winking and sputtering scepter fall slowly from her hand. When it
clattered on the cobbles, he kicked it to Asper, looked for a moment at the
now-empty face of the woman in his arms, then swung her onto his shoulder for
the long carry back to her father's arms in Waterdeep. Just what, he wondered,
was he going to tell Lord Thunderstaff. .. ? Rubies
caught his eyes as her long, ostentatious earrings dangled down beside his
chest. Durnan stared at them, shook his head, and said wearily, "I'm
getting too old for this. What a day!" Mirt
shrugged as one of his arms found its way around Asper's shoulders. "Eh?
What say ye? 'Twas a bit of a slow day in Skullport, I'd say!" The
words had scarce left his mouth when the front of a nearby building burst with
a flash and roar out into the alley, shattering shutters across the way and
sending another catwalk into dancing collapse. Flashing fingers of blue-white
fire spat from the curling smoke of the riven building even before the flung
stones of its walls had finished falling. On those fiery fingers were borne two
writhing bodies. The
three Lords of Waterdeep watched the pair struggling vainly against the magic.
They were women of greater age and much more lush beauty than either Asper or
Nythyx-beauty revealed through the tatters of their smouldering robes. They
shrieked past the three lords, pulled in a sharp curve along the front of a
butcher shop, and continued on down the alley, propelled by the raging magic
that held them captive. The
lords turned to watch, in time to see a black flame rise suddenly into being
along one wall, partway down the alley. It was a dancing shadow without fuel or
heat, which seemed neither to die nor rise higher, but merely to continue. From
behind its concealing veil, Transtra watched a shadowy hand rise from the
cobbles behind Mirt's boot, deftly close on the forgotten blast scepter-which
lay fallen and still sparking feebly on the cobbles-and draw it down through
the solid stone. A moment later, the hand reappeared beside her and offered her
the scepter. "You
see? Patience does bring rewards," Halaster murmured. The lamia noble
looked at him in wonderment, then at the scepter, and slowly stretched forth
her hand for it. The wizard smiled thinly. "There's no trap; take
it." Transtra
regarded him, eyes unreadable. "Why have you given me this?" Eyes as
black as a starless night looked back into hers. "I have few friends,
Lady, and I'd like to gain another-as you gained yonder moneylender." Transtra
looked at the two sorceresses clawing and sobbing against the unknown magic
that was carrying them inexorably down the alley, drew in a deep breath, looked
back at Halaster, and stretched forth her other hand. "I'm
willing to gain one, too," she said steadily, and the smile that answered
her was like a wave of warm spiced wine that carried her along unresisting. The
wizard replied, "Then trust me, and come." Cool
black fingers closed on hers, and drew her toward the wall, into the chill
embrace of the stones. Transtra swallowed, closed her eyes, and kept firm hold
of the fingers that took her on, into silence, away from the alley. The
black flame along one side of the alley was suddenly gone as if it had never
been, revealing a dirty stone wall broken by one dark, open window. As the two
struggling sorceresses flew past that spot, their splendid bodies wriggled,
lengthened-and turned warty and green. "Trolls?"
Asper asked, frowning. Her two
companions nodded. The
forcibly transformed women plunged across the ruins into darkness, tumbling in
the grip of the magic that propelled them. A
moment later, on the far side of the great cavern whence they'd gone, two
gigantic orbs blazed open, and a thunderous voice rumbled, "Who
dares-?" There
followed rumblings that shook even so large a cavern as this, which marked the
stirring of a huge, long-quiescent body. Something larger than several
buildings rose up on the far side of the ruins. As the
black dragon raised its scaly bulk higher than the roofs of Skullport, to glare
down the alley, Asper whispered something over the Netherese scepter. A nimbus
of blue-and-gold fire surrounded her hand. "Touch me, both of you,"
she said, "and bring the not-so-noble lady's hand against mine." Durnan
touched Nythyx's limp hand to Asper's, and she whispered something. The scepter
began to whine and pulse, brighter at each flare. "What
have ye done, las"?" Mirt rumbled. "Used
this thing to power the little carry-stone you gave me, so as to whisk us all
back to Mirt's Mansion," she replied. As she spoke, the familiar blue mists
of teleportation began to rise and swirl all around them. Asper smiled and
turned her head to face Durnan. "I must agree with my lord," she said
sweetly to the tavernmaster. "A slow day, in truth." "May
there be many more of them," Durnan said, breathing his heartfelt wish. The
dragon's charge made the stony pave of the alley buckle and heave under their
boots. The
mists rushed up to claim them, spinning them back to a place where there'd be a
fire and a warm bathing pool, ready wine . . . and no dragons. What more could
a retired adventurer ask for? Those
who like to know their players, and have searched in vain for a program, take
heart-and hearken! The bold players featured in the preceding escapade are as
follows: ALDON:
The strongest and most slow-witted of a trio of human thieves who style
themselves the Masked Mayhem, Aldon and his comrades hold absolute rule [ over
about six yards' worth of two alleys in Skullport. ASPER:
The onetime ward of Mirt the Moneylender, I who rescued her as a young child
from the ruins of a burning city, Asper has become his ladylove, sword
companion, and (all too often) rescuer. A deadly, acrobatic swordswoman, she
was the real brains of the stalwart adventuring band known as the Four-and is
now I one of the real brains among the Lords of Waterdeep. I Mirt loves her
more than life itself-and several score I of city guardsmen dream of her kisses
... in vain, of J course (sigh). DURNAN:
This laconic, unruffled, weather-beaten I man is well known in Waterdeep as the
master of the Yawning Portal, that famous tavern whose taproom holds the
entrance to the vast and deep dungeon of Undermountain. Durnan's thews,
fearless manner, and cool handling of belligerent adventurers have won him
admiring glances from young ladies. Few, however, know that this burly
philosopher was once an adventurer, whose blade let sunlight into the innards
of more monsters of Faerun than several dozen chartered adventuring companies
combined. A onetime member of the Four, Durnan is now one of the most practical
and widely-respected father figures in the city-and in secret (oops), one of
the most capable Lords of Waterdeep. ELMINSTER:
Known as "the Old Mage" to a generation, and the Sage of Shadowdale
to the overly-formal, this white-haired, impressively bearded old rogue should
need no introduction to Faerunians. One of the Chosen of Mystra, he is an
archmage mighty enough to make more than one world tremble-and he paid me
handsomely to say this, too. HALASTER
BLACKCLOAK: A legendary villain in Waterdeep, "the Mad Mage" is a
lurking figure used to frighten children into good behavior. Not a few of them
down the decades have had nightmares about the sinister Lord of Undermountain,
whose very gaze can kill, who skulks the cellars and dark dungeon passages
beneath the city, and hurls spells with crazed brilliance, slaughtering
beholders, rending dragons . .. and sending bouquets of flowers walking up to
startled young Waterdhavian ladies at their coming-out revels. HERLE:
"Best Blade" of the Black Falcon Patrol of the City Guard of
Waterdeep, Herle is a tall, courteous man-deadly with a sword and with his
flashing eyes and skillful tongue. Ask any noble Waterdhavian lady he's been
assigned to escort-when you're out of earshot of her husband. ILBARTH:
This quick-tongued leader is the master strategist of the Masked Mayhem
thieving band of Skullport. Ilbarth is one of those lovable rogues who's almost
as handsome as he thinks he is, knows folk almost as well as he thinks he does,
and with much luck might avoid his grave for a season or two longer. Place no
bets on this. IRAEGHLEE:
This illithid (mind flayer, of that mauve-skinned, mouth-tentacled race who
like to suck; out the brains of humans who have any) might have had a longer
career of manipulation and multifold intrigue if his arrogance had been a
trifle weaker, and' his foresight a trifle stronger-flaws not unknown, I fear,
to many human mages and adventurers. LAERAL
ARUNSUN SILVERHAND: The Lady Mage of Waterdeep is consort to the famous Khelben
"Blackstaff" Arunsun (Lord Mage of Waterdeep), who rescued her from
the fell artifact known as the Crown of Horns. Laeral is one of the Chosen of
Mystra and one of the Seven Sisters watched over by Elminster. She serves as
the understanding, worldly representative of the Lords of Waterdeep in
Skullport (often in disguise), and was once the leader of an adventuring group
known as the Nine. Her grace and beauty are outstripped only by her mastery of
magic. MIRT:
It is untrue to say that Mirt the Moneylender outmasses a horse. A pony, now ..
. This shrewd, grasping, sarcastic old rogue is beloved by all who don't owe
him money. He is sometimes called "the Wheezing Warrior" by those too
young to remember his days as Mirt the Merciless, a mercenary general feared from
the quays of Calimport to the stony gates of Mirabar. Later he was the Old
Wolf, canniest of all the pirate captains to plunder the Sword Coast. These
days, he must content himself merely with being a senior Harper, a
not-so-secret Lord of Waterdeep, and the city's busiest critic of newly opened
taverns and houses of revelry. NYTHYX
THUNDERSTAFF: One of the young, pretty, and ruthless noble ladies with which
Waterdeep abounds, Nythyx is a daughter of Anadul Thunder staff, an old friend
of Durnan. While he lived, Anadul was brother to Baerom, head of the noble
House of Thunderstaff. Nythyx has a taste for danger, feeling important,
wielding power, and indulging in cruelties. She may well wind up ruling the
city someday . . . if she doesn't get trampled in the rush of all the other
young beauties of similar tastes and skills. Watch her; if you keep hidden, the
entertainment's free. SHANDRIL
SHESSAIR: This young, heart-strong lass is pursued by half of Faerun (the evil,
magic-wielding half) because she happens to possess the rare and awesome power
of spellfire, with which she may someday just reshape the world ... if she
survives the almost daily attacks of those who want her spellfire, that is. TORTHAN:
A human male slave of the Lady Transtra, Torthan worships his mistress almost
as much as he fears her. His tale is a sad one to date, but is a long way from
ended. "Torthan's lineage will surprise some, when at last 'tis
revealed" (or so Elminster has said, in what I believe was an unguarded
moment). TRANSTRA:
This cruel, worldly-wise lamia noble belongs to that deadly race of man-eating
creatures. A slaver of some prominence in Skullport, "Lady" Transtra
is a sometime business associate of Mirt. . . and of some far more unsavory
folk who thankfully don't appear in this tale. ULISSS:
A behir bonded to Transtra, Ulisss is one of a race of reptilian, snakelike
carnivores that have many legs, can spit lightning, and devour many unwanted
warriors and adventurers. Hatred and love for Transtra war within Ulisss; they
both know that hatred will win out some day ... in the form of a treachery that
Ulisss fears Transtra is all too ready for. VOUNDARRA:
This young sorceress is met only briefly, on her helpless flight down an alley
in Skullport to an unwanted meeting with Vulharindauloth. The spell that sent
her on that journey, and the one who cast it, are secrets to be revealed
elsewhere and else-when ... as is Voundarra's fate. VULHARINDAULOTH:
A gigantic elder black dragon, Vulharindauloth is peacefully asleep in a wall
of the cavern that holds the corner of Skullport we visit ... or at least, is
peacefully asleep until the dying moments of this tale (and I do mean dying . .
. ). How Vulharindauloth came to be there, and what he'll do in his awakened
rage, are matters to be explored at later time-and from a safe distance. On the
far side of) Selune, a century from now, perhaps. XUZOUN:
This beholder (eye tyrant) is old enough to know better, but too impatient with
skulking not toj try to place several mind-controlled dopplegange slaves in the
places of Durnan and other importan Waterdhavians, so as to set itself up as
the true ruler the city. There are graveyards full of folk who've cov eted that
position . . . but Xuzoun did keep more of an; eye on things than most of them.
(Sorry.) YLOEBRE:
An illithid (mind flayer) and fello schemer of Iraeghlee, Yloebre shares his
business pa ner's shattering fate. It's possible Yloebre might have a future
career-but, knowing Halaster, not likely. ZARISSA:
The second and even more lushly beautiful sorceress we see plunging helplessly
through the murky air of that alley in Skullport, Zarissa is on her unwilling
way to awaken a black dragon. It's possible we'll learn about the spell that
sent her along witl Voundarra, its caster, and Zarissa's fate, in some other
tale. And then again-perhaps not. RITE OF
BLOOD Elaine
Cunningham Chapter
One Journey
into Darkness There
were in the lands of Toril powerful men whose names were seldom heard, and
whose deeds were spoken of only in furtive whispers. Among these were the
Twilight Traders, a coalition of merchant captains who did business with the
mysterious peoples of the Underdark. There
were perhaps six in this exclusive brotherhood, and all were canny, fearless
souls who possessed far more ambitions than morals. Membership in this
clandestine group was carefully guarded, achieved only through a long and
difficult process that was monitored not only by the members, but by mysterious
forces from Below. Those who survived the initiation were granted a rare window
into the hidden realms: the right to enter the underground trade city known as
Mantol-Derith. An
enormous cavern hidden some three miles below the surface, Mantol-Derith was
shrouded with more layers of magic and might than a wizard's stronghold.
Secrecy was its first line of defense: even in the Underdark, not many knew of
the marketplace's existence. Its exact location was known only to a few. Even
many of the merchants who regularly did business there would have been hard
pressed to place the cavern on a map. So convoluted were the routes leading to
Mantol-Derith that even duergar and deep gnomes could not hold their relative
bearings along the way. Between the market and any nearby settlement lay
labyrinths of monster-infested tunnels complicated by secret doors, portals of
teleportation, and magical traps. No one
"stumbled upon Mantol-Derith;" a merchant either knew the route
intimately or died along the way. Nor
could the marketplace be located by magical means. The strange radiations of
the Underdark were strong in the thick, solid stone surrounding the cavern. No
tendril of magic could pass through-all were either diffused or reflected back
to the sender, sometimes dangerously mutated. Thus, any attempt at magical inquiry
into the mysteries of Mantol-Derith was fated to end in frustration or tragedy. Even
the drow, the undisputed masters of the Underdark, did not have easy access to
this market. In the nearest dark-elven settlement, the great city of
Menzoberranzan, no more than eight merchant companies at any one time knew the
secret paths. This knowledge was the key to immense wealth and power, and its
possession the highest mark of status attainable by members of the merchant
class. Accordingly, it was pursued with an avid ferocity, with complex levels
of intrigue and bloody battles of weaponry and magic, all of which would
probably earn nods of approval from the city's ruling matrons-if indeed the
priestesses of Lloth were inclined to take notice of the doings of mere
commoners. Few of
Menzoberranzan's ruling females-except for those matron mothers who maintained
alliances with this or that merchant band-had much interest in the world beyond
their city's cavern. These drow were an insular people: utterly convinced of
their own racial superiority, fanatically absorbed in their worship of Lloth,
completely enmeshed in the strife and intrigue inspired by their Lady of Chaos. Status
was all, and the struggle for power all-consuming. Very little could compel the
subterranean elves to tear their eyes from their traditionally narrow focus.
But Xandra Shobalar, third-born daughter of a noble house, was driven by the
most powerful motivating forces known to the drow: hatred and revenge. The
members of House Shobalar were reclusive even by the standards of paranoid
Menzoberranzan, and they were seldom seen outside of the family complex. At the
moment, Xandra was farther from home than she had ever intended to go. The
journey to Mantol-Derith was long-the midnight hour of Narbondel would come and
pass perhaps as many as one hundred times from the outset of her quest until
she stood once again within the walls of House Shobalar. Few
noble females cared to be away for so long, for fear that they would return to
find their positions usurped. Xandra had no such fears. She had ten sisters,
five of whom were, like Xandra, counted among the rare female wizards of
Menzoberranzan. But none of these five wanted her job. Xandra
was Mistress of Magic, charged with the wizardly training of all young
Shobalars as well as the household's magically gifted fosterlings. She had a
great deal of responsibility, certainly, but there was far more glory to be
found in the hoarding of spell power, and in conducting the mysterious
experiments that yielded new and wondrous items of magic. If one of the
Shobalar wizards should ever have a change of heart and try to wrest the
instructor's position away, the powerful Xandra would certainly kill her-but
only as a matter of form. No drow female allowed another to take what was hers,
even if she herself did not particularly want it. Xandra
Shobalar might not have been particularly enamored of her role, but she was
exceedingly good at what she did. The Shobalar wizards were reputed to be among
the most innovative in Menzoberranzan, and all of her students were well and
thoroughly taught. These
included the children-both female and male-of House Shobalar, a few second- and
third-born sons from other noble houses, which Xandra accepted as apprentices,
and a number of promising common-born boy-children that she acquired by
purchase, theft, or adoption-an option that usually occurred after the
convenient death of an entire family, rendering the magically-gifted child an
orphan. However
they came to House Shobalar, Xandra's students routinely won top marks in
yearly competitions meant to spur the efforts of the young drow. Such victories
opened the doors of Sorcere, the mage school at the famed academy Tier Breche.
So far every Shobalar-trained student who wished to become a wizard had been
admitted to the academy, and most had excelled in the Art. Even those students
who learned only the rudiments of magic, and went on to become priestesses or
fighters, were considered formidable magical opponents. This
high standard was a matter of pride, which Xandra Shobalar possessed in no
small measure. It was
this very reputation for excellence, however, that had caused the problem that
brought Xandra to distant Mantol-Derith. Almost
ten years before, Xandra had acquired a new student, a female of rare wizardly
promise. At first, the Shobalar Mistress had been overjoyed, for she saw in the
girl-child an opportunity to raise her own reputation to new heights. After
all, she had been entrusted with the magical education of Liriel Baenre, the
only daughter and apparent heiress of Gromph Baenre, the powerful archmage of
Menzoberranzan! If the child proved to be truly gifted-and this was almost a
certainty, for why else would the mighty Gromph bother with a child born of a
useless beauty such as Sosdrielle Vandree?-then
it was not unlikely that young Liriel might in due time inherit her sire's
title. What
renown would be hers, Xandra exulted, if she could lay claim to training
Menzoberranzan's next archmage! The first female to hold that high position! Her
initial joy was dimmed somewhat by Gromph's insistence that this arrangement be
kept in confidence. It was not an impossibility, given the reclusive nature of
the Shobalar clan, but it was brutally hard on Xandra not to be able to tout
her latest student and claim the enhanced status that Baenre favor conferred
upon her House. Still,
the Mistress Wizard looked forward to the time when the little girl could
compete-and win!-at the mageling contests, and she bided her time in smug
anticipation of glories to come. From
the start, young Liriel exceeded all of Xandra's hopes. Traditionally, the
study of magic began when children entered their Ascharlexten Decade-the
tumultuous passage between early childhood and puberty. During these years,
which usually began at the age of fifteen or so and were deemed to end either
with the onset of puberty or the twenty-fifth year- whichever came first-drow
children at last became physically strong enough to begin to channel the forces
of wizardly magic, and well-schooled enough to read and write the complicated
Drowish language. Liriel,
however, came to Xandra at the age of five, when she was little more than a
babe. Although
most dark elves felt the stirrings of their innate, spell-like drow powers in
early childhood, Liriel already possessed a formidable command of her magical
heritage, and furthermore, she could already read the written runes of Drowish.
Most importantly, she possessed in extraordinary measure the inborn talent
needed to make a magic-wielding drow into a true wizard. In a remarkably short
time, the tiny child had learned to read simple spell scrolls, reproduce the
arcane marks, and commit fairly complex spells to memory. Xandra was ecstatic.
Liriel instantly became her pride, her pet, her indulged and-almost-beloved
fosterling. And
thus she had remained, for nearly five years. At that point, the child began to
pull ahead of the Shobalar's Ascharlexten-aged students. Xandra began to worry.
When Liriel's abilities surpassed those of the much-older Bythnara, Xandra's
own daughter, Xandra knew resentment. When the Baenre girl began to wield
spells that would challenge the abilities of the lesser Shobalar wizards,
Xandra's resentment hardened into the cold, competitive hatred a drow female
held for her peers. When young Liriel gained her full height and began to
fulfill her childhood promise of extraordinary beauty to come, Xandra simmered
with a deep and very personal envy. And when the little wench's growing
interest in the male soldiers and servants of House Shobalar made it apparent
that she was entering her Ascharlexten, Xandra saw an opportunity and plotted a
dramatic-and final-end to Liriel's education. It was
a fairly typical progression, as drow relationships went, made unusual only by
the sheer force of Xandra's animosity and the lengths she was willing to go to
assuage her burning resentment of Gromph Baenre's too-talented daughter. This,
then, was the succession of events that had brought Xandra to the streets of
Mantol-Derith. Despite
her urgent need, the drow wizard could not help marveling at the sights that
surrounded her. Xandra had never before stepped outside of the vast cavern that
held Menzoberranzan, and this strange and exotic marketplace bore little
resemblance to her home city. Mantol-Derith
was set in a vast natural grotto, a cavern that had been carved in distant eons
by restless waters, which were even now busily at work. Xandra was accustomed
to the staid black depths of Menzoberranzan's Lake Donigarten, and the deep,
silent wells that were the carefully guarded treasures of each noble household. Here in
Mantol-Derith, water was a living and vital force. Indeed, the cavern's
dominant sound was that of moving water: waterfalls splashed down the grotto
walls and fell from chutes from the high-domed cavern ceiling, fountains played
softly in the small pools that seemed to be around every turn, bubbling streams
cut through the cavern. Apart
from the gentle splash and gurgle that echoed ceaselessly through the grotto,
the market city was strangely silent. Mantol Derith was not a bustling bazaar,
but a place for clandestine deals, shrewd negotiations. Nor was
it particularly crowded. By the best reckoning Xandra could get, there were
fewer than two hundred individuals in the entire cavern. The soft murmur of
voices and the occasional, muted click of boots upon the gem-crusted paths gave
little evidence of even that many inhabitants. Light
was far more plentiful than sound. A few dim lanterns were enough to set the
whole cavern asparkle, for the walls were encrusted with multicolored crystals
and gems. Bright stonework was everywhere: the walls containing fountain pools
were wondrous mosaics fashioned from semiprecious gems, the bridges that
spanned the stream were carved-or perhaps grown- from crystal, the walkways
were paved with flat-cut gemstones. At the moment, Xandra's slippers whispered
against a path fashioned from brilliant green malachite. It was unnerving, even
for a drow accustomed to the splendors of Menzoberranzan, to tread upon such
wealth. At
least the air felt familiar to the subterranean elf. Moist and heavy, it was,
and dominated by the scent of mushrooms. Groves of giant fungi ringed the
central market. Beneath the enormous, fluted caps, merchants had set up small
stalls offering a variety of goods. Perfumes, aromatic woods, spices, and
exotic sweetly scented fruits-which had become a fashionable indulgence to the
Underdark's wealthy-added piquant notes of fragrance to the damp air. To
Xandra, the strangest thing about this marketplace was the apparent truce that
existed among the various warring races who did business here. Mingling among
the stalls and passing each other peaceably on the streets were the
stone-colored deep gnomes known as svirfneblin; the deep-dwelling, dark-hearted
duergar; a few unsavory merchants from the surface worlds; and, of course, the
drow. At the four corners of the cavern, vast warehouses had been excavated to
provide storage as well as separate housing for the four factions: svirfneblin,
drow, duergar, and surface dwellers. Xandra's path took her toward the
surface-dweller cavern. The
sound of rushing water intensified as Xandra neared her goal, for the corner of
the marketplace that sold goods from the Lands of Light was located near the
largest waterfall. The air was especially damp here, and the stalls and tables
were draped with canvas to keep out the pervasive mist. Moisture
pooled on the rocky floor of the grotto and dampened the wools and furs worn by
the surface dwellers who clustered here-a motley collection of ores, ogres,
humans, and various combinations thereof. Xandra
grimaced and pulled the folds of her cloak over the lower half of her face to
ward off the fetid odor. She scanned the bustling, smelly crowd for the man who
fit the description she'd been given. Apparently
finding a drow female in such a crowd was a simpler task than singling out one
human; from the depths of one long tentlike structure came a low, melodious
voice, calling the wizard properly by her name and title. Xandra turned toward
the sound, startled to hear a drow voice in such a sordid setting. But the
small, stooped figure that hobbled toward her was that of a human male. The man
was old by the measure of humankind, with white hair, a dark and weathered
face, and a slow, faltering tread. He had not gone unscathed by his years- a
cane aided his faltering steps, and a dark patch covered his left eye. These
infirmities did not seem to have dimmed the man's pride or hampered his success;
he displayed ample evidence of both. The
cane was carved from lustrous wood and ornamented with gems and gilding. Over a
silvered tunic of fine silk, he wore a cape embroidered with gold thread and
fastened with a diamond neck clasp. Gems the size of laplizard eggs glittered
on his fingers and at his throat. His smile was both welcoming and confident-
that of a male who possessed much and was well satisfied with his own measure. "Hadrogh
Prohl?" Xandra inquired. The
merchant bowed. "At your service, Mistress Shobalar," he said in
fluent but badly accented Drowish. "You
know of me. Then you must also have some idea what I need." "But
of course, Mistress, and I will be pleased to assist you in whatever way I can.
The presence of so noble a lady honors this establishment. Please, step this
way," he said, moving aside so that she could enter the canvas pavilion. Hadrogh's
words were correct, his manner proper almost to the point of being
obsequious-which was, of course, the prudent approach to take when dealing with
drow females of stature. Even so, something about the merchant struck Xandra as
not quite right. To all appearances, he seemed at ease-friendly, relaxed to the
point of being casual, even unobservant. In other words, a naive and utter
fool. How such a man had survived so long in the tunnels of the Underdark was a
mystery to the Shobalar wizard. And yet, she noted that Hadrogh, unlike most
humans, did not require the punishing light of torches and lanterns. His
tent was comfortably dark, but he had no apparent difficulty negotiating his
way through the maze of crates and tables that held his wares. A
curious Xandra whispered the words to a simple spell, one that would yield some
answers about the man's nature and the magic he might carry. She was not
entirely surprised when the seeking magic skittered off the merchant; either he
was astute enough to carry something that deflected magical inquiry, or he
possessed an innate magical immunity that nearly matched her own. Xandra
had her suspicions about the merchant's origins, suspicions that were too
appalling to voice, but she did not doubt that this "human" was quite
at home in the Underdark, and quite capable of taking care of himself, despite
his fragile, aged facade. The
half-drow merchant-for Xandra's suspicions were indeed correct-appeared to be
unaware of the female's scrutiny. He led the way to the very back of the canvas
pavilion. Here stood a row of large cages, each with a single occupant. Hadrogh
swept a hand toward them, and then stepped back so that Xandra could examine
the merchandise as she would. The
wizard walked slowly along the row of cages, examining the exotic creatures who
were destined for slavery. There were no shortage of slaves to be had in the
Underdark, but the status-conscious dark elves were ever eager to acquire new
and unusual possessions, and there was a high demand for servants brought from
the Lands of Light. Halfling females were prized as ladies' maids for their
deft hands and their skill at weaving, curling, and twisting hair into
elaborate works of art. Mountain dwarves, who possessed a finer touch with
weapons and jewels than their duergar kin, were considered hard to manage but
well worth the trouble it took to keep them. Humans were useful as beasts of
burden and as sources of spells and potions unknown Below. Exotic beasts were
popular, too. A few of the more ostentatious drow kept them as pets or
displayed them in small private zoos. Some of these animals found their way to
the arena in the Manyfolks district of Menzoberranzan. There, drow who
possessed a taste for vicarious slaughter gathered to watch and wager while
dangerous beasts fought each other, slaves of various races, and even
drow-soldiers eager to prove their battle prowess or mercenaries who coveted
the handful of coins and the fleeting fame that were the survivors' reward. Hadrogh
could supply slaves or beasts to meet almost any taste. Xandra nodded with
satisfaction as she eyed the collection; indeed, she had been well served by
the informant who'd sent her to this half-breed merchant. "I
was not told, my lady, what manner of slave you required. If you would describe
your needs, perhaps I could guide your selection," Hadrogh offered. A
strange light entered the wizard's crimson eyes. "Not slaves," she
corrected him. "Prey." "Ah."
The merchant seemed not at all surprised by this grim pronouncement. "The
Blooding, I take it?" Xandra
nodded absently. The Blooding was a uniquely drow ritual, a rite of passage in
which young dark elves were required to hunt and kill an intelligent or
dangerous creature, preferably one native to the Lands of Light. Surface raids
were one means of accomplishing this task, but it was not unusual for these
hunts to take place in the tunnels of the wild Underdark, provided suitable
captives could be acquired. Never had the selection of the ritual prey been so
important, and Xandra looked over the prospective choices carefully. Her
crimson eyes lingered longingly on the huddled form of a pale-skinned,
golden-haired elven child. The hate-filled drow bore a special enmity for their
surface kindred. Faerie elves, as the light-dwelling elves were called, were
the preferred target of those Blooding ceremonies that took the form of a raid,
but they were seldom hunted Below. Captured faeries could will themselves to
die, and most did so long before they reached these dark caverns. Accordingly,
there would be great prestige in obtaining such rare quarry for the ritual
hunt. Regretfully
Xandra shook her head. Although
the boy-child was certainly old enough to provide sport-he was probably near
the age of the drow who would hunt him-his glazed, haunted eyes suggested
otherwise. The
young faerie elf seemed oblivious to his surroundings; his gaze was fixed upon
some nightmare-filled world that only he inhabited. True, the boy-child would
command a fabulous price; there were many drow who would pay dearly for the
pleasure of destroying even so pitiful a faerie. Xandra, however, was in need
of deadlier prey. She
walked over to the next cage, in which prowled a magnificent catlike beast with
tawny fur and wings like those of a deepbat. As the creature paced the cage,
its tail-which was long and supple and tipped with iron spikes-lashed about
furiously, clanging each time it hit the bars. The beast's hideous, humanoid
face was contorted with fury, and the eyes that burned into Xandra's were
bright with hunger and hatred. Now
this was promising! Not wishing to appear too interested-which would certainly
add many gold pieces to the asking price-Xandra turned to the merchant and
lifted one eyebrow in a skeptical, questioning arch. "This
is a manticore. A fearsome monster," wheedled Hadrogh. "The creature
is driven by a powerful hunger for human flesh-though certainly it would not be
adverse to dining upon drow, if such is your desire! By which," he added
hastily, "I meant only to imply that the beast's voracious nature would
add excitement to the hunt. The manticore is itself a hunter, and a worthy
opponent!" Xandra
looked the thing over, noting with approval its daggerlike claws and fangs.
"Intelligent?" "Cunning,
certainly." "But
is it capable of devising strategy and discerning counterstrategy, to the third
and fourth levels?" the wizard persisted. "The youngling mage who
will face her Blooding is formidable; I need prey that will truly test her
abilities." The
merchant spread his hands and shrugged. "Strength and hunger are also
mighty weapons. These the manticore has in abundance." "Since
you have not said otherwise, I assume it wields no magic," the wizard
observed. "Has it at least some natural resistance to spellcasting?" "Alas,
none. What you ask, great lady, are things that belong rightfully to the drow.
Such powers are difficult to find in lesser beings," the merchant said in
a tone that was carefully calculated to flatter and appease. Xandra
sniffed and turned to the next cage, where an enormous, white-furred creature
gnawed audibly on a haunch of rothe. The
thing was a bit like a quaggoth-a bearlike beast native to the Underdark-except
for its pointed head and strong, musky odor. "No,
a yeti is not quite right for your purposes," Hadrogh said thoughtfully.
"Your young wizard could track such a beast by its scent alone!" Suddenly
the merchant's uncovered eye lit up, and he snapped his fingers. "But
wait! It may be that I have precisely what you require." He
bustled off, returning in moments with a human male in tow. Xandra's
first response was disgust. The merchant seemed a canny sort, too knowledgeable
in the ways of the drow to offer such inferior merchandise. Her scornful gaze
swept over the human-noting his coarse, dwarflike form, the pale leathery skin
of his bearded face, the odd tattoos showing through the stubble of gray hair
that peppered his skull, the dusty robes of a bright red shade that would be
considered tawdry even by one of the low-rent male companions who did business
in the Eastmyr district. But
when Xandra met the captive's eyes-which were as green and hard as the finest
malachite-the sneer melted from her lips. What she saw in those eyes stunned
her: intelligence far beyond her expectations, pride, cunning, rage, and
implacable hatred. Hardly
daring to hope, Xandra glanced at the man's hands. Yes, the wrists were crossed
and bound together, the hands swathed in a thick cocoon of silken bandages. No
doubt some of the fingers had been broken as well-such precautions were only
prudent when dealing with captive spellcasters. No matter. The powerful clerics
of House Shobalar could heal such injuries soon enough. "A
wizard," she stated, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "A
powerful wizard," the merchant emphasized. "We
shall see," Xandra murmured. "Unbind him-I would test his
skills." Hadrogh,
to his credit, did not try to dissuade the female. The merchant quickly unbound
the human's hands. He even lit a pair of small candles, providing enough dim
light so that the man could see. The
red-robed man flexed his fingers painfully. Xandra noted that the human's hands
seemed stiff, but unharmed. She tossed an inquiring glare at the merchant. "An
amulet of containment," Hadrogh explained, pointing to the collar of gold
that tightly encircled the man's neck. "It is a magical shield that keeps
the wizard from casting any of the spells he has learned and committed to
memory. He can, however, learn and cast new spells. His mind is intact, as are
his remembered spells. As are his hands, for that matter. Admittedly, this is a
costly method of transporting magically-gifted slaves, but my reputation
demands that I deliveiij undamaged merchandise." A rare
smile broke across Xandra's face. She had| never heard of such an arrangement,
but it was idealljl suited to her purposes. Cunning,
quickness of mind, and magical aptitude) were the qualities she needed. If the
human passed! these tests, she could teach him what he needed toi know. That
his mind could be searched at some latex| time, and its store of magical
knowledge plundered foi| her own use, was a bonus. | The
drow quickly removed three small items from! the bag at her waist and showed
them to the watchful human. Slowly, she moved through the gestures andjj spoke
the words of a simple spell. In response to heil casting, a small globe of
darkness settled over one o| the candles, completely blotting out its light. | Xandra
handed an identical set of spell components) to the human. "Now you,"
she commanded. The
red-clad wizard obviously understood what wasj expected of him. Pride and anger
darkened his face, butj only for a moment-the lure of an unlearned spelj proved
too strong for him to resist. Slowly, withl painstaking care, he mirrored
Xandra's gestures and? mimicked her words. The second candle flickered, then)
dimmed. Its flame was still faintly visible through the] gray fog that had
suddenly surrounded it. I "The
human shows promise," the Shobalar wizard admitted. It was unusual for any
wizard to reproduce a] spell-even imperfectly-without having seen and] studied
the magical symbols. "His pronunciation is| deplorable, though, and will
continue to hamper hi^ progress. You wouldn't by chance have a wizard in stock
who can speak Drowish? Or even Undercommonlj Such would be easier to
train." 3 Hadrogh
bowed deeply and hurried out of sight. A moment later he returned, alone, but
with one hand! held palm-up and outstretched so that Xandra could see he had
another solution to suggest. The faint light of the fog-shrouded candle
glimmered on the two tiny silver earrings in his hand, each in the form of a
half-circle. "To
translate speech," the merchant explained. "One pierces the ear, so
that he might understand, the other his mouth, so that he might be understood.
May I demonstrate?" When
Xandra nodded, the merchant lifted his empty hand and snapped his fingers
twice. Two
half-ore guards hastened to his side. They seized the human wizard and held him
fast while Hadrogh pressed the rings' tiny metal spikes through the man's
earlobe and the left side of his upper lip. Immediately the human gave off a
string of Drowish curses, predications so colorful and virulent that an
astonished Hadrogh fell back a step. Xandra
laughed delightedly. "How
much?" she demanded. The
merchant named an enormous price, hastening to assure Xandra that the figure
named included the magical collar and rings. The drow wizard rapidly estimated
the cost of these items, added the potential worth of the spells she would
steal from this human, and threw in the death of Liriel Baenre. "A
bargain," Xandra said with dark satisfaction. Chapter
Two Shades
of Crimson Tresk
Mulander paced the floor of his cell, his trailing scarlet robes whispering
behind him. It had not been easy, persuading the Mistress to provide him with
the bright silk garments, but he was a Red Wizard and so he would remain,
however far he might be from his native Thay. Nearly
two years had passed since Mulander had first encountered Xandra Shobalar and
begun his strange apprenticeship. Although he had not once left this room-a
large chamber carved from solid rock and vented only by tiny openings in the
ceiling, well above his reach-he had not been badly treated. He had food and
wine in plenty, whatever comforts he required, and, most importantly, an
intense and thorough education in the magic of the Underdark. It was an
opportunity that many of his peers would have seized without a qualm, and in
truth, Mulander did not entirely regret his fate. The Red
Wizard was a necromancer, a powerful member of the Researcher faction-that
group of wizards who were content to leave Thay's boundaries as they were and
who instead sought ever stronger and more fearsome magics. Utterly devoted to
the principles of the Researchers, Mulander was still somewhat of an oddity
among his peers, for he was one of a very few high-ranking wizards whose blood
was not solely that of the ruling Mulan race. His
father's father had been Rashemi, and his inheritance from his grandsire was a
thick, muscled body and a luxuriant crop of facial hair. From his wizard mother
had come his talent and ambition, as well as the height and the sallow
complexion that were considered marks of nobility in Thay. Mulander's
cold, gemlike green eyes and narrow scimitar nose lent him a terrifying aspect,
and although he conformed to custom and affected baldness, he was rather vain
of the thick, long gray beard that set him apart from the nearly hairless
Mulan. In all, he was an imposing man, who carried his sixty winters with ease
upon his broad, proud shoulders. He was strong of body and mind and magic; the
passing years had only served to thin his graying hair, which he regretted not
at all, for it made the daily task of shaving his pate less onerous. Mistress
Shobalar had indulged him in this, as well, providing him with incredibly
keen-edged shaving gear and a halfling servant to do the honors. Indeed, the
drow female seemed fascinated by the tattoos that covered Mulander's head. As
well she should be: each mark was a magical rune that, when activated with the
appropriate spell, could transform bits of dead matter into fearsome magical
servants. Provide him with a corpse, and he would produce an army. Or could,
were he able to access his necromantic magic! Mulander
grimaced and slipped a finger under the gold collar that encircled his neck-and
imprisoned his Art. "In
time, you will be permitted to remove that," said a cool voice behind him. The Red
Wizard jolted, then turned to face Xandra Shobalar. Even after two years, her
sudden arrivals unnerved him-as they were no doubt intended to do. But
today the implied promise in the drow's words banished his usual resentment. "When?" "In
time," Xandra repeated. She strolled over to a deep chair and, in a
leisurely fashion, seated herself. Two years was not a long time in the life of
a drow, but she was well aware of the human's impatience, and she intended to
enjoy it. Enjoyable,
too, was the murderous rage, barely contained, in the Red Wizard's eyes. Xandra
entertained herself with fantasies of seeing that wrath unleashed upon her
Baenre fosterling. At
last, the long-anticipated day was nearly at hand. "You
have learned well," the Mistress began. "Soon you will have a chance
to test your newfound skills. Succeed, and the reward will be great." The
drow plucked a tiny golden key from her bodice and held it high. She cocked her
head to one side and sent the Red Wizard a cold, taunting smile. Mulander's
eyes widened with realization, then gleamed with an emotion that went far
beyond greed. His intense, hungry gaze followed the key as Xandra slowly
lowered it and tucked it back into its intimate hiding place. "I
see that you understand what this is. Would you like to know what you must do
to earn it?" she asked coyly. A
shudder of revulsion shimmered down the Red Wizard's spine. He fervently hoped
that his flowing robes hid his instinctive-and potentially fatal- response. He
knew immediately that it had not; Xandra's smile widened and grew mocking. "Not
this time, dear Mulander," she purred. "I have another sort of
adventure in mind for you." The
Mistress quickly described the rite of the Blooding, the ritual hunt that each
young elf was required to undergo before being accounted a true drow. Mulander
listened with growing dismay. "And
I am to be this prey," he said in a dazed tone. Anger
flashed in Xandra's eyes like crimson fire. "Do not be a fool! You must
prevail! Would I have gone to such trouble and expense otherwise?" "A
spell battle," he muttered, beginning to understand. "You have been
preparing me for a spell battle! And the spells you have taught me?" "They
represent all the offensive spells your young opponent knows, as well as the
appropriate counter-spells." Xandra leaned forward, and her face was
deadly serious. "You will not see me again. You will have a new tutor for
perhaps thirty cycles of Narbondel. A battle wizard. He will work with you
daily and instruct you in the tactics of drow warfare. Learn all he has to
teach during the course of this session." "For
he will not live to give another lesson," Mulander reasoned. Xandra
smiled. "How astute. For a human, you possess a most promising streak of
duplicity! But you are among drow, and you have much to learn about subtlety
and treachery." The
wizard bristled. "We in Thay are no strangers to treachery! No wizard
could survive to my age, much less reach my position, without such
skills!" "Really?"
The drow's voiced dripped with sarcasm. "If that is the case, then how did
you come to be here?" Mulander
responded only with a sullen glare, but the Mistress of Magic did not seem to
require an answer. "You possess a great deal of very interesting
magic," she said, complimenting him. "More than I would have guessed
a human capable of wielding, and judging from your pride, more than most of
your peers have achieved. How, then, could you have been overcome and sold into
slavery, but by treachery?" Not
waiting for a response, Xandra rose from her chair. "These are the terms I
offer you," she said, her manner suddenly all business. "At the
proper time, you will be taken into the wild tunnels surrounding this city-as
part of your preparations, you will be given a map of the area to commit to
memory. There you will confront a fledgling wizard, a drow female marked by her
golden eyes. She will carry the key that will release you from that collar. You
must defeat her in spell battle-do whatever you must to ensure that she does
not survive. "You
may then take the key from her body, and go wheresoever you will. The girl will
be alone, and you will not be pursued. It may be that you can find your way to
the Lands of Light-if indeed there is still a place for you there. If not, with
the spells I have taught you, as well as the return of your own death magic,
you should be able to live and thrive Below." Mulander
listened stoically, carefully masking the sudden bright surge of hope that the
drow's words awoke in his heart. For all he knew, this could be an elaborate
trap, and he refused to display his elation for this wretched female's
amusement. Or did
she perhaps expect him to show fear? If that
was the case, she would also be disappointed. He knew none. The Red Wizard did
not for one moment doubt the outcome of this contest, for he knew the full
measure of his powers, even if Xandra Shobalar did not. He was
more than capable of defeating an elven girl in spell battle-he would kill the
little wench and set himself up in some hidden cavern of this underground
world, a place surrounded by magics of warding and misdirection that would keep
even the powerful dark elves from his door. This he
would do, for the Shobalar wizard was right about one thing-there was no
welcome awaiting Mulander in Thay, and no welcome for Red Wizards in any land
other than Thay. Another of Xandra's thrusts had found its mark, as well: he
had indeed been undone through treachery. Mulander had been betrayed by his
young apprentice, as he himself had betrayed his own master. It occurred to
him, suddenly, to wonder what treachery Xandra's young prodigy might have in
store for her mistress! "You
are smiling," the drow observed. "My terms are to your liking?" "Very
much so," Mulander said, thinking it prudent to keep his fantasies to
himself. "Then
let me add to your enjoyment," Xandra said softly. She advanced upon the
man and reached up to place one slim black hand against his jaw. His
instinctive flinch, and his effort to disguise the response, seemed to amuse
her. She swayed closer, her slim body just barely brushing against his robes.
Her crimson eyes burned up into his, and Mulander felt a tendril of compelling
magic creep into his mind. "Tell
me truly, Mulander," she said-and her words were mocking, for they both
knew that the spell she cast upon him would allow him to speak nothing but
truth. "Do you hate me so very much?" Mulander
held her gaze. "With all my soul!" he vowed, with more passion than
he had ever before displayed-more than he knew he possessed. "Good,"
Xandra breathed. She raised both arms high and clasped her hands behind his
neck; then she floated upward until her eyes were on a level with the much
taller man. "Then remember my face as you hunt the girl, and remember
this." The
drow pressed her lips to Mulander's in a macabre parody of a kiss. Her passion
was like his: it was all hatred and pride. Her
kiss, like many that he himself had forced upon the youths and maidens
apprenticed to him, was a claim of total ownership, a gesture of cruelty and
utter contempt that was more painful to the proud man than a dagger's thrust.
Even so, he winced when the drow's teeth sank deep into his lower lip. Xandra
abruptly released him and floated away, suspended in the air like a dark wraith
and smiling coldly as she wiped a drop of his blood from her mouth. "Remember,"
she admonished him, and then she vanished as suddenly as she had come. Left
alone in his cell, Tresk Mulander nodded grimly. He would long remember Xandra
Shobalar, and for as long as he lived he would pray to every dark god whose
name he knew that her death would be slow and painful and ignominious. In the
meanwhile, he would vent some of his seething hatred upon the other drow wench
who presumed to look upon him-him, a Red Wizard and a master of necromancy!-as
prey. "Let
the hunt begin," Mulander said, and his bloodied lips curved in a grim
smile as he savored the secret he had hoarded from Xandra Shobalar, and that he
would soon unleash upon her young student. Chapter
Three A Grand
Adventure The
door of Bythnara Shobalar's bedchamber thudded solidly against the wall, flung
open with an exuberance that could herald only one person. Bythnara did not
look up from the book she was reading, did not so much as flinch. By now she was
too accustomed to the irrepressible Baenre brat to show much of a reaction. But it
was impossible to ignore Liriel for long. The elfmaid spun into their shared
bedchamber, her arms out wide and her wild mane of white hair flying as she
whirled and leapt in an ecstatic little dance. The
older girl eyed her resignedly. "Who cast a dervish spell on you?"
she inquired in a sour tone. Liriel
abruptly halted her dance and flung her arms around her chambermate. "Oh,
Bythnara! I am to undergo the Blooding ritual at last! Mistress just
said!" The
Shobalar female disentangled herself as inconspicuously as possible as she rose
from her chair, and she looked around for some pretense that would excuse her
for wriggling out of the younger girl's impulsive embrace. On the far side of
the room, a pair of woolen trews lay crumpled on the floor; Liriel tended to
treat her clothes with the same blithe disregard that a snake shows its
outgrown and abandoned skin. Bythnara was forever picking up after the untidy
little wench. Doing so now allowed her to put as much space as possible between
herself and the unwanted affection lavished upon her by her young rival. "And
high time it is," the Shobalar wizard-in-training said bluntly as she
smoothed and folded the discarded garment. "You will soon be eighteen, and
you are already well into your Ascharlexten Decade. I've often wondered why my
Mistress Mother has waited so long!" "As
have I," Liriel said frankly. "But Xandra explained it to me. She
said that she could not initiate the rite until she had found exactly the right
quarry, one that would truly test my skills. Think of it! A grand and gallant
hunt-an adventure in the wild tunnels of the Dark Dominion!" she exulted,
flinging herself down on her cot with a gusty sigh of satisfaction. "Mistress
Xandra," Bythnara coldly corrected her. She knew, as did everyone in House
Shobalar, that Liriel Baenre was to be treated with utmost respect, but even
the archmage's daughter was required to observe certain protocols. "Mistress
Xandra," the girl echoed obligingly. She rolled over onto her stomach and
propped up her chin in both hands. "I wonder what I shall hunt," she
said in a dreamy tone. "There are so many wondrous and fearsome beasts
roaming the Lands of Light! I have been reading about them," she confided
with a grin. "Maybe a great wild cat with a black-and-gold striped pelt,
or a huge brown bear-which is rather like a four-legged quaggoth. Or even a
fire-belching dragon!" she concluded, giggling a bit at her own absurdity. "We
can only hope," Bythnara muttered. If
Liriel heard her chambermate's bitter comment, she gave no indication.
"Whatever the quarry, I shall meet it with equal force," she vowed.
"I will use weapons that correspond to its natural attacks and defenses:
dagger against claw, arrow against stooping attack. No fireballs, no venom
clouds, no transforming it into an ebony statue!" "You
know that spell?" the Shobalar demanded, her face and voice utterly
aghast. It was a casting that required considerable power, an irreversible
transformation, and a favorite punitive tool of the Baenre priestesses who
ruled in the Academy. The possibility that this impulsive child could wield
such a spell was appalling, considering that Bythnara had insulted the Baenre
girl twice since she'd entered the room. By the standards of Menzoberranzan,
this was more than ample justification for such retribution! But
Liriel merely tossed her chambermate a mischievous grin. The young wizard
sniffed and turned away. She had known Liriel for twelve years, but she had
never reconciled herself to the girl's good-natured teasing. Liriel
loved to laugh, and she loved to have others laugh with her. Since few drow
shared her particular brand of humor, she had recently taken to playing little
pranks for the amusement of the other students. Bythnara
had never been the recipient of these, but neither did she find them
particularly enjoyable. Life was a grim, serious business, and magic an Art to
be mastered, not a child's plaything. The fact that this particular
"child" possessed a command of magic greater than her own rankled
deeply with the proud female. Nor was
this the only thing that stoked Bythnara's jealously. Mistress Xandra,
Bythnara's own mother, had always showed special favor to the Baenre girl-
favor that often bordered on affection. This, Bythnara would never forget, and
never forgive. Neither was she pleased by the fact that her own male companions
had a hard time remembering their place and their purpose whenever the
golden-eyed wench was about. Bythnara
was twenty-eight and in ripe early adolescence; Liriel was in many ways still a
child. Even so, there was more than enough promise in the girl's face land form
to draw masculine eyes. Rumor had it that Liriel was beginning to return these
attentions, and that she reveled in such sport with her characteristic, playful
abandon. This, too, Bythnara disapproved, although exactly why that was, she
could not say. "Will
you come to my coming-of-age ceremony?" Liriel asked with a touch of wistfulness
in her voice. "After the ritual, I mean." "Of
course. It is required." This
time Bythnara's curt remark did earn a response-an almost imperceptible wince.
But Liriel recovered quickly, so quickly that the older female barely had time
to enjoy her victory. A shuttered expression came over the Baenre girl's face,
and she lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "So
it is," she said evenly. "I faintly remember that I was required to
attend yours, several years back. What was your quarry?" "A
goblin," Bythnara said stiffly. This was a sore spot with her, for goblins
were as a rule accounted neither intelligent nor particularly dangerous. She
had dispatched the creature easily enough with a spell of holding and a sharp
knife. Her own Blooding had been mere routine, not the grand adventure of which
Liriel dreamed. Grand adventure, indeed! The girl was impossibly naive! Or was
she? With a sudden jolt, it occurred to Bythnara that Liriel's last question
had hardly been ingenuous. Few verbal thrusts could have hit the mark more
squarely. Her eyes settled on the girl and narrowed dangerously. , Again
Liriel shrugged. "What was it that Matron Hinkutes'nat said in chapel a
darkcycle or two past? 'The drow culture is one of constant change, and so we
must either adapt or die.' " Her
tone was light, and there was nothing in her face or her words that could give
Bythnara reasonable cause for complaint. Yet
Liriel was clearly, subtly, giving notice that she had long been aware of
Bythnara's verbal thrusts, and that henceforth she would not take them in
silence, but parry and riposte. It was
well done; even the seething Bythnara had to admit that. If adaptability was
indeed the key to survival, then this seemingly idealistic little wench would
probably live to be as ancient as her wretched grandame, old Matron Baenre
herself! As for
Bythnara, she found herself at a complete and disconcerting lack for words. A
tentative knock on the open door relieved Bythnara of the need to respond. She
turned to face one of her mother's servants, a highly decorative young drow
male discarded by some lesser house. In perfunctory fashion, he offered the
required bow to the Shobalar female, and then turned his attention upon the
younger girl. "You
are wanted, Princess," the male said, addressing Liriel by the proper
formal title for a young female of the First House. Later,
the girl would no doubt be accorded more prestigious titles: archmage, if
Xandra had her way, or wizard, or priestess, or even-Lloth forbid-matron.
Princess was a title of birth, not accomplishment. Even so, Bythnara begrudged
it. She hustled the royal brat and the handsome messenger out of her room with
scant ceremony and closed the door firmly behind them. Liriel's
shoulders rose and fell in a long sigh. The servant, who was about her own age
and who knew Bythnara far better than he cared to, cast her a look that
bordered on sympathy. "What
does Xandra want now?" she asked resignedly as they made their way toward
the apartment that housed the Mistress of Magic. The
servant cast furtive glances up and down the corridors before answering.
"The archmage sent for you. His servant awaits you in Mistress Xandra's
chambers even now." Liriel
stopped in midstride. "My father?" "Gromph
Baenre, archmage of Menzoberranzan," the male affirmed. Once
again Liriel reached for "the mask"-her private term for the
expression she had practiced and perfected in front of her looking glass: the
insouciant little smile, eyes that expressed nothing but a bit of cynical
amusement. Yet behind her flippant facade, the girl's mind whirled with a
thousand questions. Drow
life was full of complexities and contradictions, but in Liriel's experience,
nothing was more complicated than her feelings for her drow sire. She revered
and resented and adored and feared and hated and longed for her father-all at
once, and all from a distance. And as far as Liriel could tell, every one of
these emotions was entirely unrequited. The great archmage of Menzoberranzan
was an utter mystery to her. Gromph Baenre
was without question her true sire, but drow lineage was traced through the
females. The archmage had gone against custom and adopted his daughter into the
Baenre clan-at great personal cost to Liriel-and then promptly abandoned her to
the Shobalars' care. What
could Gromph Baenre want of her now? It had been years since she had heard from
him, although his servants regularly saw that the Shobalars were recompensed
for her keep and training and ensured that she had pocket money to spend at her
infrequent outings to the Bazaar. In Liriel's opinion, this personal summons
could only mean trouble. Yet what had she done? Or, more to the point, which of
her escapades had been discovered and reported? Then a
new possibility occurred to her, one so full of hope and promise that "the
mask" dissipated like spent faerie fire. A bubble of joyous laughter burst
from the elfmaid, and she threw her arms around the astonished-and highly
gratified-young male. After
the Blooding, she would be accounted a true drow! Perhaps now Gromph would deem
her worthy of his attention, perhaps even take over her training himself! Surely
he had heard of her progress, and knew that there was little more for her to
learn in House Shobalar. That
must be it! concluded Liriel as she wriggled out of the servant's increasingly
enthusiastic embrace. She set out at a brisk pace for Xandra's chambers,
spurred on by the rarest of all drow emotions: hope. No
dark-elven male took much notice of his children, but soon Liriel would be a
child no more, and ready for the next level of magical training. Usually that
would involve the Academy, but she was far too young for that. Surely Gromph
had devised another plan for her future! Liriel's
shining anticipation dimmed at the sight of her father's messenger: an
elf-sized stone golem that was only too familiar. The magical construct was
part of her earliest and most terrible memory. Yet even the appearance of the
deadly messenger could not banish entirely her joy, or silence the delightful
possibility that sang through her heart: perhaps her father wanted her at last! At
Xandra's insistence, a full octate patrol of spider-mounted soldiers escorted
Liriel and the golem to the fashionable Narbondellyn district, where Gromph
Baenre kept a private home. For once, Liriel rode past the Darkspires without
marveling at the fanglike formations of black rock. For once, she did not
notice the handsome captain of the guard, who stood this watch at the gates of
the Horlbar compound. She even passed by the elegant little shops that sold
perfumes and whisper-soft silk garments and magical figurines and other
fascinating wares, without sparing them a single longing glance. What
were such things, compared with even a moment of her father's time? As
eager as she was, however, Liriel had to steel herself for the first glimpse of
Gromph Baenre's mansion. She had been born there, and had spent the first five
years of her life in the luxurious apartments of her mother, Sosdrielle
Vandree, who had served for many years as Gromph's mistress. It had been a cozy
world, just Liriel and her mother and the few servants who tended them. Liriel
had since come to understand that Sosdrielle-who had been a rare beauty, but
who lacked both the magical talent and the deadly ambition needed to excel in
Menzoberranzan-had doted upon her child and had made Liriel the beloved center
of her world. Despite this, or perhaps, because of this, Liriel had not been
able to bring herself to look upon her first home since the day she left it,
more than twelve years before. Carved
from the heart of an enormous stalactite, the archmage's private home was
reputedly warded about with more magic than any other two wizards in the city
could muster between them. Liriel slid down from her spider mount-a distinctively
Shobalar means of conveyance-and followed the silent and deadly golem toward
the black structure. The
stone golem touched one of the moving runes that writhed and shifted on the
dark wall; a door appeared at once. Gesturing for Liriel to follow, the golem
disappeared inside. The
young drow took a deep breath and fell in behind the servant. She remembered,
vaguely, the way to Gromph Baenre's private study. Here she had first met her
father, and had first discovered her talent for and love of wizardry. It seemed
fitting that she begin the next phase of her life here, as well. Gromph
Baenre looked up when she entered his study. His amber eyes, so like her own,
regarded her coolly. "Please,
sit down," he invited her, gesturing with one elegant, long-fingered hand
toward a chair. "We have much to discuss." Liriel
quietly did as she was bid. The archmage did not speak at once, and for a long
moment she was content merely to study him. He looked exactly as she
remembered: austere yet handsome, a drow male in his magnificent prime. This
was not surprising, considering how slowly dark elves aged, yet Gromph was
reputed to have witnessed the birth and death of seven centuries. Protocol
demanded that Liriel wait for the high-ranking wizard to speak first, but after
several silent moments she could bear no more. "I am to undergo the
Blooding," she announced with pride. The
archmage nodded somberly. "As I have heard. You will remain here in my
home until the time for the ritual, for there is much to learn and little time
for preparations." Liriel's
brows plunged into a frown of puzzlement. Had she not been doing just that
these past twelve years? Had she not gained basic but powerful skills in battle
magic and drow weaponry? She had little interest in the sword, but no one she
knew could out-shoot her with the hand bow, or best her with thrown weapons!
Surely she knew enough to emerge from the ritual with victorious and blooded
hands! A
small, hard smile touched the archmage's lips. "There is much more to being
a drow than engaging in crude slaughter. I am not entirely certain, however,
that Xandra Shobalar remembers this basic fact!" These
cryptic words troubled Liriel. "Sir?" Gromph
did not bother to explain himself. He reached into a compartment under his desk
and took from it a small, green bottle. "This is a vial of holding. It
will capture and store any creature that the Shobalar Mistress pits against
you." "But
the hunt!" Liriel protested. The
archmage's smile did not waver, but his eyes turned cold. "Do not be a
fool," he said softly. "If the hunt turns against you and your quarry
gains the upper hand, you will capture it in this vial! You can spill its blood
easily enough, and thus fulfill the letter of the ritual's requirements. Look-"
he said as he twisted off the stopper and showed her the glistening mithril
needle that thrust down from it. "Cap
the vial, and you have slain your prey. All you need do is smash the vial, and
the dead creature will lie before you, a dagger-the transmuted needle, of
course-thrust through its heart or into its eye. You will carry an identical
dagger to the opening ceremony, of course, to forestall any possible inquiries
into the weapon that caused the creature's death. This dagger is magical and
will dissipate when the mithril needle is blooded, to remove the possibility
that it might be found discarded along your path. If pride is your concern, no
one need know the manner of your quarry's death." Feeling
oddly betrayed, Liriel took the glass bottle and pressed the stopper firmly
back into place. In truth, she found this unsporting solution appalling. But
since the vial was a gift from her father, she searched her mind for something
positive to say. "Mistress
Xandra will be fascinated by this," she offered in a dull voice, knowing
well the Shobalar wizard's fondness for magical devices of any kind. "She
must not know of the vial, or of any of the spells you will learn in this
place! Nor does she need to hear of your other, more dubious skills. Please,
save that look of wide-eyed innocence to beguile the house guards," he
said dryly. "I know only too well the mercenary captain who boasts that he
taught a princess to throw knives as well as any tavern cutthroat alive! Though
how you managed to slip past the guard-spiders that Matron Hinkutes'nat posts
at every turn, and find your way through the city to that particular tavern, is
beyond my imagination." Liriel
grinned wickedly. "I stumbled upon the tavern that first time, and Captain
Jarlaxle knew me by my House medallion and indulged my wish to learn-of many
things! But it is true that I have often fooled the spiders. Shall I tell you
how?" "Perhaps
later. I must have your blood oath that this vial will be kept from Xandra's
eyes." "But
why?" she persisted, truly perplexed by this demand. Gromph
studied his daughter for a long time. "How many young drow die during the
Blooding?" he asked at last. "A
few," Liriel admitted. "Surface raids often go wrong-the humans or
faerie elves sometime learn of the attack in time to prepare, or they fight
better than expected, or in larger numbers. And it is likely that from time to
time a drow dagger slips between a youngling's ribs," she said
matter-of-factly. "In those rites that are taken Below, sometimes
initiates become lost in the wild Underdark, or stumble upon some monster that
is beyond their skill with magic and weapons." "And
sometimes, they are slain by the very things they hunt," Gromph said. This
was a given; the girl shrugged, as if to ask what the point was. "I
do not desire to see any harm come to you. Xandra Shobalar may not share my
good wishes," he said bluntly. Liriel
suddenly went cold. Many emotions simmered and danced deep within her, waiting
for her to reach in and pluck one free-yet she truly felt none of them. Her
tumultuous responses remained just beyond her touch, for she had no idea which
one to chose. How
could Gromph suggest that Xandra Shobalar could betray her? The Mistress of
Magic had raised her, lavishing more attention and indulgent favor upon her
than most drow younglings ever dreamed of receiving! Apart from her own
mother-who had given Liriel not only life, but a wonderful five-year cocoon of
warmth and security and even love-Liriel believed that Xandra was the person
most responsible for making her what she was. And that was saying a great deal.
Although Liriel could not remember her mother's face, she understood that she
had received from Sosdrielle Vandree something that was rare among her kindred,
something that nothing and no one could take from her. Not even Gromph Baenre,
who had ordered her beloved mother's death twelve years ago! Liriel
stared at her father, too dumbfounded to realize that her churning thoughts
were written clearly in her eyes. "You
do not trust me," the archmage stated in a voice absolutely devoid of
emotion. "This is good-I was beginning to despair of your judgment. It may
be that you will survive this ritual, after all. Now listen carefully as I
describe the steps needed to activate the vial of holding." Chapter
Four The
Blooding The
Blooding ritual took place on the third darkcycle after Liriel's meeting with
her father. She was returned to House Shobalar as the day grew old, for all
such rituals began at the dark hour of Narbondel. When
the great timepiece of Menzoberranzan dimmed to mark the hour of midnight,
Liriel stood before Hinkutes'nat Alar Shobalar, the matron mother of the clan. The
young drow had had few dealings with the Shobalar matriarch, and she felt
slightly unnerved by the dark and regal figure before her. Hinkutes'nat
was a high priestess of Lloth, as befitted a ruling matron, and she was typical
of those who followed the ways of the drow's goddess, the Spider Queen. Her
throne room was as grim and forbidding a lair as anything Liriel had ever seen.
Shadows were everywhere, for the skulls of many Shobalar victims had been
fashioned into faintly glowing lanterns that threw patterns of death upon every
surface and cast ghastly purple highlights upon the dark faces assembled before
the matron's throne. A large
cage stood in the middle of the chamber, ready to receive the prey for the
Blooding ceremony. It was surrounded on all four sides by the giant, magically
bred spiders that formed the heart of the Shobalar guard. In fact, giant spiders
stood guard everywhere- in every corner of the chamber, on each of the steps
that led up to the throne dais, even suspended from the chamber's ceiling on
long, glistening threads. In all,
the throne room was a fit setting for the Shobalar matriarch. Cold and
treacherous, the matron resembled a spider holding court in the center of her
own web. She
wore a black robe upon which webs had been embroidered in silver thread, and
the gaze that she turned upon Liriel was as calm and pitiless as that of any
arachnid that ever had lived. She was spiderlike in character, as well: even
among the treacherous drow, the Shobalar Matron had earned a reputation for the
tangled nature of the deals she spun. "You
have prepared the prey?" the matron inquired of her third-born daughter. "I
have," Xandra said. "The youngling drow who stands before you shows
great promise, as one would expect of a daughter of House Baenre. To offer her
less than a true challenge would be an insult to the First Family." Matron
Hinkutes'nat lifted one eyebrow. "I see," she said dryly. "Well,
that is your prerogative, and within the rules set for the Blooding ritual. It
is unlikely that recourse will be taken, but you understand that you will bear
the brunt of any unpleasantness that might result?" When Xandra nodded
grim acceptance, the matron again turned to Liriel. "And you, Princess,
are you ready to begin?" The
Baenre girl dipped into a deep bow, doing her best to dim her shining eyes and
school her face into expressionless calm. Three
days in Gromph's household had not quite destroyed her eagerness for this
adventure. "This,
then, will be your prey," Mistress Xandra said. She lifted both arms high,
and brought them down to her sides in a quick sweep. A faint crackle vibrated
through the damp and heavy air of the chamber, and the bars of the cage flared
with sudden fey light. Every eye in the room turned to behold the ritual
quarry. Liriel's
heart pounded with excitement-she was certain that everyone could hear it! Then
the light surrounding the cage faded, and she was equally sure that all could
feel the hard, cold hand that gripped her chest and muffled its restless
rhythm. Within
the cage stood a human male garbed in robes of bright red. Liriel had seldom
encountered humans and had few thoughts concerning them, but suddenly she found
that she had no desire to slaughter this one. He was too elflike, too much like
a real person! "This
is an outrage," she said in a low, angry voice. "I was led to believe
that my Blooding would be a test of skill and courage, a hunt involving some
dangerous surface creature, such as a boar or a hydra!" "If
you misunderstood the nature of the Blooding, it was through no fault of
mine," Mistress Xandra retorted. "For years you have heard tales of
surface raids. What did you think were slain-cattle? Prey is prey, whether it
has two legs or four. You have attended the ceremonies; you know what has been
required of those who have gone before you." "I
will not do this thing," Liriel said with a regal hauteur that would have
done justice to Matron Baenre herself. "You
have no choice in the matter," Matron Hinkutes'nat pointed out. "It
is the part of the mistress or matron to chose the prey, and to name the terms
of the hunt. "Proceed,"
she said, turning to her daughter. Mistress
Xandra permitted herself a smile. "The human wizard-for such he is-will be
transported to a cavern in the Dark Dominions that lie to the southwest of
Menzoberranzan. You, Liriel Baenre, will be escorted to a nearby tunnel. You
must hunt and destroy the human, using any weapon at your disposal. Ten
dark-cycles you have to accomplish this; we will not seek you before this time
is up. "But
you must take this key," Xandra continued as she handed a tiny golden
object to the girl. "I have strung it upon a chain-keep it on your person
at all times. It is not our purpose that you come to grief: with this key, you
can summon immediate aid from House Shobalar, should the need arise. You have
much talent, and you have been well trained," the Mistress added in a less
severe tone. "We have every confidence in your success." The
older female's apparent concern for her well-being gave Liriel a glimmer of
hope. "Mistress,
I cannot slay this wizard!" she said in a despairing whisper, letting her
eyes speak clearly of her distress. Surely Xandra, who had trained and fostered
her, would understand how she felt and would lift this burden from her! "You
will kill, or you will be killed," the Shobalar wizard proclaimed.
"That is the challenge of the Blooding, and it is the reality of drow
life!" Xandra's
voice was cold and even, but Liriel did not miss the glint in the wizard's red
eyes. Stunned and enlightened, Liriel stared at her trusted mentor. Kill or
be killed. There could be little doubt which outcome Xandra preferred. Liriel
tore her gaze away from the vindictive crimson stare and did her best to attend
to the ceremony that followed. As she stood silently through the matron's
ritual blessing, the girl was struck by a strange and very vivid mental image:
somewhere deep within her heart, a tiny light flickered and died-a harbinger,
perhaps, of darkness to come. A moment of inexplicable sadness touched Liriel,
but it was gone before she could marvel at so strange an emotion. To a young
dark elf, such a vision seemed right and fitting-a cause for elation rather
than regret. Soon, very soon, she would be a true drow indeed! Chapter
Five Kill or
Be Killed On
silent feet, Liriel eased her way down the dark tunnel. One of the gifts her
father had given her were boots of elvenkind, wondrous treasures crafted of
soft leather and dark-elven magic. With them, she could walk with no more noise
than her own shadow. She
also wore a fine new cloak-not a piwafwi, for that uniquely drow cloak was
usually worn only by those who had proven themselves by this very ritual. Of
course, there were exceptions to this rule, and Liriel did indeed possess one
of the magical cloaks of concealment-it played a significant role in her
frequent escapes from House Shobalar-but youngling dark elves were not
permitted to wear them during the Blooding. The advantage of invisibility
removed most of the challenge, and was therefore deemed inappropriate for the
first major kill. Thus
Liriel was plainly visible to the heat-perceptive eyes of the Underdark's many
strange and deadly creatures, and therefore in constant danger. The
young drow kept keenly alert as she walked. Yet her heart was not in the hunt.
She was not entirely certain she still had a heart: grief and rage had left her
feeling strangely hollow. Liriel
was accustomed to betrayals both large and small, and she was still trying to
assimilate her realization that she must shrug them off and move ahead - albeit
with caution. So it had been with Bythnara, whose snippy comments and small
jealousies had once pained her deeply. So it had been even with her father, who
twelve years earlier had wronged Liriel more deeply than any other person had
before or since. But it
would not be so with Xandra Shobalar, Liriel vowed grimly. Xandra's betrayal
was different, and it would not go unremarked - or unavenged. Vengeance
was the principle passion of the dark elves, but it was an emotion new to
Liriel. She savored it as if it were a goblet of the spiced green wine she had
recently tasted - bitter, certainly, but capable of sharpening the passions and
hardening resolve. Liriel was very young, and willing to accept and overlook
many things in her dark-elven kindred. This, however, was the first time she
had seen the desire for her death written in another drow's eyes. Liriel
understood instinctively that this could not go unpunished if she herself hoped
to survive. But at
a deeper, even more personal level, the girl bitterly resented Xandra for
forcing her to disregard her own deep instincts and act against her will. Liriel
rebelled bitterly against the need to submit to her Mistress's demands, yet
what else could she do if she was to be accounted a true drow? What
else, indeed? A smile
slowly crept over Liriel's dark face as a solution to her dilemma began to take
shape in her mind. There is much more to being a drow, her father had
admonished her, than engaging in crude slaughter. The
painful weight on the young drow's chest lifted a bit, and for the first time
she realized a very strange thing: she did not fear the dreaded wild Underdark.
It seemed to her that this wilderness was a wondrous, fascinating place full of
unexpected turns and twists. There was danger and adventure and excitement in
the very air and stone. Unlike Menzoberranzan, where every bit of rock had been
shaped and carved into a monument to the pride and might of the drow, out here
everything was new, mysterious, and full of delightful possibilities. Here she
could carve out her own place. Liriel fell suddenly, deeply, and utterly in
love with this vast and untamed world. "A
grand adventure," she said softly, repeating without a trace of irony the
words of her own discarded dream. A sudden smile brightened her face, and as
she bestowed an affectionate pat upon an enormous, down-thrust spire of rock,
she added, "The first of many!" Without
warning, a bright ball of force rounded the sharp corner of the tunnel ahead
and hurtled toward her. The
battle had begun. Training
and instinct took over at once: Liriel snapped both hands up, wrists crossed
and palms out. A field of resistance sprung up before her an instant before the
fireball would have struck. The girl squeezed her eyes shut and tossed her head
to one side as the brilliant light exploded into a sheet of magical flame. Liriel
dropped flat and rolled aside, as she'd been taught to do in such attacks. The
magical shield could not withstand more than one or two impacts of such power,
and it was prudent to get out of the line of fire. To her astonishment, the
second blast came in low and hard-and directly toward her. Liriel leapt to her
feet and dived for the far side of the tunnel. She managed to put the large
stalagmite between herself and the coming blast. The
explosion rocked the tunnel and sent a shower of rock fragments cascading down
upon the young drow. She coughed and spat dust, but her fingers darted
undeterred through the gestures of a spell. In
response to her magic, the dust and the sulfurous smoke swirled to a central
spot of the tunnel and gathered into a large globe. Liriel pointed grimly in
the direction of the unseen wizard, and the floating globe obediently rounded
the corner toward its prey. She
waited, hardly daring to breathe, for the next attack to come. When it did not,
she began to creep slowly and cautiously around the bend. There was no sound in
the tunnel ahead, other than the distant drip of water. This was promising: the
globe of hot, smoky vapor had been enspelled to seek out and surround its
source of origin. If all had gone well, the human wizard would have been
smothered by the sulfurous by-products of his own fireball. Liriel picked up
her pace. If this were so, she would have a limited amount of time to find and
revive him. The
tunnel grew ever brighter as she made her way down its twisting length.
Suddenly the path dipped dramatically, and Liriel saw laid out before her a
cavern that was stranger than any she had ever seen or imagined. Luminous
fungi covered much of the stone and filled the entire cave with a faint, eerie
blue glow. Stalagmites and stalactites met in long, irregular pillars of stone,
and large crystals embedded in them tossed off glittering shards of light that
stabbed at her eyes like tiny daggers. At
once, a brilliant ball of light flashed into being in the center of the cavern.
Liriel reeled back, clutching at her blinded eyes. Her keen ears caught the
whine and hiss of an approaching missile; she dropped flat as yet another
fireball blazed toward her. The
fireball missed her, but barely. Heat assailed Liriel with searing pain as it
passed over her, and the smoke and stench of her own scorched hair assaulted
her like a blow to the gut. Coughing and gagging, she rolled aside. She blinked
rapidly as she went, trying to dispel the lingering sparks and flashes that
obscured her vision. Think,
think! she admonished herself. So far she had only reacted: along that path lay
certain defeat. To give
herself a bit of time, Liriel called upon her innate drow magic and dropped a
globe of darkness over the magic light ahead of her. That leveled the field of
battle, but it did not steal the human wizard's visual advantages: there was
still plenty of light in the cavern to allow him to see. She had not yet seen
him, however. A
suspicion that had taken root in Liriel's mind with the wizard's first attack
suddenly blossomed into certainty. He had anticipated her responses; he seemed
to know precisely how she would react. Perhaps he had been trained to know.
Setting her jaw in grim determination, Liriel set out to learn just how well
he'd been prepared. Her
hands flashed through the gestures of a spell that Gromph had taught her-a rare
and difficult spell that few drow knew of and fewer still could master. It had
taken her the better part of a day to learn it, and now the effort was repaid
in full. Standing
in the center of the cavern, ringed and partially shielded by a circle of stone
pillars, stood the human. A stunned expression crossed his bearded face as he
regarded his own outstretched hands. The reason for this was all too apparent:
apiwafwi, which should have granted him magical invisibility, appeared suddenly
on him and hung in glittering folds over his red-robed shoulders. He had not
only been prepared, but equipped! The
human wizard recovered quickly from his surprise. He drew in a deep breath and
spat in Liriel's direction. A dark bolt shot from his mouth, and then another.
The drow's eyes widened as she beheld the two live vipers wriggling toward her
with preternatural speed. Liriel
pulled two small knives from her belt and flicked them toward the nearest
snake. Her blades REALMS
OF THE UNDERDARK tumbled
end-over-end, crossing the viper's neck from either side and neatly slicing the
head from its body. The
beheaded length of snake writhed and looped for several moments, blocking the
second viper's path long enough for Liriel to get off a second volley. This
time she threw only one knife. The blade plunged into the viper's open mouth
and exploded out the back of its head with a bright burst of gore. Liriel
allowed herself a small, grim smile, and she resolved to properly thank the
mercenary who'd taught her to throw! It was
a moment's delay, but even that much was too long. Already the human wizard's
hands were moving through the gestures of a spell-a familiar spell. Liriel
tore a tiny dart from her weapons belt and spat upon it. In response to her
unspoken command, the other needed spell component-a tiny vial of acid- rose
from her open spell bag. She seized it and tossed both items into the air. Her
fingers flashed through the casting, and at once a luminous streak flew to
answer the one flashing toward her. The acid bolts collided midway between the
combatants, sending a spray of deadly green droplets sizzling off into the
cavern. The
human flung out one hand. Magic darted from each of his fingertips, spinning
out into a giant web as it flew. The weird blue light of the cavern glimmered
along the strands and turned the sticky droplets that clung to them into
gemlike things that rivaled moonstones and pearls. Liriel marveled at the web's
deadly beauty, even as it descended upon her. A word
from the drow conjured a score of giant spiders, each as large as a rothe calf.
On eldritch threads, the arachnid army rose as one toward the cavern's ceiling,
capturing the web and taking it with them. Liriel
planted her feet wide and sent a barrage of fireballs toward the persistent
human. As she expected, he cast the spell that would raise a field of
resistance around himself. She recognized the gestures and the words of power
as drow. This wizard had indeed been trained for this battle, and trained well! Unfortunately
for Liriel, the human had been schooled too well. The drow had hoped that her
fireball storm would weaken the stone pillars surrounding the wizard, so that
they might crumble and fall upon him after the magic shield's power was spent.
But it soon became apparent that he had placed the magical barrier in front of
the stone formation, thereby undoing her strategy! His shield did not give way
before her magic missiles: rather, it seemed to absorb their energy, and it
grew ever brighter with each fireball that struck. This was a drow
counterspell, Liriel acknowledged, but it was one that she herself had never
been taught! Finally
Liriel lowered her hands, drained by the sheer power of the fireballs she had
tossed into Xandra's magical web. At that
moment, the drow girl understood the full extent of the Shobalar wizard's
treachery. This
human had been trained in the magic and tactics of Underdark warfare, and
moreover, he knew enough about his drow opponent to anticipate and counter her
every spell. He had been carefully chosen and prepared - not to test her, but
to kill her! Xandra Shobalar did not content herself with wishing for her
student's failure: she had planned for it! Liriel
knew that she had been well and thoroughly betrayed. Her only hope of defeating
the human - and Xandra Shobalar - lay not in her battle magic, but in her wits. Liriel's
nimble mind flashed through the possibilities. She knew nothing of human magic,
but she found it highly suspicious that this wizard cast only drow spells. He
had to have had prior training in order to master such powerful magic; surely
he possessed spells of his own. Why did he not use them? As she studied the
human, the reason for this suddenly became apparent to the drow girl. Her
fingers closed around the key that Xandra had given her, and with one sharp tug
she tore it from the thin golden chain she'd tied to her belt. Wrath
burned bright in Liriel's golden eyes as she reached for the green vial that
her father had given her. Trapping the wizard would not be easy, but she would
find a way. Liriel
pulled off the stopper and dropped the key inside. But before she put the cap
back into place, she snapped off the mithril needle and tossed it aside. Kill or
be killed, Mistress Xandra had said. So be
it. Chapter
Six Recurring
Nightmares Tresk
Mulander squinted through his glowing shield toward the shimmering image of his
young drow opponent. So far, all had gone as anticipated. The girl was good,
just as Mistress Shobalar had claimed. She even had a few unanticipated skills,
such as her deadly aim with a tossed knife. Well
enough. Mulander had a few surprises of his own. It was
true that Xandra Shobalar had raped his mind, plundered his vast mental store
of necromantic spells. There was one spell, however, that the drow wizard could
not touch: it was stored not in his mind, but in his flesh. Mulander
was a Researcher, always seeking new magic where lesser men saw only death.
Moldering corpses, even the offal of the slaughterhouse, could be used to
create wondrous and fearsome creatures utterly under his control. But his
strangest and most secret creation was waiting to be unleased. In a
bit of unliving flesh-a tiny dark mole that clung to his body by the thinnest
tendril of skin, he had stored a creature of great power. To bring it into
existence, he had only to make that final separation from his living body. The
wizard worked his thumb and forefinger beneath the golden collar. Ironically,
the enspelled mole was hidden beneath the magical fetter! Mulander
twisted off the bit of flesh, reveling in the sharp stab of pain-for such was a
miniature death, and death was the ultimate source of his power. He tossed the
tiny mole to the cavern floor and watched with sharp anticipation as the
contained monster took shape. Many of
the Red Wizards could create darkenbeasts: fearsome flying creatures made by
twisting the bodies of living animals into magical atrocities. Mulander had
gone one better. The creature that rose up before him had been fashioned from
his own flesh and his own nightmares. Mulander
had begun with the most dreadful thing he knew-a replica of his long-dead
wizard mother-and added to it enormous size and the deadliest features of every
predator that ever had haunted his dreams. The tattered, batlike wings of an
abyssal denizen sprouted from the creature's shoulders, and a raptor's talons
curved from its human hands. The thing had vampiric fangs, the haunches and
hind legs of a dire wolf, and a wyvern's poisoned tail. Plates of dragonlike
armor-in Red Wizard crimson, of course-covered its feminine torso. Only the
eyes, the same hard green as his own, had been left untouched. Those eyes
settled upon the drow girl-the hunter who had suddenly become prey-and they
filled with a brand of malice that was only too familiar to Mulander. An
involuntary shiver ran through the powerful wizard who had summoned the
monster, a response engraved upon his soul by his own wretched, long-gone
childhood. The
monster crouched. Its wolflike feet tamped down, and the muscles of its
powerful haunch bunched in preparation for the spring. Mulander did not bother
to dispel the magical shield. The monster retained enough of a resemblance to
his mother for him to enjoy its roar of pain as the force field shattered upon
impact. Enjoyable,
too, was the wide-eyed shock on the face of the young drow. She regained her
composure with admirable speed and sent a pair of knives spinning into the monster's
face. Mulander knew a moment's supreme elation when the blades sank into those
too-familiar green eyes. The
monster shrieked with rage and anguish, raking its face with owl-like talons in
an effort to dislodge the knives. Long bloody furrows crisscrossed its face
before the drow's knives finally clattered to the cave's floor. Blinded and
enraged, the creature advanced toward the dark-elven girl, its dripping hands
wildly groping the air. The
drow snatched a bola from her belt, whirled it briefly and let fly. The weapon
spun toward the blinded creature, wrapped tightly around its neck. Gurgling,
the monster tore at the leather thongs. A sharp snap resounded through the
cavern, quickly followed by a grating roar. Sniffing audibly as it sought its prey,
Mulander's monster dived with outstretched talons toward the drow girl. But the
drow rose into the air, swift and graceful as a dark hummingbird, and the
monster fell facedown upon the cavern floor. It quickly rolled onto its back
and leapt up onto its feet. A thunderous thumping rush filled the cavern as its
batlike wings began to beat. It rose slowly, awkwardly, and began to pursue the
drow. The
young wizard tossed a giant web at the monster; the creature tore through it
with ease. She bombarded it with a barrage of death darts, but the weapons
bounced harmlessly off the creature's plated body. The
drow summoned a bolt of glistening black lightning and hurled it like a
javelin. To Mulander's dismay, the bolt slashed downward through one leathery
wing. Shrieking
with rage, the monster traced a tight spiral to the cavern floor and landed
with a stone-shaking crash. No
matter: the magical battle had taken its toll on the young elfmaid. She sank
slowly toward the cavern floor, and toward the jaws of the wounded but waiting
monster. Her
gqlden eyes grew frantic and darted toward Mulander's gloating face. "Enough!"
she shrieked. "I know what you need-dispel the creature, and I will give
you what you want without further battle. This I swear, by all that is dark and
holy!" A smile
of malevolent satisfaction crossed the Red Wizard's face. He trusted no oath
from any drow, but he knew that this one's battle spells were nearly exhausted.
Nor was he was surprised that she had lost heart for the battle. The girl was
pathetically young- she looked to be about twelve or thirteen by the measure of
humankind. Despite her fell heritage and magical prowess, she was still a
callow lass and thus no match for such as he! "Toss
the key to me," he told her. "The
monster," she pleaded. Mulander
hesitated, then shrugged. Even without the magical construct, he was more than
the equal of this elven child. With a flick of one hand, he sent the monster
back into whatever nightmares had spawned it. But with the other, he summoned a
fireball large enough to hurl the drow against the far wall of the cavern and
leave nothing of her but a grease spot. He saw by the fear in her eyes that she
understood her position. "Here-it's
in here," the girl said frantically, reaching into a pouch at her waist
and fumbling about. Her efforts were hampered by her own fear: her breath came
in exhausted little gasps and sobs; her thin shoulders shook with terrified
weeping. Finally
she took out a tiny silken bag and held it high. "The key is in here. Take
it, please, and let me go!" The Red
Wizard deftly caught the bag she tossed him, then shook a small glistening
sphere into his palm. It was a protective bubble-a bit of magic easily cast and
easily dispelled-which contained a delicate vial of translucent green glass.
And within that was the tiny golden key that promised freedom and power. Had he
glanced at the drow child, Mulander might have wondered why her eyes were dry
despite her weeping, why she no longer seemed to have any difficulty maintaining
her ability to levitate. Had he taken his gaze from that longed-for key, he
might have recognized the look of cold triumph in her golden eyes. He had seen
that expression once before, briefly, on the face of his own apprentice. But
pride had blinded him to treachery once before, and had lured him into a
mistake that had condemned him to a sentence of death, a sentence that had been
commuted into lifelong slavery. When
the understanding of this finally came, Mulander knew that this mistake would
truly be his last. Chapter
Seven Ritual Liriel
Baenre returned to Menzoberranzan after a mere two days, battered and bereft of
a bit of her abundant white hair, but grimly triumphant. Or so everyone
assumed. Not until the ceremony was she required to give formal proof of her
kill. All of
House Shobalar gathered in the throne room of Matron Hinkutes'nat for the
coming-of-age ceremony. It was required, but most came anyway for the vicarious
pleasure to be had in witnessing the grisly relics, and to relive the pride and
pleasure of their own first kills. Such moments reminded all present of what it
meant to be drow. At
Narbondel, the darkest hour, Liriel stepped forward to claim her place among
her people. To Xandra Shobalar, her Mistress and mentor, she was required to
present the ritual proof. For a
long moment, Liriel held the older wizard's gaze, staring into Xandra's crimson
orbs with eyes that were cold and fathomless-full of unspoken power and deadly
promise. This, too, was something she had learned from her dreaded father. When at
last the older wizard's gaze faltered uncertainly, Liriel bowed deeply and
reached into the bag at her waist. She took from it a small green object and
held it high for all to see. There were murmurs as some of the Shobalar wizards
recognized the artifact for what it was. "You
surprise me, child," Xandra said coldly. "You who were anticipating a
'gallant hunt,' to trap and slay your prey with such a device!" "A
child no more," Liriel corrected her. A strange smile crossed her face,
and with a quick, vicious movement, she threw the vial to the floor. The
crystal shattered, a delicate, tinkling sound that echoed long in the stunned
silence that followed-for standing before the Mistress of Magic, his green eyes
glowing with malevolence, was the human wizard. He was very much alive, and in
one hand he held the golden collar that had imprisoned him to Xandra's will. With a
speed that belied his years, the human conjured a crimson sphere of light and
hurled it, not at Xandra, but at the dark-elven male who stood guard at the
rear door. The hapless drow shattered into bloody shards. Before anyone could
draw breath, the bits of elven flesh whirled into the air and began to take on
new and dreadful shapes. For
many moments, everyone in the throne room was busy indeed. The Shobalar wizards
and priestesses hurled spells, and, with arrows and swords, the fighters
battled the winged creatures that had been given birth by their drow comrade's
death. At
last, there was only Xandra and the wizard, standing nearly toe to toe and
blazing with eldritch light as their spells attacked and riposted with the
speed and verve of a swordmasters' dual. Every eye in the throne room, drow and
slave alike, was fixed upon the deadly battle, and all were lit with vicious
excitement as they awaited the outcome. Finally,
one of the Red Wizard's spells slipped past Xandra's defenses: a daggerlike
stab of light sliced the drow's face from cheekbone to jaw. The flesh parted in
a gaping wound, deep enough to reveal the bones beneath. Xandra
let out a wail that would have shamed a banshee, and with a speed that rivaled
that of a weapon master's deathblow, she lashed back. Pain, desperation, and
wrath combined to fuel a blast of magic powerful enough to send a thunderous,
shuddering roar through the stohe chamber. The
human caught the full force of the attack. Like a loosed arrow, his smoking
body hurtled up and back. He hit the far wall near the ceiling and slid down,
leaving a rapidly-cooling streak on the stone. There was a hole the size of a
dinner plate where his chest had been, and his sodden robes were a slightly
brighter shade of crimson. Xandra,
too, crumpled, utterly exhausted by the momentous spell battle, and further
weakened by the copious flow of blood that spilled from her torn face. Drow
servants rushed to attend her, and her sister clerics gathered around to murmur
spells of healing. Through it all, Liriel stood before the matron's throne, her
face set in a mask of faint, cynical amusement, and her eyes utterly cold. When at
last the Mistress of Magic had recovered enough breath for speech, she hauled
herself into a sitting position and leveled a shaking finger at the young
wizard. "How do you dare commit such an outrage!" she sputtered.
"The rite has been profaned!" "Not
so," Liriel said coolly. "You stipulated that the wizard could be
slain with any weapon of my choice. The weapon I chose was you." A
second stunned silence descended upon the chamber. It was broken by a strange
sound, one that no one there had ever heard before or had ever expected to
hear: The
Matron Mother Hinkutes'nat Alar Shobalar was laughing. It was
a rusty sound, to be sure, but there was genuine amusement in the matron's
voice and in her crimson eyes. "This
defies all the laws and customs," Xandra began angrily. The
matron cut her off with an imperious gesture. "The rite of blooding has
been fulfilled," Hinkutes'nat proclaimed, "for its purpose is to make
a true drow of a youngling dark elf. Evidence of a devious mind serves this
purpose as well as bloody hands." Ignoring
her glowering daughter, the matron turned to Liriel. "Well done! By all
the power of this throne and this house, I proclaim you a true drow, a worthy
daughter of Lloth! Leave your childhood behind, and rejoice in the dark powers
that are our heritage and our delight!" Liriel
accepted the ritual welcome-not with a deep bow this time, but with a slight
incline of her head. She was a child no longer, and as a noble female of House
Baenre, she was never to bow to a drow of lesser rank. Gromph had schooled her
in such matters, drilling her until she understood every shade and nuance of
this complicated protocol. He had impressed upon her that this ceremony marked
not only her departure from childhood, but her full acceptance into the Baenre
clan. All that stood between her and both these honors were the ritual words of
acceptance that she must speak. But
Liriel was not quite finished. Following an impulse that she only dimly
understood, she crossed the dais to the place where a defeated Xandra sat
slumped, submitting glumly to the continued ministrations of the House Shobalar
priestesses. Liriel
stooped so that she was at eye level with her former mentor. Slowly she
extended her hand and gently cupped the older drow's chin-a rare gesture that
was occasionally used to comfort or caress a child, or, more often, to capture
the child's attention before dictating terms. It was unlikely that Xandra, in
her pain-ridden state, would have consciously attached this meaning to her
former student's gesture, but it was clear that she instinctively grasped the
nuance. She flinched away from Liriel's touch, and her eyes were pure
malevolence. The
girl merely smiled. Then, suddenly, she slid her palm up along the jawline of
Xandra's wounded cheek, gathering in her cupped hand some of the blood that
stained the wizard's face. With a
single quick movement, Liriel rose to her feet and turned to face the watchful
matron. Deliberately she smeared Xandra's blood over both hands, front and
back, and then she presented them to Matron Hinkutes'nat. "The
ritual is complete; I am a child no more, but a drow," Liriel proclaimed. The
silence that followed her words was long and impending, for the implications of
her action went far beyond the limits of propriety and precedence. At last
Matron Hinkutes'nat inclined her head-but not in the expected gesture of
completion. The Shobalar matriarch added the subtle nuance that transformed the
regal gesture into the salute exchanged between equals. It was a rare tribute,
and rarer still was the amused understanding-and the genuine respect-in the
spidery female's eyes. All of
which struck the young drow as highly ironic. Although it was clear that
Hinkutes'nat applauded Liriel's gesture, she herself was not entirely certain
why she had done what she did. This
question plagued Liriel throughout the celebration that traditionally followed
the rite of passage ceremony. The spectacle provided by her Blooding had been
unusually satisfying to the attending drow, and the revelry that it inspired
was raucous and long. For once Liriel entered into festivities with less than
her usual gusto, and she was not at all sorry when the last bell signaled the
end of the night. Chapter
Eight Her
Father's Daughter The
summons from the Narbondellyn district came early the next day. This time,
Gromph Baenre sent word that Liriel's belongings were to be packed up and sent
after her. The
young drow received this information stoically. In truth, Liriel did not regret
her removal from House Shobalar. Perhaps she did not understand the full
meaning of her own Blooding ceremony, but she knew with certainly that she
could no longer remain in the same complex as Xandra Shobalar. Liriel's
reception at the archmage's mansion was about what she had expected. Servants
met her and showed her to her apartment-a small but lavish suite that boasted a
well-equipped library of spellbooks and scrolls. Apparently her father intended
for her to continue her wizardly education. But there was no sign of Gromph,
and the best the servants could do for Liriel was to assure her that the
archmage would send for her when she was wanted. And so
it was that the newly initiated drow spent her first darkcycle alone, the first
of what she suspected would be many such days and nights. Liriel found that the
solitude was painfully difficult, and that the silent hours crept by. After
several futile attempts at study, the weary girl at last took to her bed. For
hours she stared at the ceiling and longed for the oblivion of slumber. But her
mind was too full, and her thoughts too confused, for sleep to find her. Oddly
enough, Liriel felt less triumphant than she should have. She was alive, she
had passed the test of the Blooding, she had repaid Xandra's treachery with
public humiliation, she had even devised a way to keep from slaying the human
wizard. Why was
it, then, that she felt his blood on her hands as surely as if she'd torn out
his heart with her own fingernails? And what was this soul-deep sadness, this
dark resignation? Though she had no name to give this emotion, Liriel suspected
that it would ever after cast a shadow upon her blithe spirit. The
hours passed, and the distant tolling of Narbondel signaled that the darkest
hour was once again upon Menzoberranzan. It was then that the summons finally
came; a servant bid Liriel to dress and await the archmage in his study. Suddenly
Liriel was less than anxious to face her drow sire. What would Gromph have to
say about her unorthodox approach to the Blooding hunt and ceremony? During her
three days of preparation, the archmage had repeatedly expressed concern about
her judgment and ambition, pronouncing her too trusting and carefree, and he
had wondered at the strange bias of her character. It seemed likely to her that
he would not approve. Liriel
did as she was bid and hastened to her father's sanctum. She had not long to
wait before Gromph appeared, still wearing the wondrous, glittering piwafwi
that held an arsenal of magical weapons, and that proclaimed his power and his
high office. The archmage acknowledged her presence with a curt nod and then
sat down behind his table. "I
have heard what transpired at your ceremony," he began. "The
ritual was fulfilled," Liriel said earnestly-and a trifle defensively.
"I might not have shed blood, but Matron Hinkutes'nat accepted my
efforts!" "More
than accepted," the archmage said dryly. "The Shobalar matron is
quite impressed with you. And more importantly, so am I." Liriel
absorbed this in silence. Then, suddenly, she blurted out, "Oh, but I wish
I understood why!" Gromph
lifted one brow. "You really must learn to speak with less than complete
candor," he advised her. "But in this case, no harm is done. Indeed,
your words only confirm what I had suspected; you acted partly by design, but
partly by instinct. This is indeed gratifying." "Then
you're not angry?" Liriel ventured. When the archmage sent her an
inquiring look, she added, "I thought that you would be furious upon
hearing that I did not actually kill the human." Gromph
was silent a long moment. "You did something far more important: you
fulfilled both the spirit and the letter of the Blooding ritual, in layers of
subtle complexity that did credit to you and to your house. The human wizard is
dead-that much was a needed formality. Using Xandra Shobalar as a tool was a
clever twist. But washing your hands in her blood was brilliant!" "Thank
you," Liriel said, in a tone so incongruously glum that it surprised a
chuckle from the archmage. "You
still do not understand. Very well, I will speak plainly. The human wizard was
never your enemy; Xandra Shobalar was your enemy! You recognized that, you
turned her plot against her, and you proclaimed a blood victory. And in doing
so, you demonstrated that you have learned what it is to be a true drow." "But
I did not kill," Liriel said thoughtfully. "And why is it that,
although I did not kill, I feel as if I had?" '^fou
might not have actually shed blood, but the ritual of the Blooding has done its
intended work all the same," the archmage asserted. Liriel
considered this, and suddenly she knew her father's words as truth. Her
innocence was gone, but pride and power, treachery, intrigue, survival,
victory- all of these things she knew intimately and well. "A
true drow," she repeated in a tone that was nine parts triumph and one
portion regret. She took a deep breath and looked up into Gromph's eyes-and
into a mirror. For the
briefest of moments, Liriel glimpsed a flicker of poignant sorrow in the archmage's
eyes, like the glint of gold shining through a deep layer of ice. It came and
departed so quickly Liriel doubted that Gromph was even aware of it; after all,
several centuries of cold and calculating evil lay between him and his own rite
of passage. If he remembered that emotion at all, he was no longer able to
reach into his soul and bring it forth. Liriel understood, and at last she had
a name to give the final, missing element that defined a true drow: Despair. "Congratulations,"
the archmage said in a voice laced with unconscious irony. "Thank
you," his daughter responded in kind. SEA OF
GHOSTS Roger
E. Moore The
disaster went unrecognized that evening by all who dwelt on the plains of the
Eastern Shaar, who heard only the rattling of pottery on wooden shelves or
soothed only the skittishness of tethered horses. A hunter lowered his bow,
head cocked to catch a rumbling that frightened off his prey. A sorceress in a
stone tower frowned, distracted from a mildewed tome by a vibration that caused
the candle flames in the room to dance. An old shepherd sitting cross-legged on
a rock looked up from the flute he had carved, surprised by distant thunder
from an empty red sky. The sun flowed beneath the horizon. An hour
later, all was forgotten. Far
beneath the lazy grass of the Eastern Shaar, unseen by the rising moon, was a
measureless maze of dripping caverns and dusty halls. Through this stupendous
realm, a subterranean river hurled along a passage it had carved through a
thousand miles of cold rock. Called the River Raurogh by dwarves who, over long
centuries, had mapped its dark twists and turns, the channel descended through
layer after layer of stone at a steady pace toward an unknown end. Cautious
dwarves slowly charted the river's course, probing for whirlpools, low
ceilings, rapids, flesh-eating emerald slime, and unwholesome beasts that
welcomed a change in their diet of blind, transparent fish. Foolish dwarves
cast off in heavy rafts with magical lights fore and aft, determined to learn
the river's secrets in a fraction of the time. Four out of five cautious
dwarves came home to make their reports; only one in three foolish dwarves did
the same. The cautious dwarves drew reliable maps. The foolish dwarves gave
birth to legends. It was
a foolish dwarf, battered and wet, who returned to tell of the Deepfall at the
Raurogh's end, which had claimed his eight companions and their raft. It had
undoubtedly claimed many rafts before theirs. Other dwarves soon dug out a
passage from a nearby cavern to the Deepfall, where they put down their tools
and marveled at the sight. The long tunnel carved by the River Raurogh here
opened into a titanic domed chamber splashed in scarlet and ocher hues. A
thousand long stalactites and glittering mineral curtains hung from the dome
like diamond chandeliers in an emperor's palace. The ancient silo, well over
two hundred feet across, dropped away into nothingness. No sounds arose from
the black depths to indicate that the cascade had found its bottom. Seeing
a natural ledge leading into the silo by the chiseled opening, a foolish dwarf
soon edged out on hands and knees, bearing a short staff upon which a
light-bearing spell had been cast. He looked up first, noting that between the
brilliant formations on the ceiling was a dense network of narrow cracks
looking a bit like a crude giant spider's web. Most of the cracks were filled
in with mineral draperies, but their cause was still apparent. The entire
ceiling, to an unknown height, had begun to separate from the rock above it. The
dwarf judged after a minute that the roof was still centuries away from
yielding to gravity, and he worried about it no more. The
dwarf then looked over the ledge, his illuminated stick held aloft, and stared
down into the abyss. His wisdom overcome by curiosity, he cast the enchanted
staff over the edge and watched it fall until it was a spray-dimmed twinkle
that was gone from view between one eye blink and the next. He lost track of
the time over which the light fell; the depth into which he peered was beyond
imagining. When the dwarf returned to his companions, it was deemed best to
depart from the region in haste, in case an unwelcome being far down the shaft
made its way up to investigate the source of the falling light. Nothing ever
did, for which all were thankful, but the legend of the Deepfall spread and
bewitched many a dwarf who heard of it. In a
short time, a hundred dwarves migrated from the crowded caverns of
Glitterdelve, discontent with local taxes, and chiseled out new homes near the
great shaft's dome. Coarsely woven nets strung across the river caught blind
fish and crustaceans for the dwarves' food. Wastes and offal were cast into
side passages where edible fungi and molds for potions were cultivated. Magical
lights of golden hue soon filled the colony of Raurogh's Hall, as the cave
village came to be known, though all light was carefully shielded from the
silo's top to avoid alerting anything living far down the falls. The
surrounding rock was solid, local predators were quickly dispatched, and the
river's bounty was endless. Life was good for seventeen years and a hundred
twelve days. The
derro waited for Wykar where they had agreed, toying silently with a long knife
among the blue glow-fan fungi. Wykar
stopped and did not move a muscle after he eased around the entrance to the
blue-lit cavern chamber and saw the derro. The hunched gnome warily embraced
the chamber with his senses to discover if Geppo had unwisely brought friends
along to the hidden garden of luminescent fungi, but he sensed nothing amiss.
He nonetheless kept his gray hands free, ready to seize from his vest, belt, or
boots whatever weapon was called for. Geppo
noticed the deep gnome after a few moments but did not seem startled. Head
bowed in concentration on his knife, he peered up at the little intruder
through his thick, pale eyebrows. A smile tugged at his thin lips. With skin as
white and dirty as a toadstool cap, Geppo could easily pass for a true dwarfs
corpse in his sleep. The orbs of his large, milky eyes each showed only a black
dot for a pupil, little holes in moist white stones. His emaciated face was
framed by long, matted hair of a filthy sulfur hue. An unkempt beard and
mustache hid his sunken cheeks and narrow lower jaw. Though
Geppo was a head taller than the three-foot gnome, he seemed much the weaker of
the two. The derro's skeletal frame had not fleshed out after his long,
hard-lived enslavement by the drow. Except for a change of clothing and a few
obviously scavenged tools and weapons now strapped to his person, he looked
exactly the same as when Wykar had known him as a fellow prisoner. The faint
blue light from the glowfan fungi added an air of unreality to the derro's
presence, as if he had recently left his own grave. Geppo
wore a dark, muddy tunic of rough fabric, under which a darker outfit showed at
the collar. Wykar guessed that leather or hide armor lay beneath. A finely
tooled black belt bearing many small pockets and pouches was pulled tight at
his thin waist. It looked like a drow's belt, but it was unlikely the derro had
taken it from the bodies of their former masters. The Underdark held the
remains of many failed plans and dreams, and one could get anything if one knew
where to look. After a
long moment, Geppo's gaze dropped. He resumed scraping the edge of his long
knife across the scar-crossed back of his right hand. "Late," he
grunted, his voice as rough as a broken rock. Wykar
saw the butt of a weapon lying within reach of Geppo's left hand, almost hidden
by the curled edge of a glowfan fungus. The bent gnome stepped closer, his
movements relaxed and slow. The weapon looked like a crossbow, a little
two-shot repeater type favored by the drow-a lucky find. When he was ten feet
from Geppo, Wykar crouched on the balls of his boots and rested his elbows on
his thighs, letting his thick hands dangle. "Long walk home," he
replied. Geppo
snorted faintly, as if he recognized the lie. He lifted the knife blade, eyed
its bright edge, then carefully slid it home in a crude sheath strapped to his
belt. His thin arms then rested on his knees, hands limp. After a short glance
around Wykar, he nodded. "Alone," he rasped approvingly. "Alone,"
agreed Wykar. He detected no heat-glow but Geppo's, heard no sound but Geppo's
breathing, smelled nothing other than the earthy scent of the glowing fungus
and a sour, unwashed body odor that had to be the derro's. Didn't they ever
bathe? It must be easy for Underdark predators to track them; little wonder
most derro were so insanely paranoid. Geppo
nodded and seemed to relax. He reached over and gently broke a piece from a
nearby glowfan. He popped the luminescent tidbit into his mouth and chewed. Wykar
saw disease-blackened teeth through the forest of filthy whiskers. The gnome
swallowed and covered up his disgust. He never touched glowing fungus, much
less ate it; many species of it were poisonous. Geppo seemed to enjoy fungus of
any sort, though. The drow had fed him nothing else. Wykar
let it go. He inhaled slowly as he looked the derro over. "I was surprised
to see you here," he said at last. "I didn't know if you would make
it very far after..." The
derro smiled with the look of a wicked boy who is proud of something.
"S'prise you, s'prise Geppo," he said. "You run much, walk much?
You strong, hey. Geppo . . . mmm, no. Not strong." He held out his thin
arms and turned them over, shaking his head and frowning in disapproval.
"Not strong, hey? Sick much, sick much." He dropped his arms and
shrugged, then leaned forward and stared into Wykar's cool gray eyes, a smirk
on his ravaged face. "Hey," he whispered, his white eyes narrow.
"Geppo sick much but"-his voice dropped further, as if telling a
little secret-"laughing ones sick more now, hey?" He
pulled back before Wykar could reply. "Laughing ones sick more," he
repeated with a quick nod. "Sick more than Geppo." The derro thumped
his chest with a bony fist when he spoke his name. Wykar's
cheek twitched as he nodded in response, remembering. "Very sick," he
said softly. He shivered, though he was not cold in the slightest. Geppo's
smirk faded. After a moment, he nodded and made a gesture of dismissal.
"Laughing ones no laughing, all good. You say, see me here, then you run.
You here now." He stopped, waiting. The
deep gnome looked into the derro's white eyes. This could work, he thought.
He's still the same, or looks it. If he's the same old Geppo, this could really
work. Wykar
swallowed. He sensed that he should speak only the truth at this point. Being
caught in an important lie would lead straight to serious trouble, especially
with a derro-even this one. "When
we ... escaped, we left some unfinished business behind us," he said,
making no pretense of talking down to the derro. Despite the derro's
pidgin-talk, Geppo was intelligent and caught on to whatever was said to him.
Some kind of innate derro trait, Wykar guessed. "I came here because I
want to finish it. I need your help with things." Wykar swallowed, risking
a small untruth. "I will ensure that you are well rewarded for whatever
assistance you can give me." The
derro smiled again but did not look Wykar in the eye. "Ah," he said
casually. He seemed to have anticipated the topic. He inhaled deeply as his
left hand drifted up to his throat and gently rubbed the skin there. "Need
Geppo's hel-" he began, but his voice suddenly broke before he could say
more. He coughed and tried to clear his throat, then began coughing again,
grimacing with pain. Wykar
could not see Geppo's neck through his rat's nest of a beard, but he doubted
the derro's old wounds had healed yet. A fun-loving young drow had tried to
strangle him as a joke, using a long, thin metal wire. The gnome waited for
Geppo to recover his voice, wondering if the wounds had become infected from
the filth that was encrusted over the derro's faded hair and skin. It would not
be surprising. The
derro made a hand gesture of apology-something he had learned from Wykar during
their captivity-then pointed at the gnome. "You," he wheezed faintly.
Wykar's large ears could barely catch his tortured words. "You tell me
what you do, hey?" "Yes,"
said Wykar. It was time to face the issue and see what came next. He thought
about the crystal-nosed darts just inside his vest, and the speed at which he
would have to get to them if things went badly-if Geppo reverted to the derro
norm, that is, and tried to threaten or kill him. "I came back because of
that egg," he said. "I want to destroy it. I need someone to go along
with me for protection. You can have whatever gold and gems they brought with
them, but I want to see the egg destroyed. That's all I want." That and
the death of every drow alive, but I can be reasonable, he thought. The
derro straightened and looked at Wykar in surprise. "Egg?" he said,
his large eyes wider now. "You want big egg in chest, not-?" He shook
his head with disbelief and stared at the gnome without further comment. Then
he shrugged acceptance, and his eyes slowly narrowed, another topic obviously
on his mind. He actually seemed to be considering the proposition then and
there, with barely an argument. Several minutes passed. Wykar was patient but
alert. Geppo
leaned forward again, absently running thin fingers through his beard. He
regarded Wykar with a murky smile. "Golds and gems," he said, his
voice stronger than before. "Golds and gems good for Geppo, hey, always
good. But egg . . ." He frowned, then pulled at his tattered beard and
nodded solemnly, a ragged king accepting the plan of an underling. "Egg
not for Geppo. Egg, you wreck it. You wreck egg, yes. But-" The
derro held up a bone-thin finger. "You think good plan for us get golds
and gems, wreck egg, hey? You not see Geppo if you think no plan, think bad
plan. You think much, hey? Good, good think much. Geppo take golds, gems-help
you wreck egg." The finger lowered, pointing at Wykar's head. "You
tell Geppo good plan first, then all go, you wreck egg." Wykar
swallowed and took a deep breath. "I have a plan, but I need to keep it
secret for now. You will have to go with me and trust me that I know what I am
doing." His voice almost failed for a moment-I must not be weak, he
thought-but he recovered and went on. "We must go back to the place where
the golds-where the gold and the egg are, if they are still there, and I will
tell you there how we are going to get the treasure out of there and destroy
the egg. All that I ask of you otherwise is that we look out for each other on
the way there and back." Geppo
grunted in skepticism, obviously unhappy. "Not tell Geppo plan? You keep
plan secret?" He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Not
good," he murmured, eyeing the gnome. Then, to Wykar's surprise, he
shrugged as if the matter were of no consequence. "Geppo go. Geppo get
golds, you get egg-if golds and egg not gone, you say. We . . . look out for each
other, hey." He gave his twisted smile again and clapped his hands softly
together as if sealing the agreement. "We do." Wykar
blinked. He hadn't expected the derro to capitulate so quickly and with so
little trouble. Wykar had been prepared to argue, plead, bluff, threaten, swear
oaths, and even offer Geppo a little treasure up front, giving up a few tiny
rubies he had hidden within his vest and belt. Geppo's agreeability was almost
breathtaking. Derro were so befouled with greed and ambition that no one
expected anything good from them. Then
again, Wykar had been imprisoned with Geppo for over two hundred sleepings, not
long in a deep gnome's life but long enough to become familiar with most of the
derro's personal quirks. Geppo's quirks hinted that he was not a normal derro. For one
thing, Geppo never lied. He exaggerated a bit at times, but he never lied.
Geppo was also rather talkative, even after the drow youth tried to garrote
him, going on about how hungry he was, what his father would have done with
these drow, or his beliefs about the personal habits of the drow priestess who
owned both Wykar and Geppo. Most strangely for a derro, Geppo had never
threatened Wykar with anything more than words when they grabbed at the rotting
scraps tossed into their cramped stone prison by their priestess-owner. Geppo
had reserved violence only until the moment their escape was within reach; even
then, it was directed only at his captors. Wykar
had become puzzled by Geppo's basically mild behavior, given that every other
derro displayed far worse. The only reason he had impulsively asked the derro
to meet with him and join him on this mission was that the gnome had a gut
feeling Geppo would be pliable enough to go along with the strangest demands.
Maybe Geppo was stringing Wykar along, pretending to be a partner while
plotting betrayal, but Wykar didn't think so. Every
hero needs a fool, went a saving in the Underdark. How very true. Wykar
took a deep breath. There was only one thing more to do. It guaranteed nothing,
but Wykar had always been a firm believer in having a contract. Sometimes you
even found someone who would actually stick to it. Wykar
reached down and pulled his long blade free of its sheath. He did it slowly,
noting Geppo's startled movement for his own blade. The polished metal of the
gnome's weapon was stained red with protective oils and gleamed even in
fungi-light. The blade had been forged by the gold dwarves, many sleepings ago
and far away. Its handle was a yellow foot bone from a minotaur lizard, set on
either side with a small but flawless ruby. Wykar took the long, heavy dagger
by the tip of its blade, fingers away from its edge, and set it on the ground,
its handle pointing toward the derro. Geppo looked down as he gripped the hilt
of his own blade. "We
must trade weapons," Wykar said. "So long as we have each other's
blade, we are sworn not to kill or harm each other. You and I both must swear
to this by all the gods. Then we will go together and do our work." Geppo
stared at Wykar's weapon, lips parted in mild surprise. He looked up at the
deep gnome several times, bit his upper lip, then slowly made a decision. He
pulled his long dagger free of its poor sheath and gently tossed the blade so
that it landed on the stony ground next to Wykar's dagger, its hilt aimed in
the gnome's direction. In the glowfans' light, Wykar saw that the derro's
weapon was old and had been much used-recently scavenged from a body in the
Underdark, no doubt. Dark flakes clung to the steel blade, which showed signs
of rust and corrosion. The handle once had had an elaborate inlay, now fallen
out, and the very tip of the blade was broken off. But the notched edge was
keen and bright-sharper, likely, than Wykar's own blade. The derro knew his way
around a whetstone. The
derro waited in anxious uncertainty. Wykar noticed that the pale dwarf kept one
hand close to the crossbow butt at his side. Well, that was to be expected.
This was new for them both. The deep gnome touched his forehead, nose, right
ear, and heart, then carefully named a host of five deities and their spheres
of interest in gnomish life. Not a one of them was real, but a derro wouldn't
know that. It was then his turn to wait. Licking
his lips, Geppo mumbled his way through a short litany in a deep, guttural
tongue. All the while, he stared down at the blades. Wykar knew a smattering of
Underdark tongues, the derro tongue among them, but he recognized only a few
words: bapda for father, gorin for oath. The derro stopped when he was through,
uncertainty still crossing his face, and looked up at Wykar. The gnome nodded
as if well satisfied, concealing his real thoughts on the matter. For all he
knew, the derro had just taken a blood oath to kill the gnome like a rat. It
was irrelevant. The act bought a little time of peace between them, and that
was the real heart of the issue. At a
nod from Wykar, the derro and the gnome reached down and took each other's
weapon. As they did, Wykar conjured up a complete mental picture of how he
could snatch his own knife first and cut through the muscles of the derro's
white arm in less than an eye blink; then he would thrust the weapon forward
into his opponent's face and end the life of this miserable creature. The
picture was perfect and clear, and Wykar instinctively believed the derro was
thinking the very same thing. But
this was Geppo, the odd one, Geppo, who never lied-not a real derro foe. Wykar
easily thrust all thought of treachery aside. There was still much left to do,
and he desperately needed the derro. If there was to be treachery, he was
content to let the derro make the first move-at least for now. A thin
white hand and a small but thick gray one quietly lifted each other's weapon
from the ground. Each creature looked over his partner's blade, then carefully
sheathed it and checked the fit. The deed was done, for whatever it was worth. "We
must leave now," said Wykar. Seventeen
years and a hundred twelve days passed under the golden lights of Raurogh's
Hall, far above the gnome and derro, and peace was at an end. A fisher dwarf
mending a net by the riverside heard the first crack of rock shifting and
splitting. She
froze in her work, startled, then dropped her net and lay flat, placing her ear
to the ground as she held her breath. Even through the roaring of the falls and
the tremor the cascade sent through the earth, random clicks and pops could be
heard in the stone. And the air above the rock had a new smell, a broken-stone
and lightning odor that the fisher dwarf had never before sensed but had often
heard tell of in old legends of horror. She clumsily got to her feet and ran to
seize an iron-headed gaff beside a metal pot. The
other dwarves of Raurogh's Hall had ceased their work to look about uncertainly
for the source of the sharp crack they heard come from all directions around
them. A moment later, a high, rhythmic clanging of metal against metal was
heard. Some dwarves recognized the ancient signal and shouted the alarm. The
others heard and as one flung down their tools in rising panic, quickly
awakening those who were still abed. Without delay, the hundred dwarves packed
themselves into sheltered corners or beneath narrow doorways, their backs
pressed tight to the stone and teeth clenched in preparation. The broken-rock
odor was everywhere now; disaster was certain. The dwarves' lips moved in
prayer to their ancient gods. Mere seconds later, the earthquake struck. The
garden of glowing fungi had come to Wykar's mind when he had asked Geppo to
meet with him later, after their unexpected escape from the drow. The fungus
garden was reasonably close to the Sea of Ghosts, where the gold, the egg, and
their former masters now lay, and the garden could be reached only through a
high narrow tunnel that could not be seen from the main cavern passage known as
the Old River Path. Wykar grimaced as he remembered that he had been captured
only a mile down the great corridor while on his way to see the garden again,
which he had discovered in his youth. The silent dark elves had then taken him
to a small drow enclave about three sleepings away by fast march. It was
unlikely the drow had known of the garden; they had never mentioned it. Wykar
now descended the rough cave wall down from the tunnel to the garden, rappeling
quickly by rope. When he again set foot on the sandy floor of the Old River
Path, Wykar stepped back and scanned his surroundings for danger. No new
smells, sounds, or sights-excellent. Luminescent fungi on the ceiling cast a
faint green light over all. The wide hall had held a river many thousands of
sleepings ago, but some race had rechanneled the water miles back to form the
Sea of Ghosts. Many kingdoms, wars, and slaughters later, someone else had
channeled the water away from the great sea, and the sea had slowly drained
ever since then through cracks in its bed or walls. At some point many
sleepings in the future, the Sea of Ghosts would itself be a ghost, a monstrous
dry chamber miles and miles across, where albino fish and uglier things had
stirred its black surface. It would be interesting then to see how many
bones-and whose- the sea had hidden over the long years. Once
the derro had descended from the fungus garden and the rope was flipped loose
and put away, Wykar took the lead toward their destination. Geppo agreeably
followed a dozen paces behind, saying nothing and studiously ignoring the
lethal advantage his position gave him over the gnome. Instead, he tested the
heft of the gnome's blade and practiced a few shallow swings with it, then slid
it back in his ragged sheath and prepared his crossbow instead. That done, he
watched the walls and ceiling for possible targets as he walked. The gnome
noticed this and gave himself a mental pat on the back. Maybe Geppo would
adhere to the contract after all. He was certainly an odd fellow. Wykar
walked on with confidence, not particularly worried about being shot or stabbed
in the back. He had long ago prepared for that in other circumstances, and he
did not question his current defenses. Still, he would be disappointed if Geppo
turned traitor just now. He would hate having to kill Geppo, even if he was
just a derro. The
gnome's mind wandered as they walked. In the time they had been slaves, Geppo
had said nothing about his past or how he had come to be held by the drow for
what was likely many thousands of sleepings. He sometimes mentioned his father,
but always as a powerful figure, always in the past tense, and always in a way
that rang a little oddly to Wykar. Wykar had eventually asked about Geppo's
father, but his questions were met with sudden silence, a cryptic shrug, or a
change of subject. It was
getting dark again; no glowing fungi clung to the walls in this part of the
tunnel. The deep gnome opened his vest wider to have a clear grab at the
crystal-nosed darts stuck through loops on the outside of his leather armor. As
soon as the weak light from the high fungi had faded, he carefully pulled a
flexible left-hand glove from his belt, put it on, and plucked a hotstone from
inside a thick side pouch. He held the hotstone aloft, testing it. The heat
radiation from the magical stone reflected brightly from the surrounding rocks,
well past the distance that Wykar could throw a war dart. The gnome's
ultrasensitive eyes easily caught the infrared light; it was as good as a
torch, but any creature lacking heat-sensitive vision would see only darkness. Wykar
glanced back and saw Geppo squinting around but making good headway over the
sand and stones nonetheless. The eyes of derros, Wykar had heard, were poorly
adapted to seeing heat; their visual range for that was as far as a child could
pitch a pebble. Hardly tragic, considering their other flaws. Wykar's
mind spun on as they made their trek to the Sea of Ghosts. If Geppo had been a
true person, another svirfneblin, Wykar thought, we would have grasped each
other and wept for joy in that glowing garden. He shook his head. No, that's
wrong. We would never have parted after our escape. We would have been
inseparable. It's as if I were cheated by the gods. If it weren't for having to
get rid of that egg . . . The
deep gnome shook himself. What he had to get rid of were dark thoughts like
these. They weren't doing the situation any good. His thoughts did not
encourage talk between the two as they walked, but too much talk would have
been unwise anyway. They were in a large, open area, and the more quietly they
moved, the longer they would live. Silent hours passed. They rested and ate
only briefly, not stopping for long at any point. Wykar
was meditating on the negative aspects of his plan to get the egg and destroy
it when he heard the derro cough and whisper, "You close here to home,
hey?" The
gnome slowed and waited for Geppo to catch up while swiftly signaling for him
to speak more softly. They then walked on, side by side, with only a couple of
yards between them. Wykar decided he could put up with a little conversation
with a weird derro; they were still two hours from the side tunnel to the sea. "No,"
said Wykar truthfully, then thought and added, "I had to run to get there
and back in time. Didn't mean to be late." Geppo
said nothing in return. Wykar
glanced up at the derro and took a chance. "Is your home around
here?" he asked. Geppo
looked at him blankly, then away again. He shrugged. Wykar had seen that shrug
a hundred times. "Well,
you asked me," said Wykar. "What did you do when I left? Did you find
your people?" Geppo
shrugged again. "Stayed here, blue food cave. Sharp up sword, eat, sleep,
wait you." Wykar
looked up in surprise at the ragged white ex-slave. "You didn't just stay
here, did you?" he said. The
derro waved at the air as if brushing away a fly, but he didn't respond. Wykar
sniffed and rubbed at his large nose. "I thought you would go home and see
your family, your father. Maybe lead a war party back and kill some drow. Have
a little fun." The
derro frowned and shook his head. He took a breath to say something that seemed
to be difficult to get out, then exhaled and shrugged. "Not anything ...
nothing to do," he finally said. Wykar
gave a humorless laugh. "You say you stayed here for ten sleepings and did
nothing but wait for me?" he asked. "No, don't shrug it off. Tell me.
Where did you get the crossbow and your clothes?" Geppo
shot Wykar a brief look and licked his lips. "Dead ones," he said
quietly. "Dead from fight long time ago, close to blue food cave. Geppo
find them, get things." Wykar
nodded. There was nothing wrong with looting a forgotten body. It was standard
practice if you were out on your own and needed every advantage. It was proper
to give a prayer for the spirits of the dead, of course, and sometimes even
thanks for their "gifts," but that was up to the taker. "Two
drow dead," Geppo continued. "One dwarf. Two . . . two gnomes." The
deep gnome blinked and stared at the derro in a new way. "Two gnomes-like
me?" he asked. His voice was cold and flat. The
derro actually appeared frightened, though it was hard to tell. He nodded once,
not looking at Wykar. Then he slowed down, trying to drop back behind Wykar
again, crossbow aimed at the ground as if in shame. Wykar
let him go, but only after sending him a look that should have killed the
derro. The ugly white bastard was looting svirfneblin dead? Wykar stalked on
ahead, enraged and heedless of what Geppo might be doing. He looked back once
in time to see the derro turn his head to the side, as if he'd ilmost been
caught looking at the gnome. It was
half an hour before Wykar gained control of himself again. He should have let
it go. He himself had looted dead svirfneblin, so what did it matter that a
derro did? Well, it did seem to matter in a way, but there was no point in
dwelling on it. Wykar forced himself to stick to watching his surroundings. Few
interesting formations were about. Legions of past visitors to this region had
chiseled away anything of value, and the natural oils from their hands and feet
had ruined further mineral growth. The wide, oval-shaped tunnel was rather
drab, though quite serviceable as an underground road, but it was little used
now. The creation of the Sea of Ghosts had brought the wicked kuo-toa, the
two-legged fish-folk, and their presence had discouraged traffic along the Old
River Path and its surrounding region. Wykar counted on meeting more than a few
fat kuo-toa shortly, but his infrared-vision was better than theirs-he'd see
them long before they saw him. He didn't doubt that his combat skills would be
better than theirs, too. They were mediocre warriors, though big enough to be
hard to kill. Old
kuo-toa were often covered with battle scars, as ugly alive as they were after
a week dead. Wykar
looked down at his wiry, muscular arms, lean but growing strong once more. Even
with his heat-vision, the gnome could see that his hairless gray skin was
crisscrossed with healed-over scars. His back and legs were worse, and lash
marks itched all the time under his armor, especially beneath the thin iron
plate that protected his back and neck. Physically, he would heal completely;
he had no broken limbs or deformities from his captivity, so he counted himself
lucky. At least no damned drow kid had tried to strangle him. But healing was
not so quick for his mind and spirit. Even seeing the death of his former
masters firsthand did not quench his rage at his captivity, nor did knowing
those deaths had been hideously painful for the screaming drow. There was no
forgetting or forgiving. A thousand deaths like theirs would not be enough for
Wykar. Destroying
their precious egg would be a welcome if minor revenge. They had cared for that
egg for many sleepings; whatever it was, if it was precious to a drow, it
deserved to be smashed before it hatched. Their
march went on for four more hours, unbroken by talk, until Wykar recognized
landmarks that indicated they were close to the Sea of Ghosts. He signaled
another break in the walk, just below the stumps of three stalactites that had
formed in a perfect equilateral triangle. Sand crunched softly under their
boots as they shuffled to a halt. Wykar
sighed. He had gotten over the derro's admission of body-robbing, and he hoped
nothing would further strain things between them. "We
have about two hundred feet to go," he whispered, making sure the echo
would not carry to unwelcome ears. "The side tunnel is ahead, around the
corner to the right side of the hall. There are likely to be kuo-toa around,
and we'll have to hit them as hard and quickly as we can unless we're too
outnumbered. We've been lucky so far, but we'll have to-" A loud
crackling noise shot around them, echoing throughout the broad corridor. They
both jumped, taken completely by surprise, and instinctively looked up at the
ceiling. Wykar curled his gloved fingers down around the hotstone and cut off
the heat-glow. They stood in the blackness and listened. "I
heard it," came Geppo's hoarse whisper. "Dragon. Big dragon sound. My
father-" "Shhh."
Wykar shivered. "No, it's not-" A
broken-rock and lightning smell entered Wykar's nostrils. He knew about
lightning from the spells that a few deep-gnome wizards and kuo-toan priests
were able to cast. But if no lightning was around, and the rocks smelled
broken, then- He
suddenly knew. He gasped and sprinted forward, hard and fast. His gloved
fingers opened around the hotstone and held it up as his feet pounded the sandy
ground. The corridor again leapt into bright monochromatic view, infrared
shadows jerking wildly. "Hey
there!" Geppo called behind him. Wykar heard the derro start to run, too. "Earthquake!"
Wykar shouted back at the top of his lungs. It didn't matter now if anyone or
anything heard him. He jumped over a large rock in his path and almost lost his
footing when he came down on loose debris, hurtling on. "Run!" There
was a second cracking sound, much louder than the first. Not yet! Not yet!
begged Wykar in prayer. Dust and rock bits rattled down from the cavern ceiling.
Shadows shifted and jerked in the deep gnome's hurried vision. Perhaps it was a
trick of the poor light, a trick of the dancing shadows as he ran, but Wykar
didn't think so. Heartbeats, heartbeats left, he thought. The tunnel to the
underground sea was narrow enough for shelter, well supported at its entrance. He saw
the final bend in the cavern ahead before the tunnel came to the Sea of Ghosts.
The air was thick with the frightening broken-rock smell, the ceiling dust
drifting slowly about now like Ghost Sea mist. There were new smells,
too-moisture, dead fish, rich fields of fungus. The Sea of Ghosts. He might
make it. The fishy odor was particularly strong. The
narrow tunnel to the sea appeared around the corner. Something
tall and warm was in front of the tunnel already, half visible and obviously
waiting for him. That something stepped out and made a windmilling motion with
its arm in Wykar's direction. It had seen his infrared-bright hotstone and
heard his shouts. Wykar
threw himself forward into a roll. Bits of sharp floor debris stabbed into his
back and neck. He lost the hotstone. An object whispered through the air over
him, clattering hard against the far wall. Harpoon, Wykar thought. Wykar
came up on his knees from the roll, snatching two darts from inside his vest.
He hurled them, right hand and left. The hotstone, on the floor three yards
away, revealed a tall, fat figure less than thirty feet ahead as it hurriedly
raised another spear. The darts struck it first and burst into sprays of
crystal fragments, releasing a pale gas. The
tall creature hissed like a steam vent, staggering back as it coughed sharply
on the gas. The kuo-toan waved its long arms in an effort to clear its vision
and throw its next harpoon. Wykar reached for his blade, but hesitated when he
realized he was grabbing the weapon belonging to Geppo. It didn't matter; he
pulled it out, got to his feet, and charged. If he could just close before- There
was a whiz to Wykar's left, and a soft thump from the tall creature's stomach.
It stepped back with a long wheezing sigh, a crossbow bolt protruding from its
midsection. A second thump put a bolt right between the creature's goggle eyes.
The kuo-toan shook violently, mouth open impossibly wide, then fell forward
with a heavy crash to quiver softly on the ground. Wykar
halted and looked back. He saw Geppo lower his short crossbow and hurry toward
him. The derro's broad, black-toothed grin was visible even at a distance. "All-damn
kuo-toa!" the derro roared gleefully as Wykar quickly seized his hotstone
again. "Eat that, all-damn k-" The derro was seized with a spasm of
deep, racking coughs, and his run slowed into a halting gait. Wykar reached out
to seize the derro's arm and propel him toward the cavern to the Ghost Sea. A
rumbling sound, louder and deeper and longer than a thunderclap, shook the cave
floor like a drum. It crescendoed and did not stop. Geppo and Wykar staggered
and almost fell. "It's
the-" began Wykar. With a
cracking groan so loud it filled the world, the cave walls rippled and shifted
and rocked back and forth. Stony layers split open, clouds of dust sprayed,
boulders tore free of ceilings and walls. Wykar clearly saw it all in the
heat-glow, though he was deafened and momentarily paralyzed with a terror that
surpassed anything in his worst nightmares. He caught the derro's arm in his
right hand and ran for the two-yard-wide side tunnel. He almost reached it. A sheet
of ceiling rock slammed flat against the ground to Wykar's left, the impact
blowing him over like a leaf. Sand and dust fell through the semidarkness.
Wykar got up and staggered forward over shattered rock, falling twice more.
Geppo was gone. Wykar no longer cared. The
battered gnome was on the verge of entering the tunnel mouth when he fumbled
and dropped the hot-stone again. Near darkness enveloped him. He staggered on,
shielding his eyes from flying debris. His outstretched fingers touched a cold
cavern wall; he turned right. Something warm was close to him, he saw that, but
dust got in his eyes and pain stabbed his corneas, blinding him. A heartbeat
later, he smelled the unmistakable odor of rancid fish-and ran nose-first into
the wet, slimy stomach of an enormous live creature-another kuo-toan. Wykar
stabbed at the creature blindly. He wasn't even aware that he had pulled a
dagger out of his boot. A moment later, the kuo-toan was gone. He lurched
forward on the trembling ground and tripped once more, falling flat and banging
his large nose hard on sharp, broken rocks. The pain caused him to scream; his
stinging eyes ran anew with tears. The dagger fell and was gone. Then Wykar
took a deep whiff of something that filled his lungs like smoking magma. He
hunched up on the ground, coughing and gasping as each breath stabbed his lungs
with fire. A crystal-nosed dart on his armor had broken open when he had
fallen, choking him with its gas. Deep
gnomes are a pragmatic people. That does not keep them from cursing the
unfairness of death, and Wykar gasped out a string of curses himself as he waited
for a crushing blow from a quake-loosened stone to strike the life from him in
the bleak hell of the earthquake. He hoped death would be quick. The gas from
the broken dart was the pits. * *
* The
short, violent shock rocked every floor, wall, and ceiling of Raurogh's Hall,
as if the earth had come to life and breathed in for the first time. Ragged
cracks burst open in walls facing the direction of the shock, then closed as
the earth swayed back and split the opposite walls wide with deafening roars.
Carved ceilings crumbled; walls of bas-relief broke. Rock fragments fell over
all, and the air was a cloud of choking dust that clogged noses, mouths, and
lungs. The
fisher dwarf slipped and fell on damp rock when the shock hit, dropping the
gaff with which she had banged out the alert. Scrambling fingers seized the
fishing net she had flung aside as she slid on her stomach toward the river;
the net snagged itself on a foot-long iron bolt driven into the cave floor.
This saved her life. In the
next instant, the River Raurogh sloshed over the fisher dwarf's head and
carried her off with it, flooding the riverside tunnels as the shock flung it
sideways out of its ancient bed. Clinging to the net, the dwarf collided
painfully with a stone bench in the hall. Then, as the earth jerked in the
opposite direction, she was washed back out again onto the stone bank of the
river, and the water rushed back into its channel. It was
then that the fisher dwarf heard a monstrous roar tear through the river tunnel
from the direction of the falls, a sound as great as if the cavern were the
throat of a wild beast. She turned her head to look. It was the moment when the
Eastern Shaar hunter far above lowered his bow, when the sorceress in her tower
glared, when the old shepherd looked up from his knife and flute. A
magical lantern had been washed out into the river from the dwarves' hall, and
in its light the fisher dwarf saw the entire ceiling of the silo break free, a
monstrous plate of rock twenty yards thick. It dropped swiftly past the top of
the falls and out of sight. The dwarf looked on in amazement. She remembered
the legend of the foolish dwarf. Her lips moved. "One," she
whispered. "Two-" An
enormous, screaming wind awoke around her. It hurled water, tools, buckets,
lanterns, and nets toward the falls, everything it could seize in its shrieking
teeth. The wind savaged the dwarf as she gripped the fishing net with gnarled
fingers; she felt the net's worn strands give and break apart. Freezing rain
whipped at her face. The river danced and shook in the fury. Four, she thought,
head down, eyes shut. Five. Six. The
hurricane blast eased and faded as swiftly as it had come. The partial vacuum
created by the ceiling collapse was filled. Chilled to the bone, the fisher
dwarf shivered and clung to the ruined net, unable to pull herself up. The
wind's last howls echoed in her ears, following the great rock plate down into
the light-lost abyss of the Deepfall. The
fisher dwarf was oblivious to all but her numbers, waiting for the great stone
to reach the end of its endless fall. She had been cautious every day of her
life. She would not lose her place in the legends now. Eleven.
Twelve. Thirteen . . . The
thunder dwindled slowly from every direction. Wykar heard himself shouting
hysterical pleas and prayers to Garl, chief god of the gnomes. His pleas turned
into sobs and coughs, then ended as he got control of himself again. He lay
exhausted on his stomach, arms covering his head, and did nothing but cough on
the thick dust and the overpowering stench of rotting fish. A
distant boom rolled down the great cavern corridor as part of a wall or ceiling
split off and collapsed far away. The deep rattling of a rockslide could be
heard afterward as the ground trembled slightly. Then the noise died into real
silence. A few seconds after that, Wykar realized that the earthquake was over. The
gnome reached up with his right hand and gingerly felt his injured nose.
Touching a particularly sore spot brought more sudden tears to his eyes, but a
careful examination revealed that his nose was only bleeding and dirty, not
broken. Thank you, Garl, he thought. He couldn't imagine life with a broken
nose. It was too awful to conceive; better to be crippled. He sighed with
relief and began brushing bits of rock off his nose and face. Something
groaned and stirred in the debris, very close to him. Wykar wiped his eyes on
his right arm a sat up. Loose debris fell from his head and back.
"Geppo?" he called. He
smelled rancid fish. Damn, he thought, fumbling fo" his blade hilt. The
heat-glow of a huge, pudgy creature arose from the thick dust and debris,
barely two yards away. Wykar scrambled back, ignoring the pain. Though its skin
was lukewarm, the creature was bleeding profusely, and its warm blood
illuminated it clearly in Wykar's heat-sensitive vision. The being rose up on
its hands and knees to survey the ruins of the great corridor. It hissed as it
did. It was
the kuo-toan Wykar had stabbed only a few moments before. The creature sucked in
a great lungful of air, its gills slapping wetly against the sides of its
goggle-eyed head. One of the huge eyes rolled in Wykar's direction and fixed on
him. The kuo-toan hissed again, louder and sharper. Its mouth opened as it
turned; it was so close that Wykar could see the individual needle teeth in its
lower jaw. The
kuo-toan lurched at the gnome, mouth opened to bite. Wykar threw himself to the
side at the last moment and swung his right fist at the kuo-toan's head in a
roundhouse punch. He hit it squarely in its huge left eye. With a
loud gasp, the fish-creature jumped back, one long webbed hand clutching at its
injured eye. It lunged forward to grab the gnome, but by then Wykar had seized
the handle of the derro's long blade and pulled it free. He swung for the
monster's thin-boned arm and connected with a solid thump. With
another gasping scream, the kuo-toan jerked back, waving the stump of its
severed right arm. Wykar swiftly got to his feet. The derro's knife was
incredibly sharp. He knew he would have to kill the stupid fish-man now,
though. He bit his lower lip and steeled himself, then moved in to finish the
job. Fast as
the gnome was, he had not even touched the kuo-toan when the creature shuddered
violently, its back arched in a spasm and its head reared back to give the
ceiling a pop-eyed stare. It wheezed out a long, final sigh as it fell
backward. As it did, Geppo adroitly stepped out of its way. His left fist was
clenched around the hilt of Wykar's blood-covered blade. Geppo
was panting and bleeding profusely from a scalp wound, but seemed unharmed
otherwise. His blood was warmer than the kuo-toan's, so he was much brighter;
his face shone like a lantern. Wykar lowered his weapon and looked around. A
rumbling ran through the great corridor in the distance; the cave floor
vibrated slightly through the sand. Aftershock, thought Wykar. It would be best
to leave the open cave quickly. The
deep gnome produced a second hotstone from his belt pouch and held it aloft. He
and Geppo paused to survey the damage to the main passageway. The floor was
littered with split rocks and boulders torn from the cave walls. The dust had
settled; the air smelled of shattered stone and stirred earth. Going back the
way they'd come would be hard, indeed. Wykar hoped the trip hadn't now become
one-way. He then looked down and saw only an arm and a foot were left of the
first kuo-toan they had fought, the rest of the creature messily flattened to
the thickness of a mica flake beneath a thick stone slab. Wykar
checked the narrow passage toward the Sea of Ghosts. It seemed solid even now,
though the floor was a foot deep in debris and most of the tiny ceiling
formations were broken off. He could see only a half-dozen yards into the
narrow passage before it curved around a bend. Surprises were certain to lie
beyond. He
muttered a dark curse. The only other tunnel to the Sea of Ghosts was two
sleepings away by foot, and time was against them. He considered calling off
the whole thing and fleeing for his life. How did he know the earthquake hadn't
buried or broken the egg now? And the sea would be in violent turmoil after the
shock. If the
vast, arched roof over the sea had held-and there was good reason to think it
had, since the sound of its falling would have been quite noticeable through
the tunnel-the kuo-toa there would be more active than ever. Wykar and Geppo
had just fought two gogglers who had walked out of the tunnel; a thousand more
might await them on the shoreline on the other end. The whole plan was ruined. He
tapped the derro's battered weapon against his bare leg, then thought better of
it and stopped before he cut himself badly. Everything was quiet now. Perhaps
it wouldn't hurt to just take a peek and see what was going on, for curiosity's
sake. He motioned to the derro, who had finished cleaning his blade, and with
great care and many looks at the ceiling, they stepped into the side tunnel. The
tunnel had survived in good condition. It curved back and forth for two hundred
feet, once an outflowing stream from a formerly higher Sea of Ghosts. Inch-wide
cracks showed all the way through the tunnel, legacies of the quake. At one
point, the gnome and derro were forced to climb over the crushed remains of
another three kuo-toa, half-buried when the ceiling gave way over a three-yard
section. Wykar nearly gave up at that point, but he steeled himself and moved
on, steadily avoiding a close look at the smashed skull of an unlucky kuo-toan.
The fishy stench was incredible, and he swallowed several times to keep from
vomiting. A few
yards past that point, only a bend away from the opening to the great chamber
of the sea, Wykar felt a cool breeze against his face. He stopped short, taken
aback. No wind had ever stirred the Sea of Ghosts, as far as he knew, but now
he was certain he could feel one. A rumbling noise in the distance that Wykar
had ignored was now louder, too. It might be a short aftershock, but the ground
was not trembling. Something else was going on. Wykar suspected he was in great
danger. He felt it by instinct rather than by reason, but the sense was too
powerful to shake off. He looked back at the derro, who merely frowned and
stared back in puzzlement. Wykar
couldn't think of anything to say that would make sense. He turned again and
took a few steps toward the tunnel opening. The
sharp crack of breaking rock sounded through the entire tunnel. It came from
directly above the gnome's head. Wykar's nerve broke. He threw himself into a
dead run for the open sea cave. Cold mist settled on his nose, cheeks, and the
exposed skin on his arms and legs. It was Ghost Sea fog, stirred by a rising
breeze. Wykar
saw a kuo-toan with a harpoon at the tunnel mouth. It had turned to look back
at the Ghost Sea, surprised by the loud rumbling throughout the great cavern.
Its body was clearly outlined by green light falling on it from above. The
kuo-toan had only enough time to turn back and see Wykar before the gnome's
sword chopped into the goggler's right leg. The creature gasped and twisted as
it fell facedown, thigh muscles cut down to the bone. The inhuman cries ended
with its next breath as the derro jammed a blade into the creature's back,
through its lung and heart. Thunder
and gusts of wind now flew all across the sea from every direction. A chorus of
goggler cries arose downslope at the water's edge, barely fifteen yards from
the tunnel exit that Wykar had fled. Wykar heard them but ignored everything
that didn't contribute to his immediate escape. He ran to the left and went
upslope the instant after he attacked the kuo-toan, weaving his way around
numerous large boulders. His boots pounded uphill at a rapid pace beneath his
short, stocky legs. Geppo would have to keep up or defend himself alone. Wykar
recalled that the tunnel opened about two-thirds of the way down a great slope
that ended at the edge of the dark sea. Thirty yards up the slope at its top
was a narrow path through the many rocks that had fallen over the ages from the
cavern ceiling. The path
had probably been created by deep gnomes many thousands of sleepings ago. If
the earthquake had not damaged the area severely, Wykar and Geppo could use the
path to escape the area by running around its perimeter, and thus reach their
final destination. The ceiling was low along the pathway, too, and would slow
pursuit by the tall fish-folk. The
gnome ran low to the ground, so hunched over he seemed bent in half. Hurrying
up the slope and almost panting now, he saw a familiar rock that marked part of
the high trail. He looked back just long enough to see Geppo stamping up
rapidly behind him, only four yards back. The gnome then fled off along the
path. Visibility
was only fair. The ever-present fog on the Sea of Ghosts usually clung to the
surface of the black underground lake, rarely traveling inland. However, green
tendrils of the mist now whirled in the fungus-lit air ahead of the gnome.
Wykar had heard tales that the thick mist came from a broad silo in the ceiling
over the center of the sea, perhaps a mile away. A river or lake far above
apparently drained into the silo, perhaps as far up as the world's true
surface. The vast quantities of water turned into a heavy spray over the long
fall. The kuo-toa were said to enjoy the cool fog there, and sometimes things
from above fell into the sea and were swiftly taken as treasure or food. "Wait!"
The desperate voice barely carried to Wykar's ears as he ran. He dared to stop
and look back. Geppo had fallen farther behind him and appeared to be tiring.
The derro suddenly banged his head on a low place in the overhanging ceiling
and fell to his knees, grabbing at his injured forehead with a whimpering cry. Wykar
swore aloud. He ran back, grabbed one of the pale dwarf's arms, and dragged him
to his feet. "Run!" he shouted in Geppo's ear. Fresh streaks of hot
blood streaming down his face, the derro wheezed and stumbled forward. It was
harder now to negotiate the path. Wykar banged his left knee and shin
repeatedly into rocks. He fought down the pain and struggled to keep the derro
on his feet. A gust of wind then blew a thick curtain of fog over the pathway
and the two runners. Wykar slowed too quickly, got his right leg entangled in
the derro's left leg, and the two fell in a heap among the rock chips and dirt
on the pathway. Cursing
angrily, the deep gnome forced himself back to his feet. His hands reached down
and snatched at the groaning derro's prone body. A
sudden crackling of thunder swept rapidly over the two; then an explosion of
noise burst against Wykar's eardrums, a stupendous sound different from all
others and many orders of magnitude louder. Wykar's head jerked toward the
source of the almighty racket, somewhere across the Sea of Ghosts. Then he
slapped his hands to the sides of his head and ducked, ears ringing with pain.
His teeth were clenched as tight as the jaws of a vice. Echoes of the explosion
crashed and rolled everywhere. He could see nothing now but a churning riot of
cold green mist, whipped by howling winds. What
was happening? What was going on? Wykar
suddenly knew for sure that he had made a fatal mistake. He should have
abandoned the trip at its start, fled to his real home instead of trying to
play hero or get revenge. It was too late now. It was probably going to be very
unpleasant to die, he knew, and he probably wouldn't have to wait long for it
to happen. Blinking
stupidly, Wykar let go of his aching ears and shuffled forward, squinting
through the mists. He had the oddest sensation of being completely carefree.
Geppo called for help from the ground, but Wykar ignored him and strained his
senses to their limits, searching for any clue of what was to come. He did
not have long to wait. Even with the blast ringing on in his ears, he could
hear death approaching. It was a sound he had never heard in all his years of
traveling the Underdark around the Sea of Ghosts. It was like thunder but lower
in register. It made his bones tremble. "Wave's
coming," said Wykar. He tried to remember how high the slope was here, how
far it was down to the shore. The blowing green fog, high winds, and lack of
landmarks made him give up. He looked down at Geppo, who was slowly getting to
his hands and knees. Wind whipped at their clothes, moaning like an army of
ghosts. Wykar
took Geppo by an arm again, gently this time. "We have to hurry," he said
aloud, above the wind's blast. Geppo muttered something into the stray hairs of
his beard. One of the words sounded like hooret. Wykar had heard the word years
ago during his long explorations of the Underdark. Hooret was the derro word
for poison. With
the gnome's assistance, the two walked on at a quick pace. The path ran upward
in a shallow grade from here, which the gnome was glad to see: the higher, the
better. The low rumbling was very loud now. Wykar could feel a steady vibration
through the packed soil of the path. Cold droplets ran down his face and arms
from the thick mist settling on his skin. Higher,
the gnome prayed. Higher. Higher. Now to
the sound of the low rumbling was added a new noise, that of water crashing on
water. The wave was almost at the shore. Wykar stopped and released Geppo; the
derro fell to the ground again. Snatching at the tools hanging from his belt,
Wykar swiftly drove a steel T-headed spike into the largest rock he could find
within reach. Throwing the mallet aside, he pulled his climbing rope free from
his belt and looped the small noose at one end around the T-head of the spike,
pulling it tight. He reached down and grabbed the woozy derro by his black belt
just as the water-on-water crashing sound turned into water-on-rock. With
hardly any time following that, a foaming wall of cold, black water burst up
through the green-lit fog and slammed into both of them. Wykar
was thrown wildly by the churning, stinking flood. His left arm was nearly
pulled from its socket when the wave hit, and the rope tore at his numb
fingers. The derro was a dead weight that stretched his other arm almost to
breaking. The freezing water stank abominably of dead things and goggler slime.
Some of it got into the deep gnome's mouth and nose; he choked violently,
almost letting go of the rope and Geppo both. Then
the churning water rushed back over the rocks, cascading downslope again to the
sea. Wykar's right arm was pressed so hard against a rocky edge that he was
forced to let go of Geppo. He let go of the rope next, unable to grip anything
through the sea slime. Instead of being washed away, he merely thumped down
against the top of a flat rock. Coughing, he tried to roll over on his back but
fell off the rock instead, dropping several feet to the ground. There he choked
and vomited up foul water until he had the dry heaves and could barely breathe
at all. The sea
thundered in his ears, waves crashing into rocks and each other. The echoes
rang from every direction, even from above. He could barely hear his own gasps
for air. Enough,
he thought, enough throwing up already. Panting
and on his last reserves of energy, the gnome managed to get up on his wobbly
hands and knees. He then sat upright to get a look around at his immediate
vicinity. It came to his mind to call for Geppo, and he opened his mouth to
form the word. It
never happened. The blood ran from his head. His eyes rolled up; he fell over
backward and knew nothing more. Something
slapped Wykar's face. He was so numb that he hardly felt the blow. Clumsy hands
tugged on his leather clothing and pulled at his belt and tools. He lifted a
hand feebly, and the tugging ceased. He
lurched into partial consciousness and almost immediately threw up again. He
started to choke, but turned on his side, just in time. When he finished
coughing and sputtering, he looked around, taking short, shallow breaths. He
was shivering from cold. A thin,
dwarflike figure stood out in his heat-vision. Wykar saw a relieved grin on the
figure's thin, bearded face. "Not
dead yet, hey?" said Geppo shakily, voice rising above the roaring of the
sea. His rotting teeth were clenched together as he spoke. The derro looked
down briefly at an object in his trembling left hand, then tossed it to the
rocky ground in front of Wykar's face. It was one of the gnome's combat darts,
its glass head broken away. "Water broke gnome throw-toy," he
finished, the grin a bit broader. "Broke Geppo crossbow, lost arrows. But
Geppo have gnome sword!" He patted the hilt of Wykar's weapon, still safe
in its sheath. Wykar
managed to sit up, leaning back against a rock with his back facing downslope.
He left the useless dart where it had fallen. No doubt all of his stun-gas
darts were broken by now. He resisted the urge to check over all his
possessions to see if the derro had stolen anything. "Good for you,"
he said hoarsely. He tried to stop shivering. Geppo
jerked his head in the direction from which they had been fleeing. His ugly
grin disappeared. "Geppo not hear fish-heads talk. Water push them away,
kill them, maybe. We go red place and run home fast, hey?" His colorless
eyes flicked toward the noisy sea, over Wykar's shoulder. Wykar
absorbed the news and half turned to peek at the sea. His view was blocked by
other rocks, and he sat back against the stone, hugging himself. "We
should get out of here," he agreed. "We'll dry out if we keep moving
and build up more body heat." With an
effort, he pushed himself up on unsteady feet, still careful to keep his head
low in case some kuo-toa were around. He carefully checked his gear, though he
was unsure if it really made any difference now. "You know," he said
conversationally, "you could at least thank me for saving your life." Geppo
stopped checking his own gear and stiffened. He eyed the gnome in puzzlement,
then anger. "You say Geppo give you golds now, hey?" he snarled,
voice rising. He suddenly spat on the sea-washed ground. "There are golds
for you. Take and spend them. Geppo not owe you golds for save life. Have no
golds, not for you." The derro stood back, legs and arms trembling
curiously. His left hand strayed near the hilt of Wykar's blade, sheathed at
his side. Wykar
stared back in confusion and his own rising anger. He realized the derro had
completely misunderstood him. Maybe derro regarded gratitude as some kind of
monetary debt that they extorted from others of their kind. He snorted in
disgust, his own self-control slipping. So the derro wanted to threaten Wykar
because he didn't know what "thank you" meant? Fine. Barbarism was
all that could be expected from brainless derro scum. "Forget it," he
muttered, looking down again at his belt equipment. He threw away two other
darts with smashed crystal noses. He had one good one left. "I don't want
any damn gold from you. That's not what giving thanks means, you stupid .
.." He
suddenly seized the last good dart, jerked it free from his armor, and threw it
out toward the sea as hard as he could. "All the gods damn your kind! Damn
them all!" he shouted as he did. He fought down the urge to add another
dozen pithy comments, very personal ones. He drew a ragged breath instead, and
wiped his face and nose with a cold, wet hand. "Just forget it," he
said tiredly, turning away. "Forget everything. Just come on." He
walked off, face burning with buried rage. He marched about fifty paces before
he looked back in anger, hearing nothing behind him. Geppo stood in place with
an astonished expression, hands now limp at his sides. The tremor in his thin
limbs seemed more pronounced. "Let's
move!" Wykar hissed, sweeping a hand toward their goal. "I want no
thanks from you! Just move!" Geppo's
hands twitched. His head suddenly bowed, and he began walking in Wykar's
direction as if he had suddenly aged by a century. Wykar turned and set off on
the path again himself, the steam cooling on his anger. It took many long
minutes for Wykar to regain control of his temper and think clearly again. He
then became angry with himself. What if some kuo-toan or sea monster had
overheard him? He would have regretted his outburst then. And he couldn't
afford to lose the derro for anything if he hoped to get to that egg. He could
not afford to throw a fit at every quirk in the derro's behavior. It was hard
not to take things personally, as badly as the impulsive journey had turned
out, but only a clear head had a chance to win anything good from this. Wykar
rubbed his face until he thought he would take the skin off. He eventually
relaxed and let most of the tension go by breathing deeply and focusing on listening
for enemies in the landscape ahead. He looked back and saw the derro marching
on behind him, not looking up. That
derro has to be the most stupid one alive, he thought. But I guess that was
what I needed, wasn't it? This plan had better work. They walked
on over rough terrain for about six miles until it was long past sleeping
again, but Wykar was too wound up for rest. The
remainder of the journey had not been uneventful. The great wave had washed the
bodies of many creatures onto the rocky shoreline, once-living things of the
sort that should have remained hidden from view. Some of the creatures were
still in the process of dying when Wykar and Geppo carefully and quietly
skirted their quivering, obscene bulks. Several monsters slapped at the rocky
shore with weakened fins, straining uselessly to drag themselves back into the
sea, or exposed huge mouths of dagger teeth as they gasped out their lives with
water only yards away. Wykar noted as well, a few mangled body parts from
unfortunate kuo-toa, who had probably been ground against rocks or even the
cavern ceiling by the great wave when it started out. He bit his lips and
turned his head away, feeling no sympathy for them. A
second, smaller wave, quickly followed by a third, soon roared up the bleak
shoreline, but neither wave had the power or reach of the first. After that,
the sea cavern was filled with the rumbling of rough water, which went on
without end. Worse, the violent sea had stirred up its two-legged inhabitants.
Twice, the pair was forced to charge and fight through small groups of live
kuo-toa that blocked their way. The fish-folk were confused and often injured,
but there was always the danger that a lucky throw with a harpoon or random
slash with a long knife would leave the gnome or derro as badly off as the
writhing monsters they had passed on the shore. In the
pair's favor, the thick, drifting mist from the sea enabled the gnome and derro
to make an escape without fear of being followed. The kuo-toa, still stunned
from the earthquake and sea wave, were also not inclined to pursue, hurling
only two or three badly aimed harpoons before subsiding in confusion. In
time, Wykar saw a faint reddish-purple glow far ahead as he rounded a bend in
the wall to his left. He knew immediately that the journey was almost over. The
glow illuminated a region where the rocky shore swung inland away from the sea,
perhaps two hundred yards or more, to end in a high wall marked by several
vertical rifts from floor to ceiling. The Red Shore, the drow had called it. Wykar
stopped, signaled Geppo to take cover behind a fallen rock, and began scouting
the area before them. Nothing registered as important-but that was exactly what
the drow slave masters had thought as well, eleven sleepings ago. They had missed
a critical thing and had died for their omission, The
red-purple glow came from a large colony of wall fungus, many yards square,
that coated both sides of a broad, wet fissure large enough for a group of drow
to gather inside. An underground stream leaking down from above kept the area
moist. Memories
came to Wykar at once. Eleven sleepings ago, a group of drow had chosen a spot
deep within the vertical fissure to bury the large chest that they and their
two slaves had brought with them. They had handed Wykar and Geppo each a small
pick and told them to dig. The smirking drow then stood around the ragged pair
and prodded them with boot tips and sword points, urging them on with their
work while describing their individual ideas on how each slave should die when
the job was finished. The drow had been perfectly serious; they intended for no
one to reveal the hiding place later on. After time-consuming tortures and a
slow execution, the derro and gnome would be animated by magic as undead
guardians, to be buried with the chest and its egg for eternity-or until the
drow elected to move the chest to another spot. Wykar
rubbed his eyes and pushed the memory aside. After a few moments, he
reconsidered and deliberately brought the memory of those last moments back to
the surface, focusing on its details with all the detachment he could summon.
He had to think his way through what had happened next, break it down and study
every piece, if he was to finish the task he had set for himself. Silently,
Geppo crouched down a short distance from the deep gnome and also surveyed the
land ahead. The two had not spoken for many hours, but the earlier argument was
already pushed aside. It was not the time and place for quarreling now. "I
was trying to remember what happened before the moaning sound started,"
murmured Wykar, frowning. "They were making jokes about opening the chest
and spitting on the egg and locking us inside with it, and I didn't understand
why that was so funny to them-the spitting part." He glanced at Geppo, who
said nothing. Wykar
shrugged and looked back at the reddish-purple glow. "Then that sound
started, that loud, piercing groan that went on and on and on, and it dug right
down into my gut. I saw the drow clap their hands over their ears and shout at
each other, and one or two drew swords, but they dropped them. I couldn't see
what was making the noise. I was sick to my stomach to be listening to it. My
hands shook so much that I dropped the pick, and I was terrified the drow would
kill me for dropping it. But I couldn't help it. My stomach was cramped up like
I was going to vomit. I covered my ears, but that didn't help me, either." He
paused and swallowed before continuing. "A male drow, I think it was
Deriander the wizard, fell down over me, screaming like a banshee. We were all
screaming by then. I got up again and saw that Deriander had gone rigid and was
shaking. His muscles were like iron ropes, hard as rocks. They all looked like
that, all six of the drow. But I could still move. I couldn't figure it
out." Wykar turned to his companion. "That was when you hit Sarlaena
with your pick. You hit her in the legs several times before she fell down, and
I had this strange thought that she couldn't feel a thing you were doing. I
thought she was screaming from something else." He looked back at the
unearthly glow. "I fell over the lesser priestess and was getting up to
escape when the cloakers got us." The
gnome's hands trembled at the memory. "I saw one of the cloakers fall from
somewhere up on the ceiling. It looked like a white square. I knew what it was
from stories that my people used to tell, but I had never seen one before. I
knew then that cloakers were making the moaning noise that we heard, paralyzing
and trapping the drow. Then I saw a large mouth open in the middle of the
cloaker where nothing had been, a mouth with teeth, and two glassy eyes opened
above it. It landed on Xerzanein's back and wrapped around him while he was
still standing up, screaming and holding his ears. It was like a living cape,
black as jet, squeezing Xerzanein so tightly I could see each of his fingers
trying to claw through. Xerzanein had his mouth open, but I couldn't hear him
through the cloaker cries all around." The
gnome swallowed again, his voice even quieter. "I could see the cloaker's
mouth on Xerzanein's back, biting into his shoulders and neck. Every drow had a
cloaker then. Sarlaena had one wrapped around her that was biting through her
gut, chewing at her as she kicked and kicked, trying to scream. She flopped and
twisted on the ground like a fish. Then something touched me on the back-"
Wykar shivered violently and rubbed his shoulders, looking down at the ground. Distant
thunder rolled over the Sea of Ghosts. "It's
strange," he said, "but I don't really remember running away. I
remember talking with you afterward, a bit of it anyway. I had it in mind even
then that we had to go back and destroy the egg. If the drow thought it was so
valuable and wanted to hide it, then it was too important to leave alone. They
would have broken any egg that would hatch something good. I knew we had to
destroy it, but I had no idea how we were going to go about it. I didn't want
it to sit there for some other drow to find. But I didn't want to talk about
things then; I just wanted you to meet me later when we could talk about it. I
just wanted to get away and run and run." "You
ran to your people," said Geppo after a pause. Wykar
slowly shook his head, mildly surprised he would admit to this. "No. I
didn't go back. I lied about that. I stayed away and hid by myself. My people
are miles and miles off. I hid by myself and raided some caches of weapons,
armor, food, and clothes I'd made for myself long ago. I just hid. I don't know
what I was thinking for a while." He flashed an empty smile. "I just
wanted to be by myself, to get myself back together again. I was never very
close to anyone. I'm an orphan. I always kept to myself and did what I wanted
to do. I explored places, and that was enough for me. Exploring and being alone." He
looked back at the red-purple glow. "That was how the drow caught me, you
know. I was exploring, and they ambushed me with nets and clubs. Beat me until
I was almost broken, dragged me back like a food lizard to their commune. You
probably remember what I looked like then. You were already there." He
chewed on his lower lip, squinting at the glow, then suddenly turned to Geppo.
"How did they ever catch you?" he asked. The
derro blinked, then looked away. He covered his mouth with one hand, stroking
his scraggly mustache. Wykar looked away at the glow again. "My
f-my people sold me," Geppo said suddenly. He started to say more, but
stopped. He didn't look at Wykar. "Sold
you?" Wykar said, stunned. "Sold you to the drow?" Geppo
stroked his mustache and nodded. The heat from his face increased visibly. He
made an odd brush-away gesture with his hand, then kept toying with his
mustache. "Why?"
Wykar asked. Geppo's
face seemed to sag like melting wax. He bowed his head and blew out heavily. He
smiled as if the news were of no consequence and spoke slowly. "Geppo not.
. . Geppo have no ... no magic like True-Masters-what you say derro. No magic
in Geppo, all empty. Lose magic when born, maybe. Geppo, True-Masters not know
why. Geppo not know how make magic go from hands, go from head. True-Masters,
they have magic, magic for conquer, kill, but . . ." He shrugged and
spread his hands. "Empty," he said. Wykar
swallowed. "Your clan sold you for that? Didn't your father stop-"
The truth dawned. He bit off his words, too late. Geppo
coughed, then held his thin hands up to his eyes, surveying his fingers and
palms as if they were keepsakes of no value. "Father," he said,
smiling again. "Father very angry. He say, Geppo shame upon all clan for
have no magic. Father say, Geppo slave now. Geppo talk like slave. Geppo tell
truth like slave. Geppo work, be slave, then Father angry more and say, out! He
sell Geppo. Drow slave." He shrugged, his voice a monotone. His eyes
glistened as he looked at the ground. "True-Masters, drow, all gone now.
Geppo have no magic, but Geppo here, all good, hey." He sighed, all the
wind going out of him. "Get golds now," he said, his voice tired.
"Tell me now how we get golds and egg. Tell secret plan now. Talk too
much." Wykar
looked away, the sound of the Sea of Ghosts in his ears. "Well," he
said at last, "I thought we would just walk into that crack in the wall
there and take them." The
derro stared at Wykar and snorted in disbelief, his face heating with anger
once more. Before Geppo could say a word, however, Wykar reached back and dug
his fingers into a slit on the inside of the back of his belt. The rings were
still there, the rings he had taken from the body of a long-dead svirfneblin.
He fished them out. The derro was a terrible looter, if that was what he had
been doing earlier. Wykar
handed one ring to the derro. As he did, a sudden heat arose in Wykar's face
and stung his eyes. He fought against it, refusing to acknowledge it at all. He
almost took back the ring. His fingers trembled as if they knew what they were
about to do. "Don't
put this on yet," said Wykar, struggling to keep his voice as steady as
before. He did not dare look Geppo in the face. "These rings will make us
invisible. The cloakers won't see us at all. Whatever we pick up will
disappear, too, so we can carry things off, right out from under them. If the
cloakers come after us, just run back here. They won't be able to see you, but
you have to move carefully over loose stones, or they can find you that way.
They can still hear you even if you are invisible. Do you understand?" He
dared to look at the derro's face. White eyes huge, Geppo stared down at the
plain golden band in his thin fingers. Something was going on in his mind,
though. Wykar could see that clearly. Even
through the fires of his shame. Geppo's
hand closed over the ring. He looked up, eyes avoiding Wykar's, then he looked
down at his fist again. "Yes,"
whispered Geppo. Then: "Thank you." No,
don't say that, Wykar thought in horror. No. Think of the egg. This is the only
way. It is the only way. Wykar
held out his right hand, fingers spread. His hand shook as if it were cold, but
he pretended not to see it. "I'm going to put my ring on," he said
hoarsely. "Your people are like mine, a little, because we are resistant
to magic more than other folk. Sometimes these rings work for us, sometimes
they don't. We have to keep trying until they do." With that, Wykar slid
his ring on the middle finger of his left hand. And he
vanished. Invisible. He shivered when it happened. He would never get used to
that. Geppo flinched and, with what looked like open fear, watched the spot
where Wykar had been. It was fear of abandonment, Wykar instinctively knew, not
fear of magic. "It's
okay," said Wykar softly. "I'm still here. I'm invisible. You must
have seen magic like this before somewhere. This is our magic now. Okay, now,
you put your ring on." Geppo
looked around for the source of the bodiless voice, as if he thought Wykar were
going to reappear. When that didn't happen, he looked down at his own ring,
then carefully put it on. Wykar
continued watching the derro, who examined his still-visible hand in confusion.
"Try it again," said Wykar, gaining his nerve by talking.
"That's your natural magic resistance. Take the ring off, put it down on
the ground, then pick it up and try again." Geppo
did as he was told. As he put the ring on the second time, he gasped aloud in
amazement, mouth open wide. He turned his hands over in front of his face,
marveling at the sight of them, then looked at the rest of his body and
possessions. His face radiated purest awe. Wykar
watched invisibly, face burning and chest tight. The derro was just as clearly
visible to Wykar now as he had been before the ring was put on. But
that was not surprising, given the sort of magical ring that Geppo wore, a
wondrous ring that fulfilled the wearer's most secret and desired wish. A
cursed ring of mental delusions. "Excellent,"
said Wykar shakily. "It worked that time. Don't wander off. I ... I can't
see you, and we have to go. Stay within hearing of my voice, though. When we
get close enough, just move in on your own. Get whatever gold you want, then
come back here. Don't take your ring off until then. The cloakers will never see
us." Geppo
nodded. A new expression filled his ravaged face. It was beatific joy. Wykar
knew he had done something terribly wrong. He was no fool when it came to the
gods. They saw everything, even this. Maybe they would forgive all of this
because of the egg. The egg was the evil thing, not Wykar. He told himself this
over and over, but somehow he did not believe it anymore. He
shook it off. He was tricking a derro, not a child or a god's holy avatar. If I am
to be damned, then let us get on with it, Wykar thought angrily. "Let's
go," he said, getting to his feet. Keeping
the derro in the corner of his vision, Wykar began to walk toward the
red-violet glow from the distant wall, still shrouded by blowing fog from the
rumbling Sea of Ghosts. Geppo walked along carefully beside him, grinning like
a big fool who could not get enough out of trying to see his hands. Wykar
looked away from that black-toothed grin. The
deep gnome felt inside his open vest for his final weapon and his final
defense. Both were safely there, strapped into a deep, crude pocket. He removed
them and gritted his teeth. He had thought long and hard about what was coming
next. It would hurt terribly, but sometimes there was no other way out but
through, the svirfneblin often said. No way out but through. The two
had marched to within two hundred feet of the glowing rift when Wykar
whispered, "Stop." Geppo halted, looking around in mild confusion.
Wykar leaned closer, but was careful to be out of the way in case Geppo drew
his weapon. "Listen to me," he said. "We're going in there
together. Move very slowly. If you pick something up, do it slowly and make no
sound. These rings don't hide the noise you make, so be careful." Why am I
saying this? Why am I saying this? "Thank
you," whispered Geppo, nodding. He set off for the glowing rift, walking
in silence. Wykar
stood for a moment, staring after the derro with an empty expression. Then he
took a deep breath and put a corner of his vest between his teeth, filling his
mouth with the vile, fishy-tasting fur. He ground his jaws together tightly,
readying himself for what came next. He
carefully lifted his final defense, unable to see it but feeling it roll
between his fingers. It was a long, bronze needle. He put
the needle in his left ear, then pushed it in. Boiling pain exploded deep in
his ear, pain a thousand times worse than anything the drow had given him. His
head felt as if it would burst. Quickly, before he could think better of it, he
transferred the needle to his other hand and jammed it into his right eardrum,
destroying it as well. He dropped the needle after that and doubled over in
mindless agony. He felt his teeth almost close together through the thick fur
in his mouth. Hot blood ran from his ears and down the sides of his bare
cheeks. He
lifted his head, eyes streaming tears. Geppo was halfway to the rift. Wykar had
to go after him, to destroy the egg. It was all for that egg. He heard nothing
but an endless scream from his ruined ears. But his eardrums would heal in
time. There had been no other way to block the cloakers' moaning, no way to
keep them from claiming him. His ears would heal, and he would be a hero and
have his revenge on the drow. Wykar
saw Geppo stop and look back in puzzlement. The gnome realized he was running
and probably making a lot of noise. He forced himself to stop and concentrate
through his pain, then walk more carefully and quietly. Geppo relaxed at that,
then went on toward the glowing rift. The air
turned bad. Wykar now smelled dead things, rotting things. The ground was
covered with bits of stinking algae, like everywhere else, but a dark lump that
looked like a body was just ahead. It was a drow, most of its flesh and muscle
eaten away; one leg was missing. It lay in a peculiar, loose-limbed position,
untouchably foul. Its filthy bones were draped with algae and ripped, soaked
clothing. The
face and long hair were still recognizable. It was Sarlaena, who had once owned
him. Wykar
averted his streaming eyes. He tried not to inhale the air. He was close to
throwing up again; he bit down harder on the fur. More long, thin, dark bodies
lay ahead, scattered around like forgotten dolls. The wave, Wykar remembered.
The first wave must have come up all the way to flood the split in the wall.
Something about that bothered him, something bad. He shook off the feeling and
trudged on. The pain burned bright as a lighthouse beacon in his head, sending
its agony out to the world. Geppo,
now only twenty paces ahead, was cautiously peering into the rift. The sight
and stench from the wet, rotting bodies did not seem to affect him. Geppo
looked over the bodies carefully, then looked up, saw no threat, and continued
on into the rift. The
final weapon was in Wykar's hands. The black wand would have to work the first
time. There would be no chance for a second time. He spit out the corner of his
vest and some loose fur fibers with it. He had control of himself now, in these
final moments. Geppo
was in the rift. He kicked aside a severed limb, perhaps a drow's arm. He
looked down at the ground now. He toed something, a sack or piece of clothing.
He bent down to pick it up. Then he
straightened up fast, and his bony hands clamped tight over his ears. He seemed
to be screaming, his eyes shut. It was the moaning attack of the cloakers. Something
white fell from the cavern ceiling high above the derro. Wykar
raised the black wand and said the three words that would make it work. He
never heard the words he spoke. He only felt them vibrate his chest. Moving his
jaw tore the wounds in his ears open again, and he almost forgot the words. The
pain was horrific. White
light burst out, filled the world in a flash. Wykar saw afterimages of the
entire cave imprinted on his retinas like a gigantic, detail-perfect painting.
A white arm of sunlight, over a hundred feet long, perfectly connected his wand
tip to the falling cloaker. The cloaker was in flames, dying the instant the
burning light struck it. The wand of sunfire, taken from an ambushed drow
wizard and hidden away among the deep gnome's caches long ago, worked
perfectly. Wykar ran forward. There would be more, at least five more. But he
was half blind, and his feet caught something, and he fell. He
dropped the black wand of sunfire. He kicked at the thing holding his legs,
looking back and blinking at the afterimages. A dead
drow lay at Wykar's feet, his boots entangled in its blood-darkened arm bones
and clothing. Wykar
kicked and screamed. Each scream renewed the bolts of agony in his deafened
ears. The limp arms lost their grip on him and fell away, unmoving and dead.
Wykar crawled away from the drow, limbs shaking with fear. He saw the wand,
grabbed for it, looked up again. Another
white thing was falling from the ceiling. Geppo was below it, clutching his
head. The cloakers were singing to him as they had sung to the drow. Wykar
raised the wand and shouted out the three words. Nothing
happened. Your
people are like mine, a little, because we are resistant to magic more than
other folk. "NO!"
Wykar screamed. He threw down the wand, then snatched it up and aimed. The
cloaker had Geppo in its folds. "NO!"
Wykar got up and ran, waving the invisible wand like a sword. "NO!
NO!" Geppo
was trying to get out. Wykar could see his thin fingers pushing out against the
black folds. The derro's narrow mouth was open and screaming and making
absolutely no sound. Wykar screamed as he ran. He pulled off his ring, his
invisibility ring, and threw it at the cloaker entrapping Geppo. "Look at
me," he screamed. "Look at me." Something
white fell from the ceiling. He saw it just before it got him. The
wand went up, aimed, the three words said. A
staggering white spear of light set the cloaker ablaze; it curled up and fell
to the side. Wykar saw in the great flash that a dozen dark things hung from
the ceiling above him. A nest of monsters. They pulled loose when he saw them,
a dozen white sheets falling at him with huge mouths and glassy eyes and fangs.
Wykar screamed three words, wand out, and shut his eyes. He screamed them again
and again and again, over and over, white flames roaring now from the wand and
heat searing his hands, a litany of fire in the darkness. Something
caught him by the foot and pulled. Wykar lost his balance and fell, unable to
see anything through the maze of afterimages and agony in his head. He struck
blindly with the wand at the thing that had grabbed him, but the thing only
tightened its grip. It didn't feel like a hand. Wykar
swiftly rubbed his eyes on his short sleeve. In the red-violet light of the
rift, he then saw what gripped his foot, even through the afterimages in his
eyes and the fire in his ears and the bodies of flaming cloakers scattered
across the rift floor. He saw it clearly. The egg
in the chest had hatched. It held his foot in one of its thick, dark tentacles. Wykar
screamed and heard himself scream even with no eardrums. The sea wave had
hatched it, of course. Wykar realized that even in his madness, as he screamed
out the three words and pointed the wand at the three liquid-black eyes only a
yard away. He knew why the drow thought it was so funny, the idea of spitting
on the egg, which they did not dare do. Water would hatch the egg and set the
baby free. Not even a drow would want that. The
scaled newborn raised itself up as Wykar said the last word. He could not shut
his eyes to block out the sight of it. Hot, so
very hot, and so blind after, though he saw everything. In the
flash of pure light that filled the rift, he saw the tentacled creature with
three eyes impaled on the white-hot lance in his hands. Smoke flew from it in
that instant, smoke black as a nightmare, and the creature and the wand blew
up. Almost
half the population of Raurogh's Hall fell victim to the earthquake, injured or
killed. When the surviving dwarves reached the shivering fisher dwarf, her eyes
were closed but her blue lips were still moving. "One
hundred sixty-five," she whispered aloud, hearing their approach.
"One hundred sixty-five." The
rescuing dwarves heard the fading thunder from the Deepfall's silo and
understood. One hundred sixty-five seconds from top to bottom. They pulled her
to safety. Her place in the legends was assured. Wykar's
hands were blistered and burning. He held them up and wept, pushed beyond his
limits. His mangled hands glowed like fires in his heat-vision. He was on his
feet, staggering around on the body-strewn shore outside the rift with the
red-purple glow. He remembered nothing after the explosion, neither what
happened nor how he got there. He went
back inside the rift. "Geppo!" he cried. He heard nothing, not even
the tortured whine from the remains of his eardrums. "Geppo! Geppo!" He
found Geppo pulling himself from the folds of a limp white sheet. The
red-splattered mouth on the sheet was slack and open, and its yellow gaze saw
nothing. Geppo reached out to Wykar, bathed in the heat of his own blood. The
derro spoke words the gnome could not hear. Wykar caught his hand and leaned
close. "Ring
not work very long," Geppo's lips said. "Not very long, but cloaker
not kill Geppo, hey?" The derro managed a black-toothed grin. "Geppo
think good plan. Eat blue-glow plant in cave. Hooret, poison in blood, but not
kill Geppo. True-Masters eat blue-glow plants always. Plants make all very sick
when they try eat True-Masters, even Geppo." The derro gripped Wykar's
hand tightly. "Geppo smart, hey? Cloaker very sick, hey?" "I
used you," Wykar said. He clutched the derro to him. "I used you to
get the cloakers out. I betrayed you. Gods forgive me, Geppo, I did you evil. I
did you evil." The
derro merely smiled. "You lie," he said. "You give Geppo magic.
You give Geppo real magic. Not work very long, but was real . . . magi - "
He stiffened. "Thank . . ." The
light went out in the colorless eyes. "No,"
cried the gnome. He clutched the derro to him. "Geppo. Gods above hear me.
No. No." Only
silence heard him. On the
starlit plains of the Eastern Shaar, the hunter stirred the dying embers of his
campfire, thinking of his dead wife. The sorceress in the tower closed the
mildewed tome and rubbed her eyes, unsettled by the book's implications. The
old shepherd, warm in his cottage and his flock in its pen, played a soft tune
on his flute, then began a bedtime tale to his grandson about ghosts. VOLO
DOES MENZO Brian
M. Thomsen In a
Dive in Skullport "Where's
my Skullport Special?" roared the foul-mouthed dwarf. "I ordered it
over an aeon ago!" "You
ordered it less than five swipes of a dragon's tail ago," answered
Percival Gallard Woodehous, the efficient and supercilious maitre
d'/waiter/cook of Traitor Pick's, one of Skullport's grimier and grimmer
grog-and-grub spots, ". . . and here it is." The
dwarf, whose name was Knytro, dived in with both hands, filling his cheeks with
the aromatic mush while commenting, "Better than last time. Best slop in
all Skullport." Then, looking up, stew dripping from his beard, he added,
"You ain't much to look at, Pig, but you know how to cook." "I
live to serve," Woodehous answered with a touch of sarcasm he knew was
lost on the dwarf, who was busy delighting in his dinner du jour. Knytro
began to lick the bowl of any of the stew's residue that had managed to escape
his mouth, beard, and shirt front during the scant seconds it had taken for him
to empty the vessel of its contents. The foul-mouthed dwarf then belched a
further message to the long-suffering Woodehous. "I
beg your pardon?" Woodehous inquired. "Whatsa
matter?" the dwarf replied, getting a little hot under the collar. "I
said it in Common, Pig. You deaf?" "I
must have been distracted by the bovine exuberance you manifested in the
inhalation of your meal," he replied, confident of the limited vocabulary
of his customer. "I
said 'Good slop,' " the dwarf repeated, this time without the benefit of
the gaseous accent. "I
live for your praise," Woodehous replied, turning to head back to the bar. The
dwarf, having sated his appetite for food, had obviously not yet reached his
fill of conversation. He left the table and followed the waiter, taking a place
on the stool in front of the bar and motioning that he was ready for a
post-dinner nightcap of grog. Ever
efficient, Woodehous accommodated him immediately. The customer is always
right, he thought to himself, no matter how uncouth, foul-smelling, or
barbaric. Dignity must be maintained in service at all times. "You
know, Pig?" the dwarf continued. "What,
good sir?" he replied, grimacing as he once again heard the unfortunate
moniker that had become his common hail of recent. "In
all the years I've spent excavating around these here parts, I've never come
across a better slop jockey than you. I have a mind to put a good word in for
you with the management around here." "Why,
thank you, good sir," Woodehous replied, hoping that enough of these
endorsements would return him to managerial favor and convince the powers that
be to return him to his previous assignment back at Shipmaster's Hall in
Waterdeep or some other equally prestigious establishment. He refilled the
dwarfs mug one last time. "No
problem, Pig," the dwarf replied, draining the draught immediately.
"Wouldn't want to lose you. You're the best cook Traitor Pick's has ever
had-well, at least in the close to fifty years I've been coming here. You can
certainly work up an appetite opening up and closing down tunnels all day. I
know the manager, and he knows me-me being a steady customer and all." The
dwarf got off his stool and headed for the door, adding, "I'm sure one
word from me, and you'll never have to look for another job again. Your
position here will be secure forever." "What
a depressing thought," Woodehous muttered, mostly for his own benefit, as
none of the customers seem to be paying him much attention. Percival
Gallard Woodehous had been on the Waterdhavian taverns managerial fast track
when an unfortunate incident had derailed him. Having been trained in hostelry
and cuisine at some of the best taverns in Suzail, the then young
majordomo-in-training had set his sights westward, and traveled to Waterdeep in
search of a position befitting his abilities. Once there, he contracted his
services to a catering consortium, which arranged for him assignments at
various affairs in Waterdhavian society. As his expertise increased with the
demands, he soon found himself in a position to control his own destiny. He
resigned from the consortium and landed a position at the Shipmaster's Hall, a
private inn and supper club that catered to the upper crust of the sailing
community. In no time at all, he was running the place with more than twenty
different employees under his supervision. Woodehous felt it was the perfect
time to take a break from his fast-paced climb up the social ladder and settle
back for a few months of treading water among the nautical set. The next
opportunity for advancement would surely present itself soon enough. Then,
one day, he had the misfortune of being on duty when a very important person
checked in with his entourage. It was none other than the master traveler in
all Faerun, and the best-selling guidebook author Volothamp Geddarm himself.
Quickly seizing the opportunity to add yet another feather to his cap,
Woodehous offered Volo and his party accommodations "on the house,"
fully expecting a rave review for the establishment in the next edition of
Volo's Guide to Waterdeep. Unfortunately,
the traveler and his entourage skipped town during the night, leaving neither a
rave endorsement nor a monetary settlement for services rendered. When
Woodehous informed his superiors of the situation, they were enraged. Their
rationale was twofold, each reason equally damning. First, if the traveler
wasn't really the legendary Volo, Woodehous had been taken advantage of by a
con man (perhaps the renowned rogue and imposter Marcus Wands, aka "Marco
Volo") and, therefore, was ill suited for the responsibilities of his
managerial position. Second, if the
traveler was really the legendary gazetteer, Woodehous had either done
something to offend him or Volo had found his accommodations inadequate for
even a full night's stay, thus assuring the establishment an abominable review
in the guidebook's next edition. Either way, his superiors saw dismissal as the
only appropriate action, and Woodehous was fired. Woodehous
returned to the catering consortium in hopes of restarting his societal upward
climb, only to find himself blacklisted. The restauranting powers that be were
more than a little indignant over his striking out on his own, and hoped to
teach him a lesson. As a result, the only position he was able to obtain was in
the employ of a nouveau entrepreneur whose acquaintance he had made back at the
Shipmaster's Hall. Denver
Gilliam-a former seaman and, by his own reckoning, a veteran of one shipwreck
too many-had recently struck it rich and bought out a block of taverns in the
dock district of the City of Splendors. After the buyout, the taverns each
maintained a distinctive ambience; even the Lords of Waterdeep couldn't tell
they had a single owner, despite the fact that the establishments stood side by
side on both sides of the street. (The
few patrons who were in the know had nicknamed the block "Gilliam's
Aisle.") Gilliam
offered Woodehous a position, which he quickly accepted, signing a contract for
no fewer than three years of exclusive hostelry services. Upon starting work,
however, Woodehous discovered that the tavern to which he had accepted
assignment was far from the newly fashionable, newly renovated Waterdhavian
dock district. Its location wasn't even in Waterdeep, and thus the gentleman
hostler found himself maitre d'/cook/waiter at Traitor Pick's in Skullport,
where walking upright immediately designated one a member of the intellectual
upper crust. Woodehous
had lost track of the time since he had last ventured out into daylight, and
was quickly approaching despair as he realized he had not even reached the
halfway point in his contract. When
the dinner trade reached its close, Woodehous locked the front door behind him
and set out to the Gentleman's Groggery for his evening repast, leaving a sign
on the door that simply said, "Out to Sup." At the Gentleman's
Groggery Though
it was true that the cuisine and service at the Gentleman's Groggery did not
even come close to the level expected at Traitor Pick's, let alone one of the
more fashionable Waterdhavian establishments, when it was Woodehous's turn to
dine, he considered one thing requisite: he would be served and enjoy the
amenities of any other paying customer. The niceties at the Double G (as the
locals called it) were scant, true, but the food was at least digestible, the
service less than threatening, and the locale relatively convenient. By
default, the Double G had become Woodehous's regular dining spot. "Hey,
Pig," Wurlitzer, the orcish bartender, called as Woodehous
entered the establishment, "how's the trade at Traitor's?" 'Typical,"
Woodehous replied, taking a place at the bar to avoid a rather raucous group
gathered at the tables. He requested, "The usual, please, my good
fellow." The
bartender snorted in agreement and poured the fallen-from-grace society caterer
a glass of wine. "Have you heard about the new place opening down the
street? I think it's called the Cup and Lizard, or something." "You
mean the Flagon and the Dragon," Woodehous corrected. "That's
right," Wurlitzer agreed, setting a plate in front of the recently arrived
customer. "I believe they're looking for experienced help. You want me to
put in a good word for you?" "You're
the second person today who has offered to 'put in a good word for me,' and
though your kindness is appreciated, I prefer to decline at this time. My next
position must certainly be as far away as possible from this hellhole we call
home," Woodehous replied. "Skullport's
not such a bad place," the ore responded defensively. "I've lived
here me whole life, and although it's a slight comedown for the upper-crust
likes of you, I have a feeling things are beginning to look up." "Oh,
really?" Woodehous replied sarcastically, immediately afterward hoping
that he hadn't hurt Wurlitzer's feelings. The ore was the closest thing he had
to a friend. "How so?" Wurlitzer
immediately began to brim with excitement. "I
was hoping you'd ask," the ore replied. "Guess who we have as a guest
tonight?" "I
have no idea," Woodehous replied, in no mood for guessing games. "It's
an old friend of yours," the ore prodded. "C'mon, guess." Realizing
the bartender wouldn't give up until he did, Woodehous swallowed the sustenance
that was in his mouth, wiped his lips with a napkin, and, with a shrug, named
the first person that came to mind. "I
really have no idea-" he said, then offered "-the legendary
gazetteer, Volothamp Geddarm?" A look
of puzzlement seized the ore visage. "Does
he also like to be called Volo?" Wurlitzer asked, obviously not familiar
with the great author's full name. Woodehous
was taken aback in shock. "You
mean Volothamp Geddarm is here . . . tonight?" he asked incredulously. Wurlitzer
scratched his head, trying to spur on his meager mental faculties. "If you
mean the guy who does those guidebooks and likes to be called Volo and was
supposed to give you a good review at the Shipmaster's Hall, well, yeah." "Where
is he?" Woodehous demanded. "Over
there," the ore replied, gesturing to the raucous group at the tables.
"He seems to be holding court or something. He started out telling a few
really neat stories about his travels and attracted a crowd." A cry
of "Yeehah!" was heard from the other side of the room, followed by
peals of laughter from various revelers. "And
the next one's even better," the same voice bellowed, an alcoholic slur
evident in his voice. "He
seems to be a bit in his cups already," Woodehous observed out loud. "Sure
does," Wurlitzer agreed. "I like it when a newcomer sees fit to enjoy
all of the Double G's empties." "You
mean amenities," Woodehous corrected, leaving his barstool to take a place
at one of the tables along the periphery of the VIP's audience. The ore
watched in puzzlement, unaware of his own propensity for malapropisms. Woodehous
quickly scanned the numerous empty chairs that surrounded the legendary gazetteer;
more than a few of the supper club's clientele had gotten their fill of the
entertainment provided by the jaunty and boisterous fellow who claimed to be
the greatest traveler in all Faerun. With
the exception of the expensive clothes and the drunken dishevelment of his
bearing, the travel writer looked just as Woodehous remembered him. A neatly
trimmed beard, a jaunty beret, and a prosperous paunch, all wrapped around a
gift for gab, a sly wink, and a smile. This was Volothamp Geddarm, the same
gentleman whose earlier unexpected departure from the Shipmaster's Hall had
cost Percival Gallard Woodehous his job, as well as several ranks on the
Waterdhavian society scales. This was the man directly responsible for his
current social banishment to Skullport. ".
.. And then there was the time I flew to the Horde-lands in a jerry-rigged
Halruaan skyship ..." the fellow rambled. Oh,
great, Woodehous thought, I guess I'm going to have to sit through a full set
of the amazing adventures of Volo. It might be worth it if I get the
opportunity to talk to him alone later on. If I play "the good
audience," he just might intercede on my behalf back at the Shipmaster's
Hall. "...
And then there was the time I was abducted by a group of dopplegangers off the
streets of Waterdeep...." I guess
I'll just have to bide my time, Woodehous thought. The
crowd further thinned as the self-absorbed storyteller rambled on. The
once-dense mob of fans and admirers had considerably dissipated itself. All
were gone save for a few star-struck ores; a pair of foul-smelling dwarves, who
freely helped themselves to massive quantities of the gazetteer's libations; an
inebriated ogre, who had nodded off in an upright position; and a pair of
thuggish drow, who listened to the storyteller like panthers listening to
approaching prey. ".
. . And my next book is going to be really different. ..." The
drow pair continued to stare unblinkingly. "...
Imagine a travel guide that is so exotic . . ." He
really loves the sound of his own voice, Woodehous observed silently. "...
so mysterious, why I bet it's safe to say that there are some who would stop at
nothing to prevent this manuscript from being published. . .." Yeah,
really, Woodehous thought sarcastically, nothing but hype. "...
And I think I'll call it Volo Does Memo. . . ." At the
mention of the title, the two drow quickly exchanged hushed words, rose from
their chairs, and hastened out of the tavern, flipping a guinea to Wurlitzer to
cover their tab. "...
It will be the first book with directions to and from the great city of
Menzoberranzan, a virtual travelers' guide to the Underdark." A
smattering of applause followed as the audience took advantage of the
traveler's pause to quaff the remainder of their brew and quickly dispersed
before the storyteller could begin to rant again. I guess
the crowd knows when it has had enough, Woodehous thought, watching them
disperse to the far corners of the supper club. When he turned back to the
place where the storyteller had been sitting Woodehous was shocked to see that
Volo had already gathered up his pack, flipped a salute and a guinea coin to
the bartender in thanks for his gracious hospitality, and was already out the
door, and on his way to Ao-knows-where. "Oh,
no," Woodehous cried out loud, hastening in fast pursuit of the key to his
possible redemption. He was almost out the door when an orcish arm grabbed him
by the collar. "Pig,
old boy," Wurlitzer said in a friendly tone that didn't mask an implied
threat, "aren't you forgetting something?" The
erstwhile maitre d'/waiter/cook of Traitor Pick's quickly took half a second to
fish from his pouch the first coin his fingers touched, flipped it to the
bartender, and continued on his way, in earshot long enough to hear the
bartender remark that three guineas in a row in tips wasn't bad for a midweek
evening without paid entertainment. Glancing
in both directions down the nocturnal alleys of Skullport-and seeing his quarry
neither way-Woodehous quickly chose a likely course and set off in search of
the traveler. He cursed his own haste and the misfortune that had just cost him
his dinner allowance for the whole week, and wholly disregarded the fact that
the allotted time for his dinner break had long since expired. After
more precious time had passed, Woodehous wondered aloud, "Which way did he
go?" The question was born more out of exasperation than practicality,
since Woodehous had long since given up noticing any of the other alley
wayfarers of the Skullport twilight scene. "Which
way did who go, Pig?" inquired a voice from behind. The
now-former maitre d'/cook/waiter of Traitor Pick's quickly turned around and
was confronted by the tentacled visage of one of his now-former patrons. "Oh,
it's you, Malix," Woodehous replied. "Correct,"
replied the mind flayer mage, who had taken a fancy to Woodehous's recipe for
duergar deep-dish. "I repeat the question. Which way did who go?" "Volothamp
Geddarm." "You
mean the loudmouthed storyteller from the Double G? He went thataway,"
Malix replied, one of his facial tentacles pointing down a dark alley.
"Just follow the path of glowing dust. He must have stepped in something
along the way. And beware! He was being followed by two unsavory-looking
drow." "Thanks,
Malix," Woodehous replied, taking off into the shadows in the indicated
direction. "Don't
thank me," Malix instructed, calling after him. "Just finish up your
business and get back to work. I have a hankering for some dessert, and the
faster you finish, the sooner my craving will be sated." Woodehous
raced down the narrow alley even though he couldn't see the path of glowing
dust Malix had indicated. His diligence was soon rewarded. The alley ahead made
a sharp turn to the right, narrowing down to a single body's width, and then
right again, and opened onto an apparent dead end shrouded in total darkness. He
barely heard someone cry out "No," before he felt a sharp blow to the
back of his head, upon which he was immediately drowned in the pitch-black
ocean of unconsciousness. Walking
in Darkness Woodehous
had no idea how long he had remained unconscious, and barely noticed coming
around. He was poked and prodded to his feet, and then partly led, partly
dragged through a narrow tunnel of darkness. The passage was lit occasionally
by four marbles of purplish glow that bounced in step with his apparent
captors. Soon he
felt the tunnel widen around him, and noted the absence of Skullport's telltale
sea breeze. They seemed to be following a steady incline downward. His wrists
had been tied together in front of him, and connected to a noose that had been
cinched tight around his neck. The noose was in turn connected to some sort of
leash, with which he was being led as he stumbled forward into the darkness. Woodehous
soon realized he was not the only unwilling member of the subterranean party. "C'mon,
you guys," implored a voice Woodehous recognized as Volo's, "can't
you give us a break? We've been walking for hours. Can't we rest a bit?" "All
right," replied a mouth located just below two of the dancing purple orbs.
"Skullport is now far behind us, and it would be foolish of you to imagine
you could find your way back, anyway. You may sit and rest a bit." "May
I reach into my traveling pouch?" the famous gazetteer requested. "I
have a gem that gives off a bit of illumination, which might make things a
little easier for those of us not gifted with such acute night vision." "All
right," the voice replied, "but no funny stuff. Though I have every
intention of taking you alive to Menzoberranzan, that does not preclude me from
certain nonlethal treatments of your person that I am sure you would find quite
unpleasant." "Funny
stuff? I wouldn't think of it," Volo replied. Woodehous
heard a rustling like fingers fishing in a purse, which was followed by a flash
that required him to quickly shut his eyes. Slowly he reopened them, squinting
toward the illumination. He turned away from the source of the light and took a
few seconds to gaze at the surroundings, which slowly came into view as his
eyes grew accustomed to the luminescence. The
group was in a cavern with walls formed of what appeared to be black glass,
smooth and flat. If the telltale shadows of their party of four hadn't been
cast upon the walls, there would have been an illusion of infinite darkness,
the void of starless space. "You
look kind of familiar," Volo said to his fellow captive. "Do I know
you?" Woodehous
returned his attention to the source of the illumination, realizing that the
question had been directed at him. The light showed that Volo's hands and neck
were similarly bound. "You probably don't remember me, but..." the
former maitre d'/cook/waiter started to answer. Volo
snapped his fingers and quickly interrupted. "You
used to work at the Shipmaster's Hall back in Waterdeep," said the
gazetteer. "I never forget a face. What in Ao's name were you doing in
Skullport?" Woodehous
was at a loss for words. He wanted to blame the writer for all of his woes: his
loss of social status, his banishment to that culinary pit in Skullport, the
besmirching of his reputation. . . . But such accusations would have all been
for naught, given their current situation. "I
worked there," Woodehous replied, "at Traitor Pick's ..." Volo
snapped his fingers, once again interrupting. "You must be Pig. I've heard
wonderful things about your cooking. I can't wait to try it. How did you wind
up working there?" "Thanks
for the compliment," the beleaguered gourmet replied, now resigned to the
fact that he would probably be known by that horrible moniker until his dying
day-whose possible proximity was beginning to cause him great
consternation."My full name is Percival Gallard Woodehous. I lost my job
at the Shipmaster's Hall through circumstances beyond my control, and I needed
a job." "Quit
your yammering!" one of the drow captors ordered, kicking Woodehous in the
side and cuffing Volo alongside the head. "Rest while you can, and you'd
best do it quietly. It's a long walk to Menzoberranzan." "Sorry,"
the gazetteer apologized. "I just figured that since it was going to be
such a long trip, we might want to get to know each other a bit. Now I assume
both you and your equally dark-skinned companion are probably two of Lloth's
famous warriors." "We
will be, once we bring you in," the captor boasted proudly. "Soon
everyone in Menzoberranzan will know the names of Courun and Haukun as the lone
protectors of the privacy of the Spider Queen. No surface dweller has ever
dared violate the sanctity of her domain, let alone document such visitations
in a travel guide." "You
caught me red-handed," Volo conceded. "I hadn't even had the chance
to turn the manuscript over to my publisher yet." "And
you never shall," said the drow known as Courun. "You are our ticket
out of exile." "And
what am I?" Woodehous inquired, quickly receiving another kick to the
ribs. "Just
another slave bound for the work pits," said the drow known as Haukun,
"and believe me, it's not a pleasant place." "That's
why we left," Courun inserted. "Had we stayed around, that would have
been the most favorable fate available to us." "Slavery
still beats being turned into a drider," Haukun added. "But all of
our past faults will be forgiven when the matron mother hears how we saved the
day." "Not
to mention preserved the Spider Queen's honor," added Courun. "What
exactly did you do to fall out of favor?" Volo inquired, with a tone of
such sincerity and caring that both drow warriors continued to let their guards
down. "They
thought we were inept," Haukun confessed. "And
not suitable for becoming warriors," Courun added. "We
returned from a surface raid without any captives. .. ." "And
worse still, there was a trace of broken spider-web on our boots...." Volo
nodded in understanding. Among the drow, to fail as a warrior was almost
unforgivable, but to be suspected of having caused harm to one of Lloth's
chosen children was a far greater crime. Still, even offenses of such magnitude
could be forgiven after a great act of fealty or heroism. "But
that's all in the past now," Haukun proclaimed proudly, then ordered,
"Back on your feet! The sooner we get to the beloved place of our birth,
the sooner we shall be vindicated." Quickly,
the two captives regained their feet and set off down the passageway, farther
into the bowels of Toril. The captors did not seem to notice that Volo had not
returned the stone of luminescence to his pouch, instead attaching it to a
thong that hung around his neck, thus providing a helpful torch for both
himself and Woodehous. The
Road to Menzoberranzan Much
later, after endless hours of walking, the party of four stopped to rest by an
underground pool. The two drow captors offered their captives some leathery
jerky made from a long-dead lizard of undetermined species. "Eat,"
Haukun instructed. "We have no intention of dragging your starving
carcasses the rest of the way. This should sustain you for a while." The
jerky tasted awful and was far from filling, but both captives realized that
eating it was better than going hungry. They tried their best to ingest the
leathery sustenance. Woodehous also noticed, with some consolation, that
neither of their captors seemed to enjoy the meal either. "Too
bad there aren't any fish in this pool," Volo said matter-of-factly. "Why
do you say that?" Courun inquired just as an eyeless trout broke the
surface with a flick and splash. "Well,"
Volo replied, "I've always heard that drow are excellent fishermen, and
given that my compadre in captivity is one of the best chefs in all
Waterdeep-let alone Skullport-I don't see why brave warriors such as yourselves
should have to make do with inferior field rations. ... I guess that sort of
self-denial is what makes you such great warriors. I, on the other hand, could
really go for some fish stew. Then again, I've never claimed to be a great
warrior, let alone the equal in fortitude of the noble and great drow." Courun
and Haukun looked at each other for a moment, and then said something in the
drow tongue. Haukun turned to Woodehous and said, "Are you really a good
cook?" "The
best," Volo answered in his stead, adding for agreement,
"right?" "Well,
I don't like to brag," Woodehous responded, seeing the opportunity for a
better meal than the rancid jerky, "but, well, let me put it this way, all
of Waterdeep can't be wrong." "Let
alone Wurlitzer of Skullport," added the gazetteer. "He's a noted
connoisseur." The two
drow looked at each other in puzzlement. "That
means he likes good cooking," Volo quickly explained. A quick
exchange of words between the two, and Haukun took to his feet, grabbed his
spear, and positioned himself on the pool's ledge, eyeing the water for a
trout. Courun meanwhile arranged some rocks in a pile and said a drow
incantation. In no
time at all, the rocks began to glow fiery hot, and a sizeable trout had been
freshly speared. Both Woodehous and Volo's hands were unbound, and instructions
were given. "Cook!" Volo
whispered to Woodehous surreptitiously. "Okay,
Percy," the gazetteer said, "do your stuff, and you better make it
good." "I
need a pan or a pot of some sort," Woodehous replied. "But
of course," Volo agreed. "Courun, can he borrow your
breastplate?" "Sure,"
Haukun replied. As
Courun undid the fastening from his tunic, the chef gazed around the
subterranean chamber as if looking for something in particular. "What
are you looking for?" Haukun demanded. "You have a pan now. Why
aren't you cooking?" Woodehous
prepared to place the trout on the breastplate. "It's just that
pan-roasted trout is so bland," the maitre d'/cook/waiter explained, still
looking around. "Would you do me a favor and fetch me some of the moss
from that half-submerged rock over there, and perhaps some of the hanging
fungus from that stalactite as well?" "Why?"
the drow demanded. "You'll
see," Volo assured. The two
drow once again exchanged gazes of puzzlement, and then, with a shrug, Courun
set off to fetch the requested ingredients. Expertly,
Woodehous the chef gutted the trout and removed its innards, replacing them
with some of the recently obtained hanging fungus. He then added a little water
to the breastplate pan and sprinkled some of the fungus into it. The water
began to simmer with a truly delicious odor of spice. While the water was
heating up, Woodehous rubbed the moss against the outside flesh of the fish
until little flecks of vegetation had permeated the meat. He then added the
thoroughly seasoned trout to the pan, carefully turning it every few moments so
that it cooked both completely and evenly. The
cavern was soon filled with the tempting and savory aroma of a gourmet's
delight, and in no time at all, the four travelers were enjoying a nourishing
and delicious meal. "See,"
Volo attested, "I told you." "No
complaints here," Haukun agreed. "If you can cook this well all the
time, my partner and I might be willing to let you continue the journey with
your wrists unbound, that is, provided you don't try to escape." "Where
would we go?" Volo reminded him. "We'd just get lost and die in the
dark without your expert guidance." "You'd
better believe it," Courun replied, his mouth half full of the gourmet's
delight. Once
the meal was over, the foursome rested while Courun allowed his breastplate to
cool. Once it was back in place, they recommenced their journey, following the
stream that evidently fed the pool that had been the source of their splendid
repast. In a little while, they decided to make camp to rest a bit, and get a
little sleep. Woodehous quickly realized that the concept of day and night no
longer really existed. He had quite lost track of the time that had passed
since he had first spotted Volo back in the Double G and raced after him
through the alleyways of Skullport. He had also not realized how tired he
really was, and quickly found himself fast asleep. "Percy,
wake up!" Volo urged in a hushed tone. Woodehous
stirred from his moments with Morpheus, and opened his eyes. Sometime
during their rest, their two drow captors had been confronted by a pair of
kuo-toa-tall, nasty, pot-bellied amphibians-and harsh words were being
exchanged. During the course of what had started as a cordial though wary
meeting, the conversation between representatives of the two dominant
subterranean species had quickly deteriorated into a heated argument. "The
tall kuo-toan," Volo explained, "claims he can smell the blood of his
people on Courun. No doubt he really smells the residue of our dinner on our
captor's breastplate." "One
would have thought that he would have washed it off before putting it back
on," Woodehous observed. "No
doubt," Volo replied, "but then again, neither of our captors have
shown much evidence of common sense or brainpower. If their superiors back in
Menzoberranzan thought they were incompetent, the odds are that they really
are. Drow matrons are usually keen judges of competence and potential." The
disagreement was quickly turning into a shoving match between the two pairs. "What
are they saying now?" Woodehous inquired. "He
just called Haukun a son of an illithid," Volo translated. "They
should come to blows any moment now." The
drow and the kuo-toa began to use their spears as quarterstaves in a battle
that had not yet escalated to lethality. "I
foresee a few bruises and contusions exchanged, but no death blows," Volo
observed. "We can go back to sleep." A
thought crossed the maitre d'/waiter/cook's mind. "Why
don't we take this opportunity to escape?" Woodehous asked with great
urgency. "Our captors are distracted, and we never know when another
opportunity will present itself." "Don't
worry about that," Volo replied, returning his head to the pillow of his
pack."You could never find your way back to the surface on your own, and
my mission is nowhere near completed yet." "What
mission?" Woodehous blurted, his voice a trifle too loud. "Hush!"
Volo demanded, quickly looking over to make sure that their captors had not
heard him. Luckily they were still beating each other with the shafts of their
spears. No
doubt, hair pulling and scale scratching would soon follow. "Just
trust me for now," the master traveler instructed. "I assure you I
have no intention of spending my remaining days as a slave or worse in some
Ao-forsaken city of the drow, nor do I intend to abandon you to that fate. Just
trust me. I have a plan. Now go back to sleep." Volo
turned over, closed his eyes, and was soon snoring, leaving a puzzled
Woodehous, wide-eyed and wide awake to contemplate this recent revelation of
facts. The
following morning, the drow captors were far from gentle in bringing their
captives to consciousness so they could resume the long trek beneath the
surface of Toril. There was no sight of the kuo-toa, and Courun and Haukun
looked the worse for it, their deep ebony skin mottled with bruises and
swelling. "What
happened?" Volo asked innocently. "You look as if you've been
attacked." "The
Underdark is laden with danger," Courun replied. "Haukun and I had to
fight off an entire army of fierce kuo-toa warriors to save your sorry
skins." "Thank
you," the gazetteer replied. "We
didn't save them for you," Courun replied churlishly. "Lloth prefers
to render her punishments and torture. It was our responsibility to save you
for her, rather than let you fall into the fishy hands of her enemies." "Or
fins, for that matter," Volo replied under his breath. "What
did you say?" the drow captor demanded. "I
said, 'Unto the finish, you are the master,' " the quick-thinking
gazetteer replied. "Well,
let us be off," the bruised drow ordered. "We still have many days'
journey ahead of us." "As
you wish, Master" Volo replied. He helped Woodehous to his feet as they
proceeded onward along the road to Menzoberranzan. The
words day and night lost all meaning to Volo and Woodehous as their journey
continued. Darkest night bled into darkest night as they traveled onward
between infrequent stops for rest and nourishment. No matter where they chose
to dine, the former maitre d'/cook/waiter always rose to the occasion, fixing
the foursome a meal fit for a lord of Waterdeep. Subterranean moss salad,
fermented fungus casserole, and even spiced filet of cloaker (courtesy of an
extremely luck Courun, who happened to accidentally run one through with his
spear before it had managed to attack the group) kept their bellies full and
spirits incongruously high for a party of captors leading their captives to
their doom. Volo
quickly became aware that the drow were actually beginning to feel sorry for
Woodehous and himself. What sorry dark elves these two had turned out to be. "You
know," Courun confided, "if it were solely up to us, we would
probably let you go, but you understand, of course.. . . You are the only means
we have of clearing our names and restoring our reputations to their rightful
grandeur." "Of
course," Volo replied, "a drow has to do what a drow has to do. I bet
you're looking forward to going home again. Menzoberranzan is probably filled
with pleasant memories for both of you." To
himself, Courun recalled his childhood and adolescence, the sense of
inadequacy, the beatings, the taunting by his sisters, and the third-class
existence of a lowborn male in a maliciously matriarchal society, then said out
loud, "Uh, sure. There's no place like home." Woodehous
could not fail to notice the lack of conviction in his captor's voice, and
quickly stole a look at Haukun, whose face exhibited a similar cast of
remembered oppression. "During
one of my travels, I met a drow in exile ... a fellow by the name of
Do'TJrden," Volo offered. "The
house name is familiar," Courun offered. "I believe it is one of the
minor ones." "He
was a very melancholy fellow, and probably also missed his home. How long have
you been away?" Volo asked. "I've
lost track," Courun replied absently. "Many years, maybe
longer." "Well,"
Volo noted, "a lot of things can happen in that long a time. I'm sure
things might have gotten better." "That's
right," Haukun replied righteously, "and we are returning as heroes,
and devoted champions of Lloth." "No,
we mustn't forget that," Volo agreed. "We mustn't forget that,
indeed." Hoping
to break the melancholy mood, the master traveler of the Realms began to regale
his companions with tales of his exploits, including the time he
circumnavigated the globe. Unfortunately the two drow captors showed little
interest. Their entire existence had been spent in the Underdark, and they had
little inclination toward places outside their own spheres of influence. "We
can sample the best you surface dwellers have to offer in Skullport,"
Haukun boasted. "Beyond that, I see little reason to expose myself to the
damned sun and daylight." Volo
tried a different tack to distract the captors. Drawing
on his research for his famous suppressed work, Volo's Guide to All Things
Magical-and fully aware that all drow were required to take part in some magic
training-the gazetteer tried to regale them with stories of different enchantments,
artifacts, and phenomena that he had come across. "Wait
a minute," Courun interrupted, "do you mean that you are a
wizard?" "Well,
no," Volo answered carefully, cautiously, and deceitfully, "I've just
done a lot of research on it. That's all." "It's
hard stuff," Courun admitted. "I never was much good at those
classes." "If
it hadn't been for our cheating on tests," Haukun added, "Courun and
I would have been drider bait, for sure." Not
wishing to further tip his hand on his innate abilities, Volo once again
changed the subject. "Well,
I bet you two are plenty expert on other things," the gazetteer observed. "Like
catching nosy writers," Courun said smugly. "Uh,
yes," Volo agreed. "But I was thinking more specifically of the
goings-on in the Underdark itself. I did a lot of research before my first trip
down here, and I am
telling you, nothing beats firsthand experience." "You
can say that again," Woodehous agreed, trying to reenter the conversation.
"It's like trying to learn how to cook without ever setting foot in a
kitchen." The
maitre d'/cook/waiter's simile was lost on the two drow captors, so Volo
continued his train of conversation. "When
I started studying the Underdark," Volo explained, "I had no idea
there was so much going on. I had never even heard of a duergar, or a
svirfneblin, or of thaalud, or of the great cities of Eryndlyn, Llurth Dreier,
or Sshamath, and, of course, Menzoberranzan. I just knew I had to go
there." "And
you did," Woodehous inserted. "Uh,
right," Volo continued with a quick glare at his fellow captive, signaling
him to hold his tongue, "and that's why I felt I just had to do the Guide
to the Underdark." "I
thought you were going to call it Volo Does Memo," Courun interrupted. "Well,
yes, and as I was . . ." Volo struggled to continue. "So
which is it?" Haukun demanded. "And
where is it?" Courun insisted. Quickly
regaining his composure, Volo calmly explained. "I don't get to pick the
title," he asserted, "the publisher does . . . and as to the
manuscript, don't worry about it." "Well,
give it to us," Haukun demanded. "I
don't have it with me," Volo continued, "but don't you worry. It's
well hidden. No one back in Skullport will ever find it." The two
drow would-be warriors once again looked at each other and conversed in their
native tongue. True, their entire retrieval of the interloping journalist would
be for naught if the manuscript ever fell into another surface dweller's hands,
thus undercutting the validity of their great deed and threatening their
chances of vindication. The two talked for a few minutes, and finally nodded in
agreement. "If
anyone asks," Haukun instructed boldly, "Courun and I destroyed your
only copy of the manuscript." "All
right," Volo replied. "And
if either of you contradicts us," Courun added, "it will go extremely
bad for you." "We
wouldn't think of it," Volo assured, "would we, Percy?" "Of
course not," Percy choked out, though he was quite unsure how his own fate
could be made any worse than it already was. "Fine,"
Courun said with a certain degree of finality. "Then let us proceed
onward. I believe we're almost there." "But
of course," Volo agreed, once again helping Woodehous to his feet. "Do
you know any stories about drow maidens?" Haukun inquired as they set off
down the tunnel. "I
do believe that back in Skullport I heard something about a young girl named
Liriel, but I'm afraid the details have escaped me for the moment. Perhaps you
would care to hear about a little intrigue that took place around Undermountain
not too long ago. It was a virtual comedy of errors, an escapade of adventure,
and involved two fellows by the names of Mirt and Durnan, and ..." Woodehous
discreetly tried to ignore the latest tale being told by the gazetteer, who so
loved the sound of his own voice. It was almost as if there were two Volos: the
gregarious fool who didn't mind being captured by drow buffoons, and the savvy
traveler whose exploits were legendary. Woodehous believed he had only observed
this more capable fellow on the night their captors fought with the equally
inept and juvenile fish-men, and he realized his only hope for escape lay with
the assurances that he had been offered on that night. If they had any hope of
escape, this more capable side would need to resurface .. . and really soon. But,
perhaps, it, too, was only some long-winded piece of fiction. At the
City's Edge As
Woodehous and Volo were roused from their sleep to begin another day's journey,
the master traveler of all Faerun noticed a difference in their captors'
demeanor. "We're
close to the city, aren't we?" Volo observed. "I'm
afraid so," Courun replied, a leather thong held in his outstretched
hands. "I'm going to have to retie your hands now." "We
understand," Volo assented, "but, please, not too tight." Dark
slender fingers did their work, and the two captives were returned to their
state of bound captivity in as painless a fashion as was possible. Volo
looked at the maitre d'/cook/waiter, and said out loud, "Now, that's not
too bad, considering the circumstances." Then, in a softer voice, he
added, "Whatever happens, stick with me, even if the alternative presented
to you seems more desirable." "What
do you mean?" Woodehous whispered back. "If
they ask you to choose between a life of slavery, and the chance of being
tortured right alongside me, choose the torture." "Why?" "I
can only assure you of your deliverance back to Skullport if you remain by my
side. By any means necessary, you must remain at my side," the master
traveler insisted, biting off his last word sharply as he heard one of their
drow captors once again approaching. "You
know, Pig, or Percy, or whatever you call yourself, I am really going to miss
your cooking," Haukun admitted. "Well,
I appreciate the compliment," Woodehous replied, trying to maintain some
dignity despite his current situation. "You
know," the drow continued, "once we turn Volo over to the matron
mother, we might be able to put in a good word for you with one of the ruling
households, and perhaps get you a kitchen position rather than farming duty or
worse." "Why,
thank you," the maitre d'/cook/waiter replied, quickly making eye contact
with his fellow captive, "but if it's all the same to you, I think I'd
rather stay with my friend Volo here. Companions to the end and all that rot,
if you know what I mean." "No,
not really," the drow replied, scratching his ebony forehead in
puzzlement, then running his delicate digits back through his flowing white
mane of hair. "But if that's what you really want, far be it from me to
stand in your way. Just seems like a damned shame waste of a good cook." "I'm
sure Menzoberranzan has plenty of good cooks," Volo offered. "Not
that I recall," Haukun answered, "but it has been a long time." The
party had no sooner resumed their journey to the city when they came into
contact with other travelers, the only time since the encounter with the pair
of kuo-toa. A detachment of drow warriors traveling in the opposite direction
waved them on, and a drow merchant with a lizard bearing his goods passed by,
hardly even noticing them, lost in a conversation with an illithid companion. "I
wonder if he knows Malix," Woodehous said out loud. "Not
likely," Volo answered. "Though mind flayers are fairly common around
here, not many of them maintain contact with others who have decided to make
their lives on the surface." "Oh,"
the former maitre d'/cook/waiter replied, wondering from which dull, boring
text his fellow companion in captivity was quoting this time. "Keep
your heads down as we enter the city," Courun instructed, "and try to
look oppressed and sullen." "No
problem," Woodehous replied in all sincerity. Glancing
back at the mind flayer and the merchant, Volo noticed that they seemed to be
pointing to the path from which the foursome had come. "I
almost forgot," Volo said to himself. Then, out loud, he said,
"Courun, I think Percy and I have to take our boots off before we get into
the city." "Why?"
the captor inquired. "Custom,
I think," the gazetteer explained, making it up as he went along, "at
least that's what I heard, and we wouldn't want to get things off on the wrong
foot, I mean, just when you and Haukun are on the verge of returning to
respectability." Courun
turned to Haukun, and asked, "Do you remember anything about captives
having to be brought into the city barefoot?" "No,"
Haukun answered, "but you and I have been away for a long time, and he
does seem to know a lot about these types of things." The two
drow helped their captives off with their boots while the puzzled Woodehous
looked at his companion for assurance. "Believe
me," the gazetteer asserted, "it's important." Woodehous
realized this last comment was strictly for his own reassurance. Luckily
for the two bound captives, the road ahead was smooth, posing little threat to
the delicate soles of their feet. The former maitre d'/cook/waiter noticed that
Volo took more than a passing interest in their surroundings, as if he were
trying to memorize everything in a matter of seconds. The
road opened out into a huge cavern, within which the city was situated. All
four travelers were momentarily speechless in awe of its magnificence. "Araurikaurak,"
Volo mouthed, his eyes wide in wonder. "No,"
Courun corrected, "Menzoberranzan." "I
was just using its dwarven name," Volo replied, adding absently, still in
awe of its splendor, "It's just as I pictured it." "You
mean, as you remembered it," Woodehous corrected, asking, "don't
you?" "Whatever,"
the master traveler replied absently, ". . . and I am here now." Menzoberranzan The
city itself filled the entire cavern. Volo had been slightly mistaken when he
called the city Araurikaurak. In reality that was the name of the cavern, quite
literally translated from dwarven as Great Pillar Cavern. Legend had it that
the entire open area was formerly the lair of a gigantic spider, but given the
proclivity of the drow for adoration of all things arachnoid, the validity of
this legend was more than open to discussion. From
their vantage point just outside and above the city, they were able to look
down on the wonders of the entire subterranean complex. Woodehous
noticed a lake at the lower end of the cavern, and whimsically asked, "I
wonder how the fishing is?" "If
you are lucky, you might find out," Courun replied. "That's
Donigarten, where the slave pens are maintained. In the nearby dung fields, I
am sure you would find ample fungi and mushrooms to season the nautical fare
you'd fish." From
this distance, the former maitre d'/cook/waiter could just make out some of the
slaves paddling around the lake on rafts, some leading beasts of burden, others
little better than beasts of burden themselves. This was not an existence to be
envied. At the
highest part of the city floor stood the Tier Breche, home of the Academy,
where drow received their training. The prospects of life in the slave pens for Woodehous
was every bit as abhorrent to him as the memories that flooded back to the two
drow warriors upon once again seeing the place of their education. To the
other side of the city floor was the Qu'ellarz'orl, a plateau separated from
the lower city by a grove of giant mushrooms. This was where the noble houses
were located, and where Courun and Haukun expected to regain their rightful
places. Numerous flashes of faerie fire in the houses indicated that there were
several parties going on, commemorating various celebrations of one sort and
another. "Soon,
they will be throwing parties for us," Courun replied with a haughtiness
that was quite unbecoming. Looming
above the entire city cavern was the pillar Narbondel, whose change in glow
indicated the passing time of the day. Its smooth yet rough surface gave an
appearance that could not have been fostered by means other than the pure
refining forces of nature itself. This was the only structure in the entire
city that had not been remade by the skillful digits and sure hands of drow
artisans. Volo
stood in awe of the exotic beauty of the place. Though he had traversed the
entire world of Toril, he had never looked upon a city to compare with this
one. True, he had never been to Netheril or Cormanthyr, whose beauty was the
stuff of legends, but both of those cities were long dead before he had been
born. Menzoberranzan was still very much alive and in its glory, even if that
glory was pervasively evil. The
four travelers lost track of how long they had been standing on the ledge, and
probably would have continued to stare off in awe had they not been interrupted
by two representatives of the Dark Dominion, who prided themselves on knowing
how to deal with unwanted interlopers. "What
are you.doing here?" the senior patrolman demanded in clipped Drowish,
which Volo was barely able to understand. "What are you doing with these
two surface dwellers?" "They
are our prisoners," Courun and Haukun replied in proud unison. "And
we have come to turn them over to the matron mother." Pointing
at Volo, Courun continued his spiel. "This one here," he stated with
pride, "is a blemish to the honor of our beloved Lloth. He has dared to
violate her domain and would have made it the object of mockery for all the
surface dwellers had we not stopped him." The two
patrolmen looked at each other and exchanged signals in the silent language of
the drow. Neither was amused, nor did they know what to do with the party at
hand. Finally, the senior one returned his attention to Courun and Haukun. "Of
what house do you belong?" the patrolman demanded. "House
Salato," the two proud drow warriors replied, once again in unison. [ The
guards laughed, and Woodehous distinctly heard Volo murmur, "Uh, oh,"
under his breath. ; "That
house hasn't been around in over a century," the senior patrolman advised.
"It was wiped out after an unsuccessful bid for power. You'd better come
along with us." A look
of panic raced across the two drow warriors' faces. "Salato
. . . gone?" they cried. In unison, they screamed, and then took off in
opposite directions. Woodehous
felt Volo's suddenly unbound hand grasp his tightly. "We'll
let the jade spiders track them down," the older patrolman decided.
"Let's bring in these two surface dweller prisoners and take any credit
that is due i for their capture for
ourselves." "But
where did they go?" the other patrolman inquired, for the two prisoners
were no longer there, as if they had both just vanished into thin air. Back to
the Double G "Pig,
where have you been?" Woodehous
immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Wurlitzer, the orcish
bartender. "What
are you doing here?" Woodehous asked in amazement. "Working,"
the ore replied, "just like you used to do before you were fired from
Traitor Pick's for not showing up for work after your dinner break." The
former maitre d'/waiter/cook quickly looked around, and to his astonishment
found himself back in the Gentleman's Groggery in Skullport, his companion, the
legendary Volothamp Geddarm, by his side. "How
. . . ?" Woodehous tried to sputter out a question. "...
long have you been away?" the ore completed. "A while. Long enough
for Traitor Pick's to get a new cook. He's not bad either, but I'm sure
everyone will agree that he's no Pig Woodehous." "No
... I ..." Woodehous continued to sputter, not fully understanding what
must have happened. "Why
don't you bring us two mugs of your finest, my good fellow," Volo
interrupted. "Of
course, good sir," Wurlitzer replied. Remembering the guinea tip that Volo
had left during his last visit to the Double G, he quickly set off to fetch the
requested refreshments. "What
happened?" Woodehous demanded, relieved to be back in civilization, but
confused, nonetheless. "We're
back in Skullport," the master traveler replied matter-of-factly. "I
know that," Woodehous said, ". . . but how?" "We
teleported," Volo explained. "I picked up a few tricks on my last
trip around Toril, and one of them involved the teleporting properties of
necromancer gems." "Necromancer
gems?" "Yes,
thank you," the master traveler replied, interrupting his explanation to
acknowledge Wurlitzer's drink service. "Necromancer gems are wonderful travelers'
aids. Large ones act as temporary portals, such as the one I left here when our
journey began, and the one I carried with me. Smaller ones, on the other
hand, ; can be ground into a dust
that will leave a luminescent I
trail that is only visible to the eye of a trained mage." "That's
why we had to take our boots off before entering the city," Woodehous
observed. : "Of
course," Volo concurred. "After all, it would have been absurd to
expect all drow to be as dense as Courun and Haukun." "But
why did you want to leave a trail?" "So
I could find my way there and back again." "But
what about your first time? The one you wrote your book about... the book that
got us into this mess?" ; "This
was my first trip to Menzoberranzan," the master traveler confessed.
"I'd never been there before. The book was just a hoax-bait to rile the
righteous demeanor of some drow and make him take me to the great city, to
satisfy Lloth's honor." "There
is no Volo Does Menzo?" "Well,
not just yet," the gazetteer replied, ". . . but soon there will be.
Let us finish our drinks, and I will
; fill you in on my plans." The two
travelers finished their drinks, and then followed them up with two bowls of
stew and another mug of grog, each. When they were both feeling reasonably
comfortable, Volo paid the bill, and directed Woodehous to accompany him for
the rest of the explanation. i "Now
we must retrace our steps from that memorable night not too long ago," the
traveler instructed. "Observe." Volo
removed the gem of luminescence from its place in the thong around his neck,
attached another multi-faceted gem to its base, and then returned it to its
resting place in the pocket on the thong. "Certain
trained mages can follow this trail with a naked eye," Volo lectured,
immediately reminding Woodehous of Malix's reference to a path of glowing dust,
"but I prefer to use this." Volo
focused the gem's luminescence on the path before him. What had once been bare
and unblemished rock was now adorned with a pair of glowing footsteps. "Now,
after a good night's rest, I can journey back to the city of the drow, in
disguise, of course, complete my research, and-poof!-VbZo's Guide to the
Underdark becomes a reality, complete with directions there and back again from
Skullport. Do you want to join me on this little trip? I assure you it will be
much easier than last time." "No,
thank you," Woodehous replied. "I've had my fill of adventure for a
lifetime." "Well,"
replied the master traveler, "the least I can do is give you a letter of
recommendation. If I recall correctly, you were a victim of circumstance back
at the Shipmaster's Hall in Waterdeep. I'm sure a letter from me could smooth
things over with the powers that be. Restauranting genius such as yours should
not go to waste. Though I am sure I've lost some weight these past few weeks,
I've never felt less than gastronomically satisfied, and I owe it all to
you." "Thank
you, good sir," the pale thin gentleman replied, realizing that what he
had sought at their journey's beginning, he had just obtained without even
asking for it, perhaps making the whole escapade worthwhile after all. Think
nothing of it, "the gazetteer replied. "Come, let us find ourselves a
room for tonight. Tomorrow, I will provide you with your letter, and I will be
on my way." The two
travelers fested like boon companions, and slept late the following morning.
True to his word, Volo gave Woodehous a letter addressed to the proprietor of
the Shipmaster's Hall, before he made his way back down the alley from whence
their adventure had started. The former soon-to-be maitre d'/cook/waiter
decided to accompany the greatest traveler of all Faerun to the outskirts of
Skullport to bid him one last farewell before he recommenced his journey
through the Underdark. With
gems in hand and disguise in his pack, Volo set off down the alleyways.
Woodehous followed close behind. Woodehous
remembered the narrowing passageway, and the sudden series of sharp right
turns, and was equally surprised as Volo when they found themselves facing a
dead end. "I
don't understand," the master traveler said. "The footprints just
stop here. There is no evidence of a portal, or a secret passageway, or
anything-just a blank wall." Just
then, a voice vaguely familiar to Woodehous piped in. "Looking for
something?" the voice asked. "Oh, it's you, Pig. Long time no
see." The voice belonged to Knytro the dwarf, Woodehous's former patron
from Traitor Pick's. "We're
looking for a passageway out of town," Volo replied. "I'm sure there
used to be one here." "Oh,
indeed there was," Knytro replied, "up until a few days ago when I
filled it in. A quake farther down the line made the whole tunnel unstable, so
I closed it down. I dug it, so it's my right to fill it in, and I did. But
don't worry, there are plenty of other subterranean roads leading out of town.
One is pretty much as good as another." Woodehous
felt sorry for his companion in captivity. True, other tunnel trails existed,
but none of them were marked with the glowing dust to lead the way. Volothamp
Geddarm was left back at Square One. "Oh,
well," the master traveler replied. "Maybe this volume was just not
meant to be. I still have Volo's Guide to the Moonsea to complete, and I'm a
little behind on that, so I feel a little guilty about leaving Justin-my
publisher-in the lurch after having promised him a surprise best-seller for his
next list." "Oh,
well," Woodehous concurred. "There doesn't seem to be much you can do
about it. Let's go back to the inn we stayed in last night. Maybe they'll let
me borrow the use of their kitchen so I can fix you a conciliatory
dinner." "Can
I tag along?" the dwarf requested. Tve really missed your slop. For my
guineas, there isn't a better cook in the entire Underdark." "Indeed,"
replied the master traveler, "that sounds like a cracker of a solution.
Who needs the Shipmaster's Hall. Certainly not you. You should return to
Waterdeep for a position more befitting your talents. Rip up that letter. I
will give you another one in its place, one that will be far more profitable
for everyone involved." "After
we eat, of course," Knytro clarified, having inserted himself into the
soon-to-be dining group. "Of
course," the master traveler replied. "Of course." Woodehous
was excited by the apparent zeal of the master traveler, and paused just for a
moment to reflect on their adventure together. "What do you think will
happen to Courun and Haukun?" "I
don't rightly know," the master traveler admitted. "As the sole
survivors of an overthrown house, both of them are marked by drow law for
extermination. Still, some say Ao does watch out for simpletons, and I have to
believe that applies to the drow as well as to surface dwellers. But enough
dwelling on the past. Great plans await, for me in Mulmaster, and for you in
Waterdeep. But, first, a meal!" "That's
what I've been waiting for," Knytro interjected. "No one makes slop
like Pig." "That's
Percy," Volo corrected. "Whatever,"
Woodehous added with a chuckle as they all set out for the inn. The End
(Almost). POSTSCRIPT Back at
the Publishing House Justin
Tym had every reason to be joyous. Volo's Guide to Shadowdale was outperforming
all of the previous books in the series, perhaps helped by an unexpected
introduction from the mage of Shadowdale himself, causing more than just the
publisher to wonder what his favorite gazetteer had on Elminster, to elicit a
favor of such magnitude. Cormyr: A Novel was also selling through at an
exceptionally nice rate, despite the efforts of rival publisher Delbert Reah to
cause confusion in the marketplace by releasing an inferior volume called
Cormyr: A History by Green Grubbwood (an alias if there ever was one), with a
cover treatment more than a bit similar to the one on Justin's volume. TWL's
sale were at an all-time high, and its position as the top publisher in all of
the City of Splendors-if not all of Faerun, for that matter-was safely assured
for yet another year. All was
rosy, Justin thought to himself as he looked out over the irregular rooftops
that stretched along the labyrinthine corridors of the city, a single floor
below his office's window. Still, there was no word from Volo. "Uh,
boss?" said Miss Elissa Silverstein, an exceptionally youthful flaxen
blonde who had recently replaced Miss Latour as Tym's right hand. "There
is someone here to see you." Justin
turned his chair away from the window to face his nubile assistant. "Send
whoever it is away," he ordered in a gruff yet disinterested tone. "I
have work to do, and I do not wish to be disturbed." "But,
boss," she insisted, "he claims to have a message from one of your
authors." "Who?" "A
Mr. Geddarm." Justin
chuckled to himself, thinking, it's about time! "All
right," the publisher assented, "send him in." Miss
Silverstein hastened out of the publisher's private office and returned in nary
a minute with a pale-skinned fellow who looked as if he hadn't seen the sun in
a long time. The man handed him a parchment pouch that had become the signature
of a Volo correspondence. Quickly
opening it, Justin read: Justin, Your
gracious indulgence has been appreciated. I am
off to Mulmaster to finish the Moonsea guide. Before
you stands your next "great find," with an idea for a surefire
best-seller. Work your traditional marketing magic on him, and success is
assured for all. Talk to
you soon. Keep the gelt coming, care of my friends at the Shipmaster's Hall. Best,
Volo Justin
chuckled in gentle amusement. Volo was okay, the book would soon be on the way,
and, therefore, all was right with the world. He quickly scanned the missive
again, and then turned his attention to the pale gentleman standing before him. "Volo's
usually a pretty good judge of the marketing potential for a new book
idea," Justin conceded out loud. "What's the hook?" Percival
Gallard Woodehous took a breath, as if to call upon all of his stores of
courage, and started his pitch. "It's a cookbook, you see, involving a
variety of subterranean fungi. Highly nutritious, tasty, and perfect for those
interested in losing a few pounds. I've tentatively titled it The Underdark
Diet." Justin
fought to hold back a smile and not give away any unnecessary enthusiasm that
might drive the pale fellow's price up. "I
see," said the publisher in as even a tone as he could muster.
"Continue," he instructed, leaning back and savoring the relief of
having found the savior for next year's list. The End
(Really). Realms of the Underdark PREFACE At the
Publishing House The
offices of Tym Waterdeep Limited, the most successful publishing firm in all
Faerun, had been fraught with tension for several weeks. Justin Tym, Faerun's
most successful publisher, was worried about the upcoming list. It was common
knowledge throughout the City of Splendors that TWL (as it was known to the
bookselling community) was on the verge of publishing their two most eagerly
anticipated titles yet. Cormyr:
A Novel had received numerous prepublication endorsements, and initial orders
were at an all-time high for a first novel. Likewise, Volo's Guide to the
Dalelands had all the earmarks of becoming the most successful volume in the
guide series written by the gazetteer rumored to be the most successful
traveler in all the Realms. Without
a doubt, TWUs current list was their best ever .. . yet Justin Tym was still
worried. Unlike the common book buyer, seller, or reader, a book publisher
seldom worried about the titles currently being released. His concerns were
typically the next season's list, titles currently being edited and readied for
publication; and next year's roster, those titles to be contracted to assure
that the firm maintains the strength of its list in the times ahead. Justin
Tym was deeply concerned because, as of yet, no new surefire success had found
its way to his desk and onto the list to follow up the current crop of titles. Though
a follow-up novel to Cormyr: A Novel was under discussion (perhaps a sequel, or
perhaps something totally different, such as Evermeet: A Novel), the author in
question, Greenwood Grubb, was beginning to show signs of becoming a prima
donna, toiling over every word. Where Cormyr: A Novel was written over the
course of the aged scholar's seasonal sabbatical, Grubb had already indicated
that the new title would probably take at least thrice as long to write,
commenting that artists need time for the creative juices to flow. Tym
suspected that the juices that would be flowing were of the more distilled
variety, that they would continue to flow until the advance from the earlier
book had been completely spent, and that the scholar would not apply himself to
his next opus until he absolutely had to: when the gelt ran out. Unfortunately
this could be, depending on the extravagance of the author's tastes, several
seasons from now. True, success for the next title was almost assured once it
was published, but no one, particularly not TWL's creditors, expected the house
to stop the presses until thai time. Weighing
even more heavily on Justin's mind, however, were the curious set of
circumstances connected to the other title. TWL had
always been sole publisher of the works of the legendary Volothamp Geddarm, and
Tym had always considered the success of the numerous Volo's guides to be the
product of a true publishing partnership. He thought Volo considered him more
than just a publisher, maybe even a father figure (or perhaps an older brother,
since their ages weren't really that far apart). Likewise, he considered Volo
more than just a travel writer or some hack author; he was the house's cash
cow, the goose that laid the golden volumes. He was that rare commodity: a
bankable author. Theirs
was a relationship blessed by the gods; at least it was until a few months ago. Justin
scratched the top of his pate. It was long forlorn of hair and most recently
the home of more than a few wrinkles, which had been creeping upward from his
brow line. He still couldn't understand what could possibly have come between
them. A lunch
meeting had been set, as was their custom, but Volo sent a message canceling
the appointment due to some other more pressing commitment. Justin didn't think
much of it at the time. He simply figured Volo was embarrassed by not having a
new project ready to feed into the TWL publishing pipeline, especially since
his Guide to Shadowdale was already about halfway through its production cycle.
With a shrug, Justin decided to take the rest of the day off. The
next day, when he returned to the office, he discovered that Volo had come by
that very afternoon demanding payment for some manuscript he claimed to have
delivered that very morning. Had Justin been in, something might have been
worked out; but an overzealous employee (who was later dismissed) ushered the
star author rather rudely off the premises and gave him a sound tongue-lashing
for having stood up the venerable publisher for lunch. Not a
word had been heard from the author since that day, and Justin was more than a
bit worried. "Where
will I send the next royalty payment?" the publisher fretted. "And,
more importantly, what will I do for a new Volo's guide? We had discussed doing
the next one on the Moonsea area. Without it, my next year's list is as barren
as the Battle of the Bones." Paige
Latour, Justin's latest in a long line of secretaries and the most curvaceous
to date, entered the publisher's office, undetected by her preoccupied boss.
"Justin, I mean, Mr. Tym," she said, interrupting him from his
worrisome speculations while proffering a sealed parchment pouch. " A
messenger just dropped this off for you." "Probably
just another wanna-be submission," the publisher offered absently. "Send
it back unread. You know the procedure." "But
I think you might want to read it." "Not
now," he retorted curtly. "Just handle it, and don't bother me." "But,
boss," she insisted, "I really think you should read it. It's from
some guy named Volothamp, and I figured maybe you could talk him into
shortening his name and taking over those Volo's guides you've been worried
about." "Volothamp?"
Tym inquired, jolted out of his preoccupations. "Yeah,
boss," she replied. Patting herself on the back, she added, "Pretty
neat plan I've come up with, huh?" "Give
me the pouch," the publisher ordered. "Sure
thing," Paige replied. "Can I be an editor now? You promised you'd
show me the ropes, but so far you've only shown me . .." Justin
only had to glance at the writing to immediately recognize the penmanship. "Miss
Latour," Justin interrupted. "This isn't the ideal candidate for a
pseudo-Volo." "It's
not?" she asked, puzzled by her boss's reaction. "No,
this is from the real Volo," he replied. "Oh,"
she groused, not even trying to hide her disappointment. "I guess I'm not
ready to be an editor yet." Miss
Latour quickly left Tym's office as he read the short missive. Justin, All is
forgiven. Moonsea
guide is still in the works, but should be done on schedule. We can
discuss Magic volume when I return (dare I suggest over lunch?). Till
then, please spot me some gelt, care of the Shipmaster's Hall (you know my
earned royalties will make good on it and more). Best, Volo P.S.
I'm working on another project that will make the Moonsea guide look like last
year's WHO'S WHO AMONG THE ZHENTARIM, but have decided to keep you in the dark
about it until it nears completion (Hee, hee!). The
publisher stared at the missive several times while mopping his brow with a
recently untied cravat. He was happy the tension brought about by situations
unknown seemed to have been defused, but he was still concerned about the
upcoming schedule. Did this mean the Moonsea guide would be in on time or not,
and what of this other project? Volo had always been fond of puzzles, puns, and
conundrums. Perhaps there was a clue in the note, and maybe the solution would
mean TWL's salvation as well. Hmmmmm.
... THE
FIRES OF NARBONDEL Mark
Anthony Chapter
One Weapons
Master There
are a thousand deaths in the Underdark-a thousand different horrors skulking in
lightless caverns and lurking deep in still black pools, each waiting to rend
unwary flesh with fang, or talon, or caustic venom. In the overworld, far
above, animals kill so that they might eat and live. But the creatures that
haunt the dark labyrinth beneath the face of Toril do not kill to live, for
life itself is agony to them. They kill because they are driven to kill: by
madness, by hatred, and by the foul atmosphere of evil that pervades every
stone of this place. They kill because, only in killing, can they know release. With
the silence of one shadow slipping past another, Zaknafein-weapons master of
House Do'Urden, Ninth House of Menzoberranzan, ancient city of the dark elves-trod
down the rough-walled passage. He had left his lizard mount behind, clinging to
the side of a massive stalagmite some distance back. Swift and soundless as the
giant reptiles were, Zak preferred to rely on his own powers of stealth for the
final twists and turns. It would not be far now. Like a
wraith, he plunged deeper into the Dark. Dominion,
the wild region beyond the borders of the underground city. His ebon skin and
black rothe-hide garments merged with the dusky air, and he had concealed his
shock of bone-white hair beneath the deep hood of hispiwafwi, his magic-tinged
cloak. Only the faint red glow of his eyes-eyes that required no light to see,
but only the countless gradations of heat radiated by stone and flesh and all
things in between- might have belied that it was not a dark breath of air that
moved down the passage, but a living being. Zak
cocked his head, pointed ears listening for the first telltale sounds. He had
now passed beyond the farthest reach of the patrols-those merciless troops of
dark-elf soldiers and wizards that kept the tunnels around Menzoberranzan free
of monsters. Anything might lie beyond the next bend of stone, any one of those
thousand waiting horrors. Yes, death could be found in endless variety in the
Underdark. But what did he have to fear? Zaknafein laughed without sound, his
white teeth shining in the darkness. Were not the draw the greatest horror of
all? He
moved on. Minutes
later Zak came upon his prey: a band of pale, bug-eyed kobolds. Until that
moment, he had not known he was hunting the stunted, dog-snouted creatures. It
might have been bugbears, or deepspawn, or black crawlers, or any one of a
score of different monsters. It made no difference. All that mattered was that
they were evil. He had come upon the kobolds first. They would serve him well
enough. The
ragged creatures huddled in a small cave, pawing over the spoils of their
latest victim. Zak's red eyes detected the cold metallic outline of a horned
helm and a stout warhammer. A dwarf. Dwarves were fierce fighters, and kobolds
were cowardly creatures, but a dozen of them would not hesitate to swarm a lone
wanderer. No doubt the dwarf had had the ill luck to find himself alone and too
far from the underground home of his clan. Tufts of hair matted with blood
still clung to the armor and weapons. The kobolds had jumped him and ripped him
to shreds. "Mine!"
one of the creatures shrieked in the crude common tongue of the Underdark, its
eyes glowing with lust. It snatched a cloak of fine cloth from one of the
others, clutching it in grimy hands. "Mine,
it is!" the other kobold growled. "I it was who bit its filthy
neck!" "No,
mine!" hissed a third. "Gouged its foul, sticky eyes with my own
fingers, I did!" The two
hateful contenders tackled the first creature, snarling and biting with yellow
teeth, tearing the cloak to tatters in the process. Quarrels broke out among
the rest of the kobolds as they fought over the dead dwarfs goods. Zak knew he
had to act now if there was to be any work left for him to do. Tossing back his
concealing piwafwi, he stepped into the cave. "Why
don't I settle this little argument for you?" he asked in a ringing voice.
A fierce grin split his angular visage. "How about if you all
get-nothing?" The
kobolds froze, staring at the drow weapons master in surprise and dread, bits
of cloth and jewelry dropping from their bloodstained fingers. Then, as one,
the diminutive creatures shrieked in terror, scrambling and clawing past each
other to escape the nightmare before them. There was nothing in all the
Underdark that kobolds feared more than drow. For good reason. With
one hand, Zak drew his adamantite sword, while the other uncoiled the whip from
his belt. In an almost lazy gesture, he flicked his wrist. The whip struck like
a black serpent, taking the feet out from under the nearest kobold. His sword
followed. Like a dying insect, the kobold squirmed for a moment on the end of
his blade. Then Zak heaved the creature aside, turning toward the next. Kobolds
were like candy. He could never kill just one. Zaknafein's
grin broadened as he cut a swath through the shrieking tangle. He was slender,
like all elven kind, but his lithe form was as sharp and well-honed as his
blade. In a city of warriors, Zak knew he was one of the best. It was not a
matter of pride. It was simply fact. Another
kobold expired on the end of his sword, the evil phosphorescence of life fading
from its eyes until they were as cool and dull as stones. Even as one hand
wrested the blade from the dead creature, the other lashed out with the whip.
Supple leather coiled around a fleeing kobold's neck, stopping it in its
tracks. The thing clutched at its throat, fingers scrabbling in vain. . Zak
gave the whip an expert tug, snapping the creature's neck. Excitement
surged in his chest. Zaknafein had been alive for nearly four hundred years,
and he had spent almost all of those years mastering the art of battle. This
was his calling. This was what he had been born to do. Zak
spun and danced easily through the writhing throng of kobplds, falling now into
the trancelike rhythm of the fray. When killing things of evil, he felt a
clarity he did not know at other times. Unlike anything else in the tangled and
devious world of the dark elves, this made sense to him. In Menzoberranzan, all
life revolved around station. Each of the noble houses in the city was caught
in a never-ending game of intrigue, alliance, and treachery. All of it served
one goal: to win the favor of the dark goddess Lloth. Those who gained the blessing
of the Spider Queen knew great power and prosperity, while those who earned her
displeasure found only destruction and death. To Zak, climbing Lloth's Ladder
was a pointless exercise. No family stayed in Lloth's favor forever. Each was
doomed to fall eventually. He wanted no part of that meaningless game. The
machinations, the deceits, the shadowed plots: all were beyond him. But
this-another kobold died screaming under the swing of his blade-this he
understood. Zak blinked. The
small cavern had fallen silent, save for the piteous whining of a single kobold
that cowered before him. All the rest of the evil creatures were dead. Veins
thrumming with exhilaration, Zak raised his adamantite sword to finish what he
had begun. That
was when he saw it. It dangled from a silvery thread not five paces away and
watched him with eyes like black, many-faceted jewels. A spider. The
sword halted in its descent. Zak stared at the arachnid. It was only an
ordinary rock spider, no larger than the palm of his hand. But all spiders were
sacred to Lloth. And all were her servants. The metallic taste of disgust
spread across his tongue. He had slain the kobolds for himself, to quell his
own needs. But the act served Lloth as well, did it not? The kobolds were the
enemy of the drow, of her children. Their deaths could only please her. His
lips pulled back, transforming his grin into an expression of loathing. He
turned away from the last kobold, and the creature squealed in surprise,
thinking it had somehow escaped its worst nightmare. Without even looking, Zak
thrust the blade backward, silencing the creature, ending its false hope. But
there was no pleasure in the act. Not now. He glared at the spider, fingered
the handle of his whip, and knew he could crush it with a single flick. But
even he dared not harm one of Lloth's messengers. He let his hand fall from the
weapon. A gloom
settled over him, even darker and more stifling than the oppressive air of the
Underdark. After reluctantly harvesting the expected trophies, he started back
toward the city of the drow. By the
time he reached the edge of the vast underground cavern that housed
Menzoberranzan, his gloom had deepened into despair. Sitting astride the broad
back of his lizard mount, he gazed over the dwelling of the dark elves-his
home, and yet not his home. Long ago, the legends told, the dark elves had
lived in the overworld. They had dwelt along with their fair sylvan kindred,
with no comforting roof of stone above them but only a vast emptiness called
sky. As out of place as Zak felt among his people, the thought of living on the
surface chilled his blood. So changed were the drow after dwelling for eons in
the realms below that they could never live in the overworld again. They were
creatures of the dark now. Lloth had seen to that. She had made them what they
were, and for that he hated her. Zak let
his gaze wander over the eerie cityscape before him. Pale faerie fire, conjured
by the wizards of the various houses, revealed the fantastic shapes into which
the cavern's gigantic stalagmites and stalactites had been hewn. Slender
bridges leapt impossibly between the stone spires. In the five thousand years
during which the dark elves had dwelt in this place, not a single surface had
been left untouched. Every piece of stone had been carved and polished and
shaped to suit the needs of the drow. Everything that was, except for
Narbondel. The
rugged pillar of stone stood, as it had for millennia, in the center of the
great cavern. Here in the unending dark, where there was no alternation of day
and night to mark time, Narbondel served as the city's clock. Once each day,
Menzoberranzan's archmage cast a spell of fire upon the base of the pillar.
Throughout the day the enchanted fire rose, until the entire column glowed with
the heat of it, before finally fading into cool darkness - the Black Death of
Narbondel - upon which the cycle was begun anew. Despite
the magical fires that were cast upon it, each day Narbondel fell black again.
Darkness always won in the end. Zak shook his head. Perhaps he was a fool to
think he was different from the rest of his cruel and capricious kindred. He
killed only creatures of evil, but it was the killing itself he craved, was it
not? Maybe he was no different at all. That was, perhaps, his deepest fear. A faint
humming sound broke his grim reverie. Something twitched against his throat. He
reached into his neck-purse and pulled out the insignia of House Do'Urden. The
adamantite disk was engraved with a spider that wielded a different weapon in
each of its eight appendages. The coin glowed with silver light and was warm
against his hand. It was a summons. Matron Mother Malice, leader of House
Do'Urden, required the presence of her weapons master. For a
moment, Zaknafein gazed into the darkness behind him. He half considered
plunging back into the Dark Dominion and leaving the city forever. The chance
that a lone drow could survive in the Underdark was slim. But there was a
chance. And he could be free. The
metallic disk twitched again on his palm, the heat growing uncomfortable. Zak
sighed. Thoughts of fleeing evaporated. He belonged in the Underdark even less
than he did here. Like it or not, this was his home. He nudged his lizard mount
into a swift, swaying walk, heading through an arched gate into the city of the
drow. One did
not keep one's matron mother waiting. Chapter
Two Matron
Mother "Where
is he?" Matron Mother Malice of House Do'Urden demanded in a voice sharp
with impatience. She
paced with perilous grace before the adamantite railing that separated the
compound's private upper chambers from the common levels below, her dark gown
flowing behind her like shadows. The other nobles of the house-her five living
children, along with her current patron, Rizzen-watched from a prudent
distance. None dared cross the path of her ire. Malice
muttered a curse under her breath. There was no doubt Zaknafein was the finest
weapons master in the city, but that gave her little advantage if she could not
control him. A servant-especially a male servant-did not make his matron wait.
Several years ago, she had revoked Zak's position as patron and had taken
Rizzen in his stead, thinking that would show him the consequences of
displeasing her. In the time since, though, he had become only more willful and
unmanageable. Malice was growing weary of being embarrassed by Zaknafein.
Useful as he was to her, she would not tolerate it much longer. "Let
me deal with Zaknafein when he returns, Matron Malice," offered Briza,
Malice's eldest daughter. Unlike her lithe mother, Briza was a big-boned and
round-shouldered elf. Recently anointed a high priestess of Lloth, she enjoyed
wielding her new authority. "Males are not as intelligent as the rest of
us. There is only one sort of instruction they understand." With fond
fingers, she touched the writhing, snake-headed whip at her belt. The
half-dozen snake heads hissed in anticipation. "If
I have wronged Matron Mother Malice, then punishment is hers to mete out, not
yours, Briza Do'Urden." All
turned to see a feral form step out of midair and float over the adamantite
railing. Zaknafein drifted to the floor before Malice, waving a hand to end the
levitation spell of which all highborn drow are capable-a fact that accounted
for the lack of stairs leading to the upper level of the house. Briza glared
daggers at the weapons master but held her tongue. All knew that his rebuke had
been correct, and that she had overstepped her bounds in her eagerness to
punish him. Malice
folded her arms over her breasts, her expression cold. "I do not like
waiting, Zaknafein. Tell me quickly why I should not give you to Briza and her
whip." "There
is no reason, Matron Mother," Zaknafein replied, bowing his head and
assuming a submissive posture before her. "But allow me to present you
with these before you do what you will." He laid
a grisly bundle at her feet-a dozen hairy kobold ears bound together with
twine. Malice raised a single eyebrow, impressed despite her anger. Kobolds
were wretched creatures, but they were vicious when cornered, and slaying a
dozen alone was no mean feat. Such an act could only please Lloth. She
felt her anger receding. The gift was a good one, and Zaknafein was now acting
suitably repentant. Perhaps his punishment should be to come to her bedchamber
and serve her there. She knew she should resist the temptation. Zak needed to
know how he had displeased her. And yet... She glanced at Rizzen. Her current
patron was handsome, yes, but so docile, so pliant, so utterly dull. Maybe it
was her lack of control over Zak that made him desirable. Danger could be ever
so alluring. Whatever
her decision would be, Malice decided to save it for later. Zaknafein's
offering had mollified her for the moment. Besides, there were more important
matters to attend. Malice rested
her pointed chin on the back of her hand, her dark eyes glinting. "You and
I will consider the matter of your punishment later, Zaknafein. Alone." At that
last word, an expression of surprise crossed Briza's broad face. Rizzen shot
Zaknafein an open look of hatred, then remembered himself and averted his gaze,
lest he attract his matron mother's wrath. Zaknafein only gave an emotionless
nod. Satisfied
the matter was resolved, Malice decided it was time to tell the others why she
had gathered them together. "I have concocted a plan," she announced
in a bold voice. "A plan that, if it succeeds, will bring the favor of
Lloth upon House Do'Urden. Vierna
and Maya, Briza's younger sisters, exchanged puzzled looks. "But
do we not already enjoy the favor of the Spider Queen?" Vierna asked in a
tentative voice. Maya's
tone was more confident. "After all, we are Ninth House of Menzoberranzan
now." Malice's
eyes narrowed as she regarded her two youngest daughters. Though both were
nearly high priestesses, they were not such yet, and should not have spoken
without her leave. Yet their words served her, and she chose to let the affront
pass without comment. "Yes,
we are the Ninth House," Malice replied. "But is it not better to be
eighth than ninth?" A hot light
ignited in the eyes of her daughters, and Malice knew she had chosen well.
Being Eighth House meant gaining a seat on the ruling council-a seat that one
of her daughters would one day inherit. A smile coiled about the corners of
Malice's dark red lips. Desire was a stronger motivator than punishment. Now
Vierna and Maya gazed at her with eager expressions. Malice
raised a hand to her throat. "I am thirsty. I require wine." Throughout
the discussion, her two sons had stood in silence to one side. It was not a
male's position to speak concerning house affairs unless directly asked. At
eleven years, and by far the younger of the two, Drizzt had only recently
become page prince, and was not yet a true noble. Thus, serving the matron
mother was his duty. However, the boy seemed not to have heard her words; he
continued to gaze at his feet, as a page prince was taught to do in the
presence of nobles. After an uncomfortable moment, Dinin, who was elderboy of
House Do'Urden, boxed Drizzt on the ear, jerking the boy out of his stupor. "You
heard the matron mother," Dinin hissed. "She requires wine." The boy
Drizzt blinked and gave a jerky nod. He hurried to a gilded table upon which
rested crystal glasses and a decanter of dark mushroom wine. Malice
did not wait, but went on. "The Festival of the Founding approaches, the
day on which we recall the founding of Menzoberranzan over five thousand years
ago. Do any of you know what is to happen on that day?" "I
know." All
stared in shock at the boy Drizzt. He stood before Malice, holding out the cup
of wine. For Dinin, a full-grown elf, to speak without leave would have been a
grave offense. For a page prince, it was unthinkable. However, before Malice
could react, the boy continued. "On
the Festival of the Founding, the Spider Queen is supposed to appear somewhere
in the city." Drizzt frowned as he thought out the details. "Only she
appears in disguise. I suppose that's so she can see what the drow really think
about her." Briza
was the first to recover. She lunged forward, gripping her snake-headed whip.
"You idiot!" she snarled. "That's only an old story." She
raised the whip. Drizzt stared at her in fear but did not flinch. A hand
shot out, halting the whip's descent. "It
happens to be a true story, you fool," Malice hissed, her rage now
directed at her daughter. Briza
stared in dull astonishment. Malice
made a sound of disgust. "Perhaps you were given the mantle of high
priestess too soon, Briza, if a child - and a boy child at that - knows more
than you." Briza
started to stammer an apology, but Malice turned away. She bent over the boy,
gripping his chin tightly in her hand, lifting his head with cruel force. The
cup fell from his fingers, and wine spilled across the floor like dark blood.
She gazed into the boy's eyes, holding them by force of will, so they could not
look elsewhere. His eyes were an unusual color. Lavender. As always, Malice
wondered at this. What did they see that other eyes did not? "Tell
me what else you know about the Festival," she commanded. The boy
stared at her in mute terror. She tightened her grip, her fingers digging into
his flesh. "Tell
me!" Despite
his fear, Drizzt managed to speak. "I don't really know anything
else," he breathed. "Except that on the festival day, you have to be
nice to everybody, even goblins and bugbears, because there's no telling what
shape Lloth might put on. That's all." She
searched his strange purple eyes a moment more, then nodded, satisfied he spoke
truth. He was peculiar, this youngest son of hers, and difficult to train in
the most basic matters of behavior and respect. However, there was a power in
him. She sensed it. Right now it was unshaped. But if she could forge it with
her will and temper it with the proper experiences, he would be a powerful
weapon in her hands one day. Malice
released the boy. Drizzt stared in confusion until Dinin, face angry, motioned
for him to return to his side. No doubt Dinin would punish the boy later for
embarrassing him with disobedience, as it was his role to instruct the boy in
the proper manners of a page prince. Malice would not intervene. That was
Dinin's right. And it would only strengthen the boy. Malice
addressed her family then. "Child though he is, Drizzt is correct. The
tale is not simply a legend, though many believe it to be. On the Festival of
the Founding, the Spider Queen will indeed appear somewhere in the city. And if
she were to appear within a noble house that house would know great honor and
would surely prosper in the coming year." Her voice dropped to a
self-pleased purr. "And my plan will make certain it is House Do'Urden
where Lloth chooses to appear." Zaknafein laughed at this. "With all
due respect, you are very sure of yourself, Matron Mother." "As well
I should be," Malice snapped. What had she done to be cursed with such
precocious males? At least Dinin knew his place. "How do you intend to
bring Lloth here?" Briza asked in meek tones, clearly attempting to regain
her mother's favor. Malice
let Briza believe she had succeeded. "With this," she answered. From
her gown, she drew out a small, dark stone carved in the shape of a spider. A
single red ruby glistened on its abdomen. "This spiderjewel will lead
whoever bears it to the resting place of an ancient and holy relic-a dagger once
wielded by Menzoberra, she who founded our city in the name of Lloth so long
ago. I have been assured by the one who gave me this spiderjewel that, were we
to regain the Dagger of Menzoberra, Lloth would certainly grace us with her
presence as a reward." The
others absorbed this information and nodded- except for Zaknafein, who again
asked a skeptical question. "And how did you come by this information and
this jewel?" Malice
gave him a flat glare. "I summoned a yochlol." The
others stared at her in horror and amazement- including, to her satisfaction,
Zaknafein. "Yes,
I did it myself," she went on. "A great risk, but then Lloth favors
those who take risks." Despite
her pleasure, Malice shuddered at the memory of the dark, secret ceremony. One
did not summon one of the Handmaidens of Lloth on a whim. Though Malice was
five centuries old and matron of the Ninth House, even she had trembled at the
sight of the bubbling, amorphous being that had appeared in the midst of the
magical flames she had conjured. Had it been displeased with her call, the
yochlol might have turned her into a spider and squashed her with a shapeless
hand. But the time had seemed propitious to risk the summons, and Malice had
been right. The yochlol had been pleased with her obeisance, and had given her
the spiderjewel and the answer to her question-how to increase her stature in
the eyes of Lloth. She
approached the weapons master. "Zaknafein, I charge you with the
spiderjewel, and with finding the Dagger of Menzoberra, in the name of House
Do'Urden." She held out the dark gem. Zak
stared at the jewel but did not reach for it. Rage
warmed Malice's cheeks for all to see. "Do not defy me in this,
Zaknafein," she warned in a dangerous voice. "I have been indulgent
in the past, but I will suffer your embarrassments no longer. If you fail me in
this task, it will be for the final time." The
others held their breath as matron mother and weapons master locked gazes. For
a moment Malice was not certain she would win. At last Zak lowered his gaze and
took the spiderjewel. "I will find the Dagger, Matron Mother, or die
trying," he uttered through clenched teeth. Malice
bit her tongue to keep from sighing in audible relief. She did not always enjoy
being so harsh with her children and servants, but she was matron mother, and
the well-being of the house took precedence over all else, even her own
feelings. "A wise choice, Zaknafein," was all she said. After a
moment, she spoke in a brisk voice. "Now, I wish to be alone with my
daughters." At this,
the three males bowed and retreated toward the adamantite railing. As one, they
rose over the railing, then levitated to the ground below. "Finding
the Dagger cannot be so easy a feat," Briza said when the males were gone.
"What if Zaknafein indeed dies in the attempt?" Vierna
and Maya looked at the elder women in concern, wanting to speak their own
worries, but remembering their places this time. Malice
tapped her cheek, musing this over. "If Zaknafein dies in an attempt to
gain the glory of Lloth, the Spider Queen will certainly consider it a
sacrifice in her honor." Malice allowed herself a throaty laugh.
"Either way," she crooned, "Lloth is bound to be pleased with
House Do'Urden." Malice's daughters joined in her laughter. Chapter
Three Page
Prince Never
lift your gaze from the floor. That
was Drizzt Do'Urden's first lesson as page prince, and it had been one hard
learned. He couldn't count the times he had felt the stinging bite of his
sister Briza's snake-headed whip as punishment for breaking that all-important
rule. It wasn't that it was so hard a thing to remember. Drizzt knew that he
wasn't supposed to look up without permission. But knowing something wasn't as
easy as doing it. No matter how hard he tried to stare at his boots, it seemed
that something peculiar, or interesting, or wonderful always caught his
attention, lifting his gaze before he even knew it was happening. Unfortunately,
more often than not, Briza would be lurking behind him, waiting for just such a
transgression to occur. With an evil grin, she would uncoil her hissing whip
and rake the fanged serpents across his back. Drizzt never cried out or tried
to dodge the blows. To do so would only win him more lashes. He was page
prince, and as far as he could tell, that meant he was the lowest form of life
in all House Do'Urden. "Page
Prince, come here!" a voice called out across the house's main enclosure.
"I have a task for you." This
time Drizzt remembered to keep his head down. He could not see the speaker, but
he knew the voice well. It belonged to his sister, Vierna. For the
first ten years of his life, before he had become page prince, Vierna's had
been the only voice he had known, save for his own. Vierna had been his
word-wean mother. She had been given Drizzt as an infant, and as he grew she
had taught him the language of the drow-both the spoken tongue and the complex
system of hand signs that the dark elves used to communicate in silence. She
had also taught him how to use and control his innate magical abilities: the
power to levitate by force of will, and to conjure glowing faerie fire from
thin air. More than anything else, however, she had taught him his place as a
male in drow society. Females were his superiors, and he was always to defer to
them. She had made him repeat this doctrine so often that sometimes he still
woke at night to find he had been speaking it in his sleep. Though
Vierna's teachings had been anything but gentle, she had seldom used her whip
on him, and when she did it was without the open relish Briza always displayed.
However, in the year since he had become page prince, Vierna had resumed her
studies at Arach-Tinilith, and would soon be anointed as a high priestess. As
that time approached, Drizzt knew he could expect less and less kindness from
his sister. High priestesses of Lloth were not known for their mercy. Keeping
his eyes on the floor, Drizzt hurried in the direction of the voice, relying on
his keen senses of hearing and touch to avoid objects he could not see. In
moments, he stood before a pair of supple leather slippers he knew belonged to
his sister. "Listen
well, Page Prince, for I do not have time to instruct you twice," Vierna
said in curt tones. "The Festival of the Founding is but two days hence,
and the matron mother has ordered that the house be made ready for the Spider
Queen's imminent visit." "If
she bothers to come at all," Drizzt mumbled under his breath before he
could think to stifle the words. To his good fortune, Vierna either did not
hear the statement or chose to ignore it. "A
green fungus has grown on the walls in the feast hall since the last revel was
held," the young drow woman went on. "Briza wants you to clean all
the stones. With this." Into
his hand she thrust a bent copper spoon. He gaped in astonishment at the small
spoon. Clearly it was utterly inadequate for so large a task. "I'm
supposed to scrape all the walls in the feast hall with this?" he groaned,
forgetting himself. "Do
not question me, Page Prince!" Vierna warned in an overloud voice. "Expect
a lash of the whip for every speck of fungus you leave on the walls!" Knowing
better than to question her again, Drizzt started to bow in submission. Then,
to his surprise, Vierna leaned over and whispered in his ear. "I have
placed an enchantment of sharpness on the spoon, little brother, so perhaps the
task will not prove quite so impossible. But I swear, if you tell Briza-or
anyone-about what I have done, I will beat you until your skin slips from your
flesh like a rothe-hide coat." Drizzt
shivered at her chilling words. He did not doubt that she meant them. Before he
could answer, Vierna whirled around and disappeared through a side door. Drizzt
studied the spoon in his hand, his thumb testing the magically sharpened edge.
Perhaps the priestesses of Lloth at Arach-Tinilith had not yet bled all the
mercy out of Vierna. Not
wishing to get caught with the enchanted object, Drizzt dashed down a stone
passageway. At eleven years, he was much like other dark-elven youths- small
and slender, but quick as Briza's whip. In moments, he reached the empty feast
hall. Unlike
most of the noble houses of Menzoberranzan, which were typically built within a
stalactite-stalagmite pair, House Do'Urden was set into the western wall of the
cavern. The feast hall delved deeper into the surrounding rock than did any
other room in the house, and so was damp and prone to mold. Drizzt
groaned in renewed dismay as he stared at the walls. The stones were covered
with spongy growths of a fungus that exuded a noxious green glow. He sighed.
Procrastinating would only give the fungus more time to grow. Gripping the
spoon, he trudged toward one of the walls and started in on the task. Vierna
had underestimated the power of her enchantment. As
Drizzt scraped the spoon across the wall, a strip of glowing fungus darkened
and shriveled, falling to the floor, where it turned to dust. Not believing his
eyes, he ran the instrument over the fungus-covered wall again. A swath of
smooth, black stone appeared in its wake. A grin crept across the youthful
drow's face. It looked as if the task Briza had concocted for him was not going
to be nearly as horrid and tedious as she had hoped. With
buoyant energy, the young dark elf threw himself into the task. Concentrating
briefly, he rose into the air, using his natural-born powers of levitation to
reach the high walls and ceiling. Soon it became a game as he whirled and dived
through the air, swiping at bulbous patches of fungus with the enchanted spoon.
He imagined each was Briza's homely face as it shriveled and disintegrated, and
soon peals of elven laughter rang out across the hall. After what seemed almost
too short a time, Drizzt sank back to the floor, panting for breath and
grinning. He surveyed the walls. Not a speck of fungus marred the smooth onyx
surfaces. A
scrabbling sound reached his pointed ears. Drizzt looked up to see a rat
scramble out of a crack in the dark stone. The small creature scuttled across
the floor of the hall, its eyes hot and red as blood, making for a hole in the
opposite wall. With a fierce cry, Drizzt sprang into the air and landed in the
rat's path, brandishing the glowing spoon before him. The spoon wasn't exactly
a sword, but then the rat wasn't exactly a fierce monster of the Underdark.
Neither fact mattered much to Drizzt. Sometimes,
from a secret vantage point high above the main courtyard, he watched as the
weapons master, Zaknafein, trained the house's three-hundred soldiers. For
hours on end, Drizzt would watch them practice their weapons skills. He wasn't
sure why, but a thrill coursed through his veins every time he heard the
clanging of their adamantite swords, and the feral, dancelike offensive
maneuvers of Zaknafein fascinated him. Drizzt was doomed to life as a page
prince for five more years, but after that-if Briza hadn't managed to kill him
with all her evil chores-he would become a noble proper, and it would be time
to train in skills that would benefit the house. Drizzt knew that it was
possible he would be sent to the towers of Sorcere in Tier Breche, to learn the
dark secrets of magic. But in his heart he hoped that he would be given to
Zaknafein, to study with the weapons master. He wanted to learn to dance that
dangerous dance. Performing
his best imitation of the weapons master, Drizzt stalked around the rat. The
creature hissed, raising its hackles and baring yellow teeth. Drizzt lunged
forward with the magically sharpened spoon. Quick as he was, the rat was
quicker. It scuttled past him, running from the feast hall. With a whoop,
Drizzt ran after, careening down a corridor. He gained on his enemy, then
sprang forward, landing in front of it. The creature backed into a corner,
hissing and spitting, eyes glowing with hate. Drizzt closed in to finish off
his foe. As he had seen Zaknafein do a hundred times, he raised his weapon,
then spun around to bring it down in a swift killing blow. He
froze, halting the spoon a fraction of an inch from disaster. Sensing its
opportunity, the rat dashed between Drizzt's legs and disappeared through a
crack. Drizzt did not watch it go. Instead, his eyes remained riveted on the
object before his face. A web.
The silvery strands stretched like gossamer across the corner of the corridor.
In the center of the web, like a plump jewel, clung a small spider. Had he not
halted his swing at the last moment, his arm would have plunged right through
the fragile strands. With great care, Drizzt lowered the spoon. All spiders
were sacred to the goddess Lloth. To disturb one's web would have earned him a
long appointment with Briza's whip. But if he had accidentally killed the
arachnid ... Drizzt
let out a low breath. The punishment for killing a spider was death: quick,
painful, and with no chance of reprieve. Despite
the fatal nature of his near accident, Drizzt drew closer to the web in
fascination, studying the spider in the center. "I don't understand this
Lloth of yours," he murmured aloud. "Everybody seems to want her
favor. My mother. My sisters. All the other noble houses. They'll do anything
to get it. But they're terrified of Lloth, too. Sometimes I even think they
hate her. But that only makes them worship her all the Harder. Why? Why is
Lloth so important if she's so awful?" The spider only clung in silence to
its web. Drizzt frowned in annoyance. "Well, I don't care what everyone
else thinks," he decided. "I'm not afraid of spiders. If Lloth
appears to me on the Festival of the Founding, I'll say so to her ugly
face." Oddly
heartened by this bold exclamation, he turned and strode down the hallway, back
to the capricious world he knew as page prince, leaving the spider to spin its
tangled webs alone in the darkness. Chapter
Four Into
the Fire Zaknafein
did not want this mission. The
weapons master stood on a parapet high above the wrought-adamantite gates that
guarded the entrance to House Do'Urden. Right now, the gates were only half
raised, so that house nobles might levitate over them easily while goblins,
gnomes, and other rabble could not. But in times of crisis the gates could be
raised to cover the entire opening in the cavern's wall, so that none could
pass through. Sometimes Zak wondered at the true purpose of those impervious
metal bars. Perhaps they had been forged not to keep drow out of the house, but
to keep them in. Zak
glanced across the compound at the balcony, beyond which lay the private
chambers of the house's nobles. He glimpsed shadowy figures within. What dark
plans were Matron Malice and her daughters concocting now, he wondered? Just as
Zak was about to turn away, a small form hopped over the balcony and half fell,
half levitated to the ground below. A second later, Briza reached the railing
and leaned over, shouting as she brandished her snake-headed whip at the object
of her wrath. The smaller figure, however, had already vanished into the mouth
of a corridor. Her face twisted with rage, Briza turned and stamped back into
the interior of the upper level. Despite
his bleak mood, a faint smile touched Zak's lips. So the young Do'Urden page
prince-what was the boy's name? Drizzt?-was causing his eldest sister
consternation once again. Zak would not have expected such bold character in
one of Rizzen's sons. Drizzt could grow up to be a strong and willful elf one
day-if all that character were not crushed out of him first, as it was bound to
be. Once Zak had held similar hopes for his own daughter, Vierna, but then the
masters at Arach-Tinilith had sunk their pincers into her. Every day, she
became more like Malice, more caught up in the matron mother's tangled plots to
win Lloth's favor. Ah,
Malice. Zak thought back to the years when he had been patron of House
Do'Urden. For a time, he had thought that he loved Malice, and she him, until
the day she had stripped him of his rank, and he had realized that all she
cared about was station and the position of House Do'Urden in Lloth's Ladder.
On occasion, Malice still beckoned Zak to her bedchamber, and he complied. A
matron mother's orders were not to be refused. And it was not unpleasant.
Still, Zak knew now that whatever feeling there was between him and Malice, it
was not, and never had been, love. A
gigantic spider hewn of dark green stone rested on the parapet behind Zak. A
jade spider. Dozens of them scattered House Do'Urden to serve as a defense
against any who might somehow pass the gates. Such was their enchantment that,
in the presence of an intruder, a jade spider would animate and attack with
swift and fatal force. "Why
do you not assail me now, spider?" Zak hissed in a voice filled with
loathing. "I am an impostor here. Can you not sense that I am your
enemy?" But the
spider remained cold stone. Zak
felt a prickling against his neck. He did not need to glance back at the
balcony to know that he was being watched. He could delay his mission no
longer. A puff of warm air-heated by some deep and distant lava flow-sent his
white hair streaming back from his brow. Zak stepped off the high parapet into
the swirling zephyr, using his power of levitation to ride the gust of air over
the gates and down to the ground below. Without looking back, he plunged into
the labyrinth that was Menzoberranzan. After a
short distance he paused, drawing the spiderjewel out of his neck-purse. He
laid the small onyx spider on his outstretched palm, then spoke the word of
magic Malice had taught him, which the yochlol in turn had taught her. At once
the ruby embedded in the spider's abdomen winked to scarlet life. Now animate,
the spider scuttled across the flesh of Zak's palm. Only by force of will did
he resist the instinct to clench his hand and crush it. Legs wriggling, the
spider spun in a circle, then came to a sudden halt, facing to Zak's right.
That must be the way it wanted him to go. He turned and moved down a side
street. Where
the spiderjewel would lead him, Zak could only wonder. According to the
yochlol, the Dagger of Menzoberra was hidden somewhere within the city. This
was difficult to believe. After all, there wasn't an inch of this cavern that
had not been explored by drow eyes, shaped by drow hands, and dwelt within by
drow families for centuries. The Dagger's hiding place had to be remarkable for
the relic to have remained lost for over five thousand years. Still, Zak had to
hope that the spiderjewel would indeed take him to it. Malice had made her
position clear. Whatever she felt for him still, failure this time would not be
forgiven. At
first Zak thought the ancient Dagger of Menzoberra must be hidden in
Qu'ellarz'orl. The spider seemed to be leading him toward the plateau on which
perched the city's most powerful houses, including that of Baenre, First House
of Menzoberranzan. Zak's heart sank in his chest. If the Dagger was hidden
within one of the ancient houses, he had no hope of recovering it. He could
hardly knock on the gates of House Baenre and ask if he might take a look around.
The only answer he was likely to get was a bolt of defensive magic hot enough
to roast his heart inside his chest. Just as
Zak neared the edge of the mushroom forest that demarcated the exclusive
plateau, the spider scuttled to the left side of his hand, leading him back
toward the heart of the city. Zak allowed himself a low breath of relief before
continuing on. He had
nearly reached his destination before he realized where the spiderjewel was
leading him. Zak had
reached the very center of the great cavern that housed Menzoberranzan. Coming
to a halt, he lifted his eyes from the spiderjewel. The enchanted arachnid had
aligned itself with a massive stone pillar that loomed before him in the
eternal gloom. Narbondel. Of
course. It made perfect sense. Of all the rock formations in the cavern, only
one remained in its rough, natural state as it had for millennia, untouched by
drow hands or drow magic. It was a monument to the cavern, as it had been when
Menzoberra first led her people here five thousand years ago: the pillar of
Narbondel. Only here might something have lain hidden so long without
discovery. Zaknafein
approached the pillar, creeping along surfaces closest in temperature to his
own skin, a feat which rendered him all but invisible to heat-sensing drow
eyes. It was not forbidden to draw near to Narbondel, but few ever did. The
pillar was the purview of the city's archmage, whose ceremonial duty it was to
ignite the magical fires that traveled up the column once per day. Zak doubted
Gromph Baenre would take kindly to meddling, and the thought of being on the
receiving end of an archmage's wrathful spells was not one Zak relished. The
weapons master clung to a concealing heat shadow at the base of a stalagmite
and watched with crimson eyes. The spiderjewel wriggled on his hand, as if
anxious to be nearer the relic that drew it onward. "Patience,"
Zak hissed, though whether to himself or the enchanted spider he was not
certain. Even as
he watched, the last remnants of magical heat faded from the massive pillar.
The stone grew cool and dark once more. This was the Black Death of Narbondel.
Midnight approached. Now would be Zak's only chance. At this moment the
archmage rested in his plush chambers in Sorcere, preparing himself to cast the
spell of fire with which he would begin a new day. No gazes in the city would
be turned toward the pillar while it was dark. He could move unseen. At least,
so he hoped. Leaving
the safety of the heat shadow, Zak crept toward Narbondel. The surface of the
pillar was irregular, crazed with cracks and crevices. A small knife could be
stashed in any of them. Holding out the spiderjewel, he stalked around the
gigantic column, trying to determine where the relic might be hidden. The
enchanted arachnid whirled in circles on his hand but did not stop, as if
unable to get its bearings. Zak frowned at the spiderjewel. Then a thought
struck him. He craned his neck, gazing at the top of the pillar, which scraped
the ceiling of the cavern high above. Of course. That was the one direction the
spider could not point. Upward. Zak
could have levitated to the top of the pillar in mere seconds. However, using
any magic released heat, making him more visible. He couldn't risk that. It
would not do for any of the other noble houses to see him and grow curious
concerning his actions. Gaining the Dagger would be hard enough without
competition. Zak would have to reach the top of the pillar the mundane way. He did
not pause to determine if anyone was watching him. Speed was his only hope.
With swift, supple movements, Zak began scaling the surface of Narbondel. He
shut his eyes, concentrating, letting touch alone guide his hands and feet to
those cracks and protrusions he might use to force his body upward. Soon he was
sweating with effort. He clenched his teeth and kept climbing. At last he
heaved himself over a sharp edge of stone. For a moment he lay on his back,
panting. Then he forced himself to his feet. Zaknafein
stood upon the summit of Narbondel. A gasp
escaped him. Menzoberranzan lay spread out below him like a vast web tangled
beyond possibility. Pale faerie fire danced along the edges of the city's
countless spires and stairways, emphasizing the darkness rather than driving it
back. It was a glorious yet forbidding sight. "What
is this beautiful nightmare we have wrought?" Zak murmured in awe to the
dusky air. Distant
specks of light caught the corner of his eye, breaking his trance. He turned to
see several tiny blobs of purple magelight bobbing as they descended the long
stairway from the academy of Tier Breche into the city. The archmage had left
his chambers in Sorcere and was even now making his way toward Narbondel with
his entourage. Zak did not have much time left. Reaching
back into his neck-purse, he pulled out the spiderjewel once more. To his
surprise, the magical creature crawled to the edge of his hand and jumped to
the rough stone at his feet. The little arachnid scuttled across the top of the
pillar. Zak followed the winking light of the ruby in its abdomen. Without
warning, the red spark vanished. Zak swore, thinking he had lost the
spiderjewel. A second later he realized it had scurried into a small hole in
the rock. Kneeling
beside the hole, he slipped a hand inside. His fingers brushed a smooth knob of
some sort, and it sank beneath his touch. At the same moment, a hiss of dry air
rushed upward, along with the sound of stone grating on stone. A circle of rock
sank into the top of the pillar and vanished, leaving an opening large enough
for an elf to crawl through. A low
laugh escaped Zak's lips. So the spiderjewel had done its work after all. Ready
for anything, the weapons master crouched beside the opening in the pillar. He
peered within, but his preternatural eyes met only cool darkness: black, and black
again. There was nothing to do but go down. Zak lowered himself into the
opening, and his feet met stone steps. It was a staircase. At his feet, a spark
of scarlet light glinted. The spiderjewel. He scooped up the gem and slipped it
back into his neck-purse. Alone,
he descended the staircase, spiraling deeper and deeper into the heart of
Narbondel. With every step, the air grew thicker, more stifling. Walls and
steps alike radiated the same uniform coolness, so that all was a featureless
blur to his drow eyes and he was forced to make his way by touch alone. Soon he
was certain he had descended farther than the height he had climbed. He must
have been below Narbondel now. Still, the staircase plunged downward, through
solid rock, delving ever deeper into the bones of the world. Without
warning the staircase ended at a sheer drop. Zak barely caught himself in time,
teetering on the last step. Beyond was only emptiness and a faint blue
phosphorescence, floating on the air. Blinking, Zak forced his eyes to see in
the realm of light. A low path escaped his lips. He
stood on the edge of a vast web. Thick, silky strands formed a gigantic net
over a bottomless chasm. It was from the cords that the faint glow emanated. He
glimpsed something resting at the very center of the gigantic tangle. A bundle
of some sort. No, not a bundle. A cocoon. Purple light pulsed within. Something
was inside. Zak had a hunch, but there was only one way to find out for
certain. Concentrating,
Zak attempted to levitate, but his body felt strangely leaden. A ward against
sorcery lay upon this place. Magic would not work here. He would have to reach
the center of the web by other means. One of the web's strands passed within
several feet of the last step. Zak judged the distance, then sprang from the
staircase. He landed on the thread-no more than two fingers thick-with the ease
of an acrobat. Displaying
the eerie grace known only to elvenkind, the weapons master moved along the web
strand. The silken material pitched and swayed beneath even his slight weight,
but this caused him no difficulty. Without glancing down, he danced along the
interconnecting threads. Soon he reached the center of the web. The
cocoon was large, an orb of matted threads longer than his arm. Mottled violet
light continued to throb inside, as though from a living thing. Drawing the
knife at his belt, Zak slashed at the cocoon. The threads were tough and
resilient, and the knife bounced back. He hacked at the cocoon again. On the
third try, the adamantite knife snapped, but not before slicing a deep gouge in
the cocoon. Zak tossed the broken haft into the chasm below, then reached into
the slit in the cocoon. His fingers closed around something smooth and cool. He
pulled back, staring in wonder at the ornate silver knife he gripped in his
hand. The large jewel embedded in its hilt winked like a purple eye. The Dagger
of Menzoberra. Zak let
out a whoop of victory. He rose, balancing on the web and gripping his prize.
The cocoon was dark now. Even as he watched, the slit he had made in it grew
and the tangled threads began to snap and unwind. Yellowed bones fell out of
the cocoon, dropping into the chasm. So this had been a tomb, the final resting
place of Menzoberra. A
sudden sound, like the cracking of a whip, echoed off the stone walls. At the
same moment the strand beneath Zak's feet shuddered, nearly sending him
tumbling into the depths below. The web was unraveling. Nearby, another of the
ropy strands parted. Like a giant's whip, one of the broken ends hissed past
Zak, tracing a line of fire across his cheek. Blood trickled from the wound. An
inch nearer, and it would have struck his head from his shoulders. The entire
web shuddered as more strands snapped and unraveled. Thrusting
the Dagger into his belt, Zak ran down an undulating thread, somehow managing
to keep his balance. A high-pitched groan gave him a moment's warning. He leapt
from the thread a heartbeat before it broke. Landing on another strand, he kept
moving, toward the thread that passed near the base of the stairway. Three more
times he was forced to jump from a thread just as it parted beneath his feet.
Clumps of web were dropping into the chasm now. But he was almost there. Zak
paused on the strand, tensing his legs, ready to jump to the stairs. He was too
slow. Before he could move, the cord snapped beneath him. Zak tried to leap to
another strand, but there were none left. The last remnants of the vast weaving
unraveled. Together, web and weapons master plunged into the darkness below. Instinct
summoned his levitation ability, and this time, power flooded through him. Zak
rose through the air as the falling web vanished below. He laughed at his own
foolishness. Of course! The aura of unmagic had come from the web. When the web
had broken, so had the aura, and his magical powers had returned. Zak
landed on the bottom step of the stairs, then started climbing. He had ascended
some distance before he heard, faintly but clearly in his sensitive ears, a
voice. "Midnight
approaches. The moment has come. Let the fires be lit." Zak
froze. The voice could only belong to one: the archmage. Zak had climbed to the
base of Narbondel. By some trick of cracks and crevices, the archmage's words
had reached the interior of the column, and their meaning renewed Zak's dread. Let the
fires be lit... . Filtering
through the stone, faint words of magic drifted on the air. A spell. Zak did
not wait to hear the end of it. With redoubled urgency, he hurled himself up
the staircase. He had gone no more than three twists of the stairwell when he
heard the roar of fire. Orange light burst up from below, along with a blast of
scorching air. Midnight had come. The archmage had cast his spell. The fires of
Narbondel were rising. Zak
kept climbing. The parched air burned his lungs and nostrils, and tears
streamed down his face. The orange glow brightened beneath him. It would take
hours for the magical heat to spread throughout the pillar's stones, but in the
meantime the spiral stairwell in the center of the column acted like a chimney.
Enchanted flames coursed upward with the terrible speed of dragon's breath. Zak was
faster still. Choking for air, he reached the top of the stairwell. A circle of
cool darkness appeared above him. The trapdoorway. He reached for the edge of
the opening. The mission was a success. Malice would have her precious Dagger.
. . . Zak
halted. Searing light welled up the stairway. A roar filled his ears. The
magical fire was mere seconds behind. Despite this, the weapons master
hesitated. He pulled the Dagger of Menzoberra from his belt and stared at it,
filled with sudden, overwhelming disgust. He had risked his life to gain this
relic, and for what? So Malice could please Lloth and win at her wicked little
games of intrigue and treachery? The purple jewel in the Dagger's hilt glinted
like an evil eye. Zak's lip curled back in loathing. No, he would have no part
in gaining Lloth's favor. There was only one thing he could do, and damn the
consequences. "I
will do nothing that pleases you, Lloth!" he shouted above the deafening
roar. "If you want your precious Dagger, you can go look for it in the
Abyss!" With that, Zak hurled the Dagger down the stairwell, into the
heart of the rising fire. The relic flashed, then was lost in the roiling crimson
flames. Zak's hair began to curl and crisp. Steam rose from his leather
clothes. In another heartbeat he would be roasted alive. With a cry of rage and
defiance, he heaved himself up through the opening and pulled the circle of
stone shut behind him. Fire
and noise ceased. Zak sprawled atop the pillar, pressing his singed cheek to
the cool stones. Only after a long moment did he realize he was still alive.
With a groan, he pulled himself to his feet. Below, the procession of purple
magelights was already winding its way back to Tier Breche. Only the base of
Narbondel glowed with heat now, belying the fires that raged within. Zak drew
in a deep breath, steadying himself. He stepped off the edge of the pillar and
levitated to the street below. By the
time he reached House Do'Urden, Matron Malice was waiting for him. "I
have returned." Zak
drifted over the adamantite balcony and landed on the onyx floor. Malice
whirled around, stalking toward him with dangerous grace. "So
I see." Her eyes were half-lidded, her expression unreadable. "Did
you gain the Dagger?" Zak
could not hesitate if he was to have any chance of deceiving her. "I fear
not, Matron Mother," he said, feigning regret. "The spiderjewel led
me to a tomb beneath Narbondel. I have no doubt that it was once the resting
place of the Dagger. But the relic was gone. Stolen by grave robbers long ago,
I imagine." Malice
slipped her arms around him. Zak stared in amazement. Had she forgiven him so
easily? Then she bent her lips to his ear, whispering a single word. "Liar." Zak
stiffened in shock, stepping backward, fumbling for words. "It is no He,
Matron Mother . . ." "Silence!"
she shrieked, her eyes alight with unholy fury. "I saw everything, you
fool. Everything!" She reached a hand toward his shoulder. A small spider
scurried up her arm to perch on her own shoulder, many-faceted eyes glistening. Zak
swore a silent oath. So she had sent one of her little spies with him. He
should have guessed. Dread was replaced by chill resignation. He bowed his
head. "I do not regret what I have done." "You will,
Zaknafein," Malice hissed. "You will." She made a sharp gesture.
Three forms stepped out of the shadows. Her daughters. Vierna and Maya grasped
his arms while Briza bound his hands together with cruel leather thongs. Zak
glanced up, hoping to see sorrow in Vierna's eyes. Instead, he saw nothing at
all. "What
are we going to do, Mother?" Briza asked, jerking on the bonds to tighten
them further. "The Dagger was to bring us the favor of Lloth. Surely this
blasphemous act will bring the Spider Queen's displeasure instead." "We
are doomed!" Maya wailed in despair. "Not yet," Malice snapped.
"Not if the crime is atoned for properly. Then Lloth will be appeased.
Zaknafein must be punished for this heinous act. And there can be but one
punishment." "Death?"
Vierna asked, her voice emotionless. Malice shook her head. "Death would
not be enough to satisfy Lloth's anger." Her lips curled in a wicked
smile. "No," she crooned, "Zaknafein's punishment will be
something far worse than mere death." Zak
stared at her in growing horror. What could she mean? But even his darkest
fears were nothing compared to the reality of her words. "For
your crimes against Lloth and House Do'Urden, Zaknafein, I sentence you to be
made into ... a drider!" Zak reeled at this pronouncement. Even Malice's
daughters gasped. There was no more terrible punishment known to the dark
elves. To be made into a drider was to have one's body twisted into an accursed
form that was half drow, half spider, a transformation that could never be
reversed. "Take
him to the Cavern of the Lost," Malice commanded. "And let me look
upon his face never again!" Zak
strained against his bonds, but it was no use. He was powerless as Malice's
daughters dragged him off to meet his doom. Chapter
Five Invitation
to Glory With
white-knuckled hands, Matron Malice gripped the adamantite railing and gazed at
the slaves working like insects in the compound below. "Whither
now, Daermon N'a'shezbaernon?" she murmured, using the ancient name of
House Do'Urden. "Has your march to glory come to an end already?" Hands
reached from behind, caressing her shoulders, running down the smooth flesh of
her back. She felt warm breath against the nape of her neck. "Come to bed,
Malice. I will help you forget your troubles." With a
sharp jerk, Malice shrugged off the hands and whirled around. "That's
Matron Malice to you, Rizzen," she said in a venomous tone, glaring at her
current patron. She had had more than enough that day of disrespectful males
who did not know their places. Rizzen's
eyes bulged in alarm. He fumbled over a clumsy apology. Malice
sighed then, dismissing his words with an annoyed wave of her hand. There was
no point in taking her anger out on Rizzen. He was weak and malleable, and he
crumbled far too easily to give her any satisfaction. She shook her head. Had
Zaknafein only been more like Rizzen, this disaster would never have occurred.
But then, had Zak been like Rizzen, he never would have had the strength to
gain the Dagger of Menzoberra in the first place. Zaknafein had always been her
bane and her boon. But he would be neither ever again. "Leave
me, Rizzen," she commanded. Rizzen
gave a deep bow, backing from the room. Malice forgot him before he was even
gone. The
matron of House Do'Urden turned her mind to the matter at hand. It was crucial
to understand every possible implication, to foresee every possible consequence
of what had occurred. She had to be certain her house had not been placed in a
position of weakness by all this. If it were, some lower-ranked house could
seize this opportunity to rise in station by launching a covert attack against
House Do'Urden. Again
and again, Malice went over all the potential outcomes in her mind. At last she
nodded, satisfied that House Do'Urden was safe, at least for the moment.
Zaknafein had thrown Menzoberra's Dagger into the Fires of Narbondel. There was
absolutely no hope now that Lloth would appear within the walls of House
Do'Urden tomorrow, on the Festival of the Founding. However, for his
blasphemous act, Zaknafein had been sentenced to the most dire punishment known
to drow. Surely that would appease Lloth and tip the scales of favor back into
balance. Malice had gained no ground for her efforts, but she had to believe
that she had lost none, either. A
shudder passed through her then at the thought of the judgment she had passed
upon her weapons master. It was not something she had done with relish. Even as
she had uttered the terrible words, her heart had cried out for her to stop. To
be transformed into a drider was a fate she would hesitate to wish upon even
her worst enemy. By her order, Zak would become a monster: a tortured creature
of hideous aspect, forced to live out his days in pain and madness and loathing,
haunting the labyrinth of the Dark Dominion. Yet
what choice had Malice had? None. What she had done was done to protect House
Do'Urden. She was matron mother. The prosperity of the house came before all
else. She could not forget that. Still, the awful weight of her actions pressed
upon her, dragging her to her knees. A moan escaped her lips. Most days she
reveled in her power as matron mother of a noble house. But sometimes power was
a terrible burden. A low
humming reached her delicate, pointed ears. Malice looked up in surprise to see
a small disk hovering before her. The metal circle glowed with sapphire light
as it whirled in midair. A message disk! But from whom? She
held out her hand, and the disk alighted upon it, warm against her skin. An image
appeared, translucent but clear, hovering over the disk's surface. It was the
visage of an ancient elf woman, her dark flesh withered, her hair yellowed and
scraggly, but her eyes as bright as polished stones. Malice gasped. The image
was that of Matron Baenre, leader of the First House of Menzoberranzan. To
Malice's further surprise, the image of the dark elf crone began to speak. "Greetings,
Matron Malice." Matron Baenre's spindly voice emanated from the image. "Greetings
. . ." Malice started to reply, but the image continued to talk without
pause; by that, Malice knew she was not really speaking with Matron Baenre.
Rather, this was a prefashioned message embedded in the disk itself. "The
Festival of the Founding is nearly upon us," the image of Matron Baenre
went on. "As you know, it is the tradition on that day for the nobles of
two houses that do not customarily dine together to do so. If House Do'Urden
would deign to host House Baenre on this holy occasion, I would be most
grateful." Malice's
heart skipped a beat in her chest. Baenre wanted to dine with House Do'Urden on
the Festival Day? What marvelous fortune! Malice's plot to win a visit from
Lloth had unraveled, but without doubt this was the next greatest honor.
Certainly this meant that Matron Baenre favored the recent rise in station of
House Do'Urden. And once it was known that House Baenre had chosen to feast
with House Do'Urden for the Festival, the status of Malice's clan could rise
only further. "Will
Matron Malice accept this offer?" the image hovering above the disk
finished. Though
it was phrased as a polite question, Malice knew that it was not really a
request, but a demand. To refuse would be suicide. Not that she would ever do
so. Malice
stood and spoke in a formal tone. "Please inform Matron Baenre that I am
honored to accept her gracious offer." The
image of the crone nodded, then vanished. The disk rose from Malice's hand,
then whizzed away to deliver her response to House Baenre. By
force of will, Malice banished thoughts of Zaknafein from her mind. It was
better if she forgot him. Besides, she had other matters to concern her now. A
smile parted her dark red lips. Defeat had turned into victory. Tomorrow would
be a glorious day after all. Chapter
Six Transformation They
had strapped him to an altar of dark stone, fiat on his back, his hands and
feet bound with rothe-hide thongs to the slab's four corners. A scream of utter
agony echoed around the dank cavern, underscored by the eerie sound of
chanting. Zaknafein craned his neck, straining against his bonds, trying to see
what was happening. He was not the only one sentenced to become a drider that
day. It was
difficult to see anything. Noxious smoke hung on the air, rising from ritual
fires the priestess had lit. The scent of fear was strong and sharp in his
nostrils. This was an evil place. The chanting rose to a feverish pitch as
another scream was ripped from drow lungs. For a moment, the smoke swirled,
thinning, and Zak caught a glimpse of a gruesome shadow play. To his
right, eight priestesses of Lloth gathered around an altar to which was
strapped a writhing figure. At the head of the stone slab, hovering in the
garish green flames rising from a copper brazier, was a nightmarish form. The
thing was a mass of bubbling flesh, snaking tentacles, and bulbous eyes. A
yochlol, one of the Handmaidens of Lloth, summoned from the depths of the Abyss
to work its evil here. A wave of fear and revulsion crashed through Zak at the
sight of the yochlol. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to vomit. The
priestesses raised their arms in exultation as their chanting reached a shrill
peak. The yochlol extended its tentacles, wrapping them around the head of its
victim. The hapless drow female screamed one last time, back arching off the
altar. Then, with horrifying swiftness, the change began. Wriggling legs
sprouted from the drow's waist as her belly swelled in grotesque distortion.
Her scream turned into a weird chittering that was part anguish and part mad
glee. The priestesses stepped away, and for a moment Zak saw, in perfect
silhouette, a new form standing on the altar where the dark elven female had
lain before. The thing was shaped like a drow from the waist up-now neither
male nor female-but its abdomen and legs were those of a huge, misshapen
spider. Then the smoke swirled once more, and the ghastly sight was lost from
view. Twice
more Zak listened to agonized screams and evil chanting as those who had dared
to defy the Way of Lloth were punished for their crimes. Then the chamber fell
silent. It was his turn now. He strained against his bonds, but the effort was
futile. Tensing his body, he waited for the moment of his doom to come. Before
it could; a strange thing happened. A tiny form pulled itself up over the edge
of the altar and walked in halting fashion across the stone slab. Zak stared,
his fear replaced by puzzlement. What was this creature? It looked like a
crude, clay figurine of an elf, no bigger than his hand. Only it was alive. No, not
alive, Zak realized then. Ensorcelled. With
jerky steps, the tiny clay golem approached Zak's right hand. It raised a stiff
arm, and green firelight glinted off cold metal. A small knife had been
fastened to the thing's hand. Zak's eyes widened as the golem slashed downward.
The sharp knife struck the leather thong that bound his wrist, cutting it
through save for a small thread of leather. "We
can rest when our work is finished, my sisters," spoke a voice out of the
hazy air. "Come, let us see to the fate of our last offender." With
clumsy but surprising speed, the clay golem scuttled into Zak's pocket.
Black-robed forms appeared out of the swirling smoke. Cruel smiles cut across
dark drow faces. Emerald light pierced the gloom as a fire was lit just behind
Zak's head. The flames roared, and something rose from them. Zak arched his
head back and caught a glimpse of half-melted flesh and spongy tentacles.
Unholy dread turned his guts to water. As one, the priestesses began their
chant. A slimy tentacle brushed across his brow. Zak grimaced, feeling the
first tug of pain deep inside his body. Now was his only chance. In a
single motion, he jerked his right hand upward, snapping the weakened leather,
and snatched a ceremonial dagger from the belt of one of the priestesses. He
made a slashing arc with the spider-shaped dagger, taking out the throats of
two wide-eyed priestesses, and finished the action by slicing his remaining
bonds. Even before the bodies had slumped to the floor, Zak leapt to his feet,
standing atop the altar, brandishing the dagger before him. He
found himself facing the yochlol. The
nether being hovered in the magical flames of the brazier, mere inches from his
face. It shrieked in fiendish outrage, reaching for him with glistening
tentacles, ready to tear him limb from limb. Zak did not hesitate. He lashed
out a boot and kicked the brazier, knocking it over. Sparks flew. The yochlol
shrieked again, then disappeared in a puff of smoke, banished back to the Abyss
as the magical fires that had summoned it were snuffed out. Zak
spun around. The remaining priestesses had recovered their wits. They lifted
their daggers and whips, surrounding him. One raised her arms, speaking the
words of a spell. Zak kicked out, crushing her jaw before she could finish
uttering the enchantment. She fell to the floor, moaning. Another priestess
raised a wooden rod that glowed with fell magic, ready to strike him down. Zak
lashed out with the dagger, and the rod fell to the ground, still gripped by
the priestess's severed hand. She clutched the bloody stump of her wrist and
staggered away. Despite
himself, Zak grinned. They had sought to work their justice upon him. Well this
was his justice. Again he felt that clarity that came to him only when slaying
things of evil. These were the ones who worked Lloth's wicked will, these
priestesses of Arach-Tinilith. These were the ones who gave the Spider Queen
her power. Maybe he was a killer. Maybe he was no better than they, than any
drow. But if he was going to kill, at least let it be creatures of evil, like
this. His
grin broadened as he plucked a second dagger from one of the corpses. The hilts
hummed against his two hands. These were enchanted blades, wickedly sharp. Terror
blossomed in the eyes of the four remaining priestesses. To them he seemed a
fiend, a fey thing, more terrible than a creature of the Abyss. They turned to
flee, and two more died as Zak drove a dagger into each of their backs,
piercing their hearts. He started to pursue the remaining two priestesses, but
was brought up short by a quartet of male soldiers. The
first thrust out his sword. As he did, Zak performed a move he had invented
himself long ago. He poised one dagger high, the other low, and both slightly
offset. The torque vise, he called it. As the soldier lunged forward, Zak
brought the daggers together, catching the other's arm between. Bone shattered
with a sound like glass grinding. The soldier went down screaming. Zak laughed,
making quick work of the remaining soldiers with the magical spider daggers. In
seconds, four corpses slumped at his feet. He leapt over them, no longer
thinking, driven by instinct to pursue the evil priestesses. Three
shadowy forms lowned before him. The smoke swirled and parted. Zak halted,
gazing up at the hideous creatures. Half drow, half spider. Murder and madness
glinted in their red eyes. Driders. The
newly created monstrosities advanced, wielding weapons in drow hands, reaching
out with barbed legs. Now Zak was on the defensive. He lashed out, and a
severed spider leg fell writhing to floor. Again he struck, and another leg
fell. But the driders kept advancing. In their bloodlust they seemed to feel no
pain. They bore down on him until his back came up against rough stone. His
breath grew short in his lungs. His arms ached. He could not keep the driders
at bay much longer. The abominations grinned, green spittle running down their
chins, as they sensed their imminent victory. Zak
looked around in desperation, searching for a way out. There was none. Then his
eyes locked on something above. It was a long shot, but it was his only chance.
Taking aim, he hurled a dagger with all his might at a clump of stalactites
hanging from the cavern ceiling. The dagger bounced off the stone without
effect. Zak dodged a spider leg, weighed his one remaining dagger, and threw.
This one broke as it struck the stone. The blade burst apart in a spray of
violent purple magic as its enchantment was released. The force of the
explosion knocked loose several stalactites. The heavy stone spikes plunged
downward. As one the driders shrieked in agony. Zak
edged away from the dying creatures. Each of the driders had been pierced
through its bloated abdomen by one of the stalactites. Foul ichor bubbled from
the wounds. Even as he watched, the driders fell over, their spider legs
curling up. The crimson light flickered in their eyes and went dark. Zak shook
his head. He had done them a favor. Better to die than to live for centuries as
monsters. Zak
gazed down at his blood-spattered clothes. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"Ah, but are you not already a monster, Zaknafein?" Distant
shouts echoed off cold stone, approaching. The two surviving priestesses had
gone for help. Soldiers would arrive soon. More than Zak could fight. Glancing
around, his preternatural eyes detected the empty opening of a side passage.
Levitating, so as not to leave any telltale warm footprints, he passed through
the opening and plunged into the winding ways of the Dark Dominion. Minutes
later, Zak sank back to the stone floor of the tunnel, his powers of levitation
exhausted for the moment. He listened with pointed ears but heard no sounds of
pursuit. Weary, he leaned against a rough wall, and only then realized he was
trembling. He had escaped spending the rest of his life as a drider. Yet now
what would he do? He was an outcast, a pariah. He could never return to
Menzoberranzan. And all that awaited a lone elfin the Underdark was death. It
was a fate preferable to becoming a drider, yes, but not by much. Something
wriggled inside the pocket of his black rothe-hide jerkin-his peculiar,
diminutive savior. He pulled out the clay golem. The crude figurine turned its
head to stare at him with dull pebble eyes. Zak set the golem down and squatted
beside it. He scratched his chin. Who had sent the golem? he wondered. To whom
did he owe his escape? Without
warning, the golem started to shamble down the tunnel. The figurine made a
jerky motion with its clay arm. Zak gaped in surprise. It beckoned him to
follow. But to where? Perhaps to the answer to his question. Zak stalked after
the golem. Though its legs were short and stiff, it moved with surprising
speed, leading the weapons master through a tangled labyrinth of tunnels,
caverns, and natural passageways. He was beginning to think the golem was in
truth leading him nowhere, but then it came to a sudden halt. The
golem stood on the edge of a circle of smooth white stone. The white disk stood
in sharp contrast to the rough rock all around. Clearly, it was not a natural
formation, but had been placed here in this dead-end tunnel. The golem
continued to stand motionless. Zak supposed there was only one thing to do. He
stepped onto the pale stone disk. His
surroundings blurred, then snapped back into focus. "I
see my little servant was successful," spoke a sibilant voice. Zak
swayed, clutching his stomach. For a moment, he thought he would vomit from the
terrible sensation of wrenching he had experienced. "My
apologies," the voice went on. "Traveling by means of the disk can be
disconcerting. But the feeling should fade in a moment." Even as
the other spoke these words, Zak found his dizziness receding and lifted his
head. He stood on another circle of white stone, in the center of an octagonal
chamber littered with parchment scrolls, glass vials, nameless metal
instruments, and bits of mummified animals. Before him stood a figure swathed
all in black robes, face hidden behind a shapeless gray mask. Zak
tensed, ready to defend himself. "Who are you?" he demanded. Muffled
laughter emanated from the mask, mocking but not altogether cruel. "One
who could have destroyed you a dozen times over in the last few seconds,
despite all your prowess, weapons master. But be at ease, I beg you. I did not
go to all the trouble of saving you from the foul priestesses of Lloth only to
snuff you out with a fireball." Zak
eyed the other, still wary. "I am safe here then?" Again
the eerie, whispering laughter. "No, Zaknafein. You are anything but safe.
But if you are referring to physical harm, none will come to you. It is your
soul that is imperiled by being here." These
words intrigued Zak. Despite himself, he lowered his guard, stepping off the
white disk. "You still haven't answered my question. Who are you?" "I
am Jalynfein," the other replied, "though few know me by that name.
To most I am simply the Spider Mage." Zak
stared in renewed shock. This confirmed his hunch that he stood now in a
wizard's chamber, somewhere within the towers of Sorcere, the academy of magic
in Tier Breche. But this was not simply any master of sorcery. The Spider Mage
was one of the most infamous and mysterious wizards in all of Menzoberranzan.
It was said his power was exceeded only by his zeal to serve Lloth, and that in
turn only by his madness. Yet the wizard before Zak seemed neither insane
nor-by his actions and words-a lover of Lloth. Zak's
interest and confusion were apparent to the Spider Mage. "Come," said
the wizard, gesturing to a pair of chairs beside a table. "I will explain
what I can. But we do not have much time. Her eye has turned away for the
moment, gazing elsewhere, but it will turn back before long. She is always
watching." A
shiver coursed up Zak's spine. He did not need to ask who she was. Moments
later they sat at the table, sipping pale wine, as the Spider Mage spoke on.
"There is something I must show you, Zaknafein. You will not wish to see
it, but you must in order to understand what I am going to tell you." Without
further words, the wizard reached up and removed his gray mask. Beneath was . .
. not a face. Instead, it was a mass of writhing spider legs. Hundreds of them.
Thousands. Zak gagged, turning away. When at last he dared to turn back, the
mask was in place once more. "How
. . . ?" Zak croaked. It was all he could manage. "I will spare you
the details," the wizard said in crisp tones. "Suffice it to say that
a yochlol did this to me, one of the Spider Queen's servants. Now you will
believe me when I tell you that I despise Lloth utterly." In the following
fevered minutes, Zak listened in rapt attention as the Spider Mage spoke of his
hatred for the Spider Queen. Jalynfein loathed Lloth not just for what she had
done to him, but for what she had done to all the drow-for the wicked, hateful,
heartless creatures she made them with her evil manipulations. The dark elves
had been noble creatures once, beings of enlightenment and compassion. That was
before they were driven into the Underdark and became tangled in Lloth's web of
deceit, depravity, and lust. To the Spider Queen, twisting the drow was simply
a cruel and capricious game, and one at which she excelled. These
words struck a deep chord within Zaknafein. He shook his head in dark wonder.
"I had always thought I was alone, that I was the only one who hated what
the drow had become, what had become." "No,
you are not alone," the Spider Mage countered. "There are others who
are . . . different. Others who believe that drow do not have to dwell in evil
and infamy. I have brought some of them here, to speak with them, just as I
have brought you. We are not many, but we are. Don't you see?" The wizard
clenched a hand into a fist. "It means that Lloth's corruption of the drow
is not complete. If it were, those who are different, those like us, would
never be born into this dark world!" Zak
stared at the wizard as the import of these words sank in. Deep amid the
shadows of his heart, a faint spark of hope ignited. "But how can we fight
her?" "Not openly," the Spider Mage said in a sharp voice.
"You have learned what one gains for openly defying the will of Lloth.
Death or driderhood. No, if we are ever to defeat Lloth, it will be at her own
game." Zak
didn't understand. "Consider
myself," the Spider Mage went on. "By posing as a loyal disciple of
Lloth, I avoid her close scrutiny. Yet even as I pretend to serve her, I work
against the Spider Queen. I use the power she grants me and turn it against
her. I must be subtle, yes. Cautious. Patient. It may take centuries. But
slowly, surely, we can erode her hold upon the drow." Zak
shook his head, his doubts rising. "I don't know, Jalynfein. I am a
fighter. I am not trained to befriend my enemies, but to defeat them head
on." The
wizard's voice was urgent. "You must trust me, weapons master. Return to
your house. Serve your matron mother and her high priestess daughters. Give
them no reason to believe that you are anything but a loyal and devoted tool in
their hands. But while you do, watch and wait. When the opportunity comes to do
some good, to thwart Lloth in her evil plots, you will see it." The Spider
Mage reached out and gripped his shoulder. "By serving Lloth we can master
her, Zaknafein. It is the only way." "But
even if you're right, I can never go back," Zak protested. "Yes you
can." The
Spider Mage passed his hand over a crystal globe. Within appeared the image of
a great column, the last glow of heat fading from its stone surface. Narbondel. "You
thought that you destroyed the Dagger of Menzoberra when you cast it into the
fires, but that is not so. Even the magical flames of the archmage are not
enough to destroy a relic as powerful as the Dagger." A
dangerous light ignited in Zak's eyes. If he were to regain the Dagger and
present it to Matron Malice, she would have no choice but to grant him his
place as weapons master once more. At that moment, he made a decision. Master
her by serving her. Yes, it was the only way. Zak
stood in an abrupt motion. "I have to go." He shot the wizard a nasty
grin. "I have a dagger to fetch for my beloved matron mother." Perhaps
it was only the shadows, but a smile seemed to touch the Spider Mage's gray
mask. "Farewell, Zaknafein. It would be too dangerous for us to ever speak
again. So let me say that it has been an honor to meet you." At a
loss for words, Zak could only nod. "Use
the disk," Jalynfein finished. "It will take you to Narbondel." Without
further words, Zak stepped onto the pale circle, and once again the world
blurred around him. Chapter
Seven To
Serve ... Jalynfein
sat in the silence of his chamber, deep in the heart of Sorcere. He gazed into
the crystal, at the glowing pillar, thinking of the peril of which he had not
warned the weapons master. To
pretend to serve Lloth was the only hope of finding a chance to undermine her
power. But there was a grave danger in it as well. In posing as a slave of the
Spider Queen, an elf might one day wake to find he has actually become one.
Time was their ally, but it was also their enemy. In time, all things-even a
drow of good and true heart-could become corrupted. "Each
day we burn in the Fires of Narbondel, my friend," Jalynfein whispered to
the crystal. "For each day brings a chance to do good, and a chance to
become evil." Jalynfein
sighed. It was beyond his power now. He waved a hand, and the crystal went
dark. The Spider Mage stood. It was time to go serve Lloth. Chapter
Eight Relics Drizzt
knew he shouldn't be here. Briza had charged him with the task of polishing
every doorknob in the entire house. She hadn't said anything about opening any
of them. The
door clicked shut behind him. It was too late. "Well,
since I've already earned a whipping, I might as well look around," the
young drow reasoned. For a
moment, Drizzt enjoyed the silence of the small antechamber. At present, all of
House Do'Urden was astir with the final preparations for the Festival of the
Founding, as well as for the imminent arrival of Matron Baenre and her
entourage. Even by Briza's standards, the task she had assigned him was a
tedious one. House Do'Urden was not the largest house in Menzoberranzan, but neither
was it the smallest. After polishing a hundred knobs, Drizzt had lost count.
Then he had come to the very last knob, set into a small door at the end of a
seldom-trod hallway. Drizzt
wasn't certain what had first piqued his curiosity about the door. All of the
other doors in the house were large and grand, graced by intricate carvings of
webs and spiders and ancient drow heroes. This portal was so small and drab
that he almost hadn't noticed it. Perhaps that was what had caught his
interest. He hadn't even really meant to turn the knob, but as he buffed it one
last time with the cloth, the knob had spun, and the door had swung open. Now
Drizzt gazed around the small chamber. After a moment he let out a sigh of
disappointment. The room was empty, save for a few broken chairs and some
rotting tapestries. Drizzt turned to leave. If he could slip out unnoticed,
maybe he wouldn't get a beating after all. He reached for the knob. That
was when he noticed it. The walls of the chamber were all speckled with purple
mold-except for a small circle in the center of the wall to his left. Drizzt
frowned. That didn't make sense. Mold would grow on any surface that wasn't
often disturbed .. . In a
second, he moved from door to wall, gazing at the circle of smooth stone. There
was only one possible reason mold hadn't grown over that patch of wall. Testing
his hunch, he lifted his hand and pressed against the circle. I
hadn't expected this, Drizzt thought as the floor dropped out beneath him. He
tried to levitate but was too slow. With a soft, "Oof!" he landed on
a heap of something cold, hard, and clinking. Coins,
he realized after a stunned moment. It was a pile of adamantite coins. He
glanced up at the opening a dozen feet above his head. It would be no problem to
levitate out of here. But first. .. He
pulled himself to his feet, shaking off a handful of coins, and gazed around. A
gasp escaped his lips. His lavender eyes made out cool shapes wrought from
silver, ruby, and pearl. He let his fingers run over ivory cups and jeweled
scepters. Excitement rose in his chest. This was the house's secret treasure
chamber! If his mother or sisters found him here, they would beat him within a
hairbreadth of his life. Had he any sense at all, he would leave at once. But
life as a page prince was dull, and everything his eyes found was so
fascinating. Besides, he wouldn't stay long. Drizzt
donned an emerald crown and lifted a pale sword, pretending he was a great king
of some deep, dark realm. He spun, waving the sword, imagining the terrible
creatures of the Underdark he would slay. A glint
caught his eye. Sitting on a marble pedestal was a bowl of beaten gold. The
sword slipped from Drizzt's fingers as he approached. The vessel was unadorned,
but something told him this was no ordinary bowl. He reached out and touched
the golden rim. As he did, clear water-springing from no visible source-filled
the vessel. He bent over the bowl. At first all he saw was his own reflection,
but then the water went dark, blacker than the deepest crevices of the
Underdark. A sound of fear escaped Drizzt's throat, but he could not look away. Images
began to appear. They floated across the still surface of the water, quick and
fleeting. He glimpsed his mother talking to his sisters, their heads bent
together as they schemed some wickedness. The image changed and became his
brother Dinin practicing with his swords. Then, in quick succession, came a
dozen scenes scattered around the city: faces and places Drizzt did not know. At last
he understood. This was a scrying bowl. He had heard Matron Malice mention such
a thing to Briza once, when she had not realized he was within earshot. This
was one of the greatest treasures of House Do'Urden. You
should leave this place now, Drizzt, warned a voice in his head. The advice,
however, was drowned out by exhilaration. The scrying bowl could show him
anything he wanted! But what should he ask to see? Maybe he should let the bowl
decide for him. He
gripped the rim. "Show me something important," he commanded. The
metal seemed to hum beneath his hands. For a
moment he thought his request had confused the magical vessel, for the water
went dark again, so black that it hurt to gaze upon. Then darkness turned into
fire. The flames receded, revealing in their wake a dagger. It was beautiful.
The dagger rested on what appeared to be a stone step. A purple gem winked in
its hilt, and its blade still glowed with the heat of the fire. Drizzt bit his
lip. The dagger seemed so real-so real that, before he even knew what he was
doing, he reached into the bowl, his hand slipping beneath the cool surface of
the water. His
fingers closed around hot metal. With a
yelp of surprise and pain, Drizzt snatched his hand back. The water bubbled,
and there was a great hissing of steam. At last the vapor cleared. Drizzt
stared in fear and wonder. "What
have I done?" he whispered. In his
hand he gripped the dagger, its metal now cool, quenched by the water in the
scrying bowl. Chapter
Nine Spiderjewel Reality
melted, flowed, then condensed again around Zaknafein. Once more he stood high
atop the center of the tangled web that was Menzoberranzan. Narbondel. The
stone was cool beneath his feet, but already the purple magelights bobbed
through the streets of the city-the approach of the archmage. A new day was
about to begin. The Festival of the Founding. Zak did not have much time. The
weapons master searched along the craggy top of the pillar until he found the
small crevice. He snaked a hand inside, depressing the switch. As before, a
dark hole opened in the stone. Without hesitation, Zak lowered himself into the
stairwell below. His elven eyes adjusted to their new surroundings. In
minutes, he knew the Dagger of Menzoberra was gone. It could not have fallen
far down the stairway, and the bright jewel in its hilt would have stood out
against the dull stone steps, making it easy to detect. Zak swore as he padded
up and down the staircase one more time, just to be certain. But he knew he
would not find the relic, and he was right. He climbed out of the opening, back
to the top of the pillar, then slammed the portal shut in disgust. "Where
is it?" he rasped to the darkness. The
Spider Mage had said the Dagger was not destroyed, and Zak did not doubt the
wizard's words. "Jalynfein
would not lie to me. We are kindred spirits, he and I." Yet if
the relic had not been destroyed, that left only one possibility. Someone else
had retrieved it. But who? And where had it been taken? The Festival of the
Founding was about to commence. He did not have time to search even a fraction
of the city, let alone all of it. It seemed his quest for redemption had come
to a premature and bitter end. All at
once, low laughter escaped Zak's throat. What a fool he was! Of course-he had
possessed the power to find the relic all along. Reaching into his neck-purse,
he pulled out the spiderjewel. He set the gem on his outstretched palm. The
ruby embedded in its abdomen winked to life. The arachnid spun a moment, then
stopped. Zak followed the spider's orientation with his gaze. West. There
was no time to waste. Zak stepped off the pillar and into an updraft, wrapping
himself in his piwafwi and letting the warm air conceal his body heat from
prying eyes. He sank to the ground, vanishing into the city's streets, just as
the regal procession reached the base of Narbondel. The
archmage laid his hands upon the ancient pillar. Fire welled forth. Stone
glowed crimson. The Festival had begun. Chapter
Ten A
Goblin at the Gate Matron
Malice gazed around herself, eyes glittering with satisfaction. Everything was
in place for the Festival. On her orders, the servants had brought House
Do'Urden's most opulent treasures into the feast hall: chairs fashioned of
dwarf bones, onyx tables resting on dragon claws, crystal goblets colored
crimson with a tincture of faerie blood-taken from the hated light elves in a
raid on the surface world. Malice's was not the richest house in
Menzoberranzan, but it could muster a remarkable display all the same. Matron
Baenre could not help but be impressed. Malice
smiled, but the expression felt hollow. Despite her imminent victory, her
satisfaction was marred. Something was missing. In chagrin, she realized who it
was. Yet she was better off without the unruly weapons master, she told herself.
She would find others to replace him, in her bed and in her heart. It was
foolish to waste her thought on Zaknafein. This was to be her day of glory. Dinin
hurried into the feast hall and bowed low before her. "Forgive the
intrusion, Matron Mother, but you asked me to inform you if anyone-anyone at
all-came to the house's gate. A lone goblin has shown up, and it begs
hospitality." Briza
let out a snort of outrage. "The brazen little worm." She gripped her
snake-headed whip. "I'll take care of it, Mother." Malice
glared at her daughter. "And earn us the further disfavor of Lloth?"
she sneered. "I think not. Put away your whip, Briza. You like the feel of
its grip far too much. Perhaps it would do you good to remember what the other
end of it feels like." Briza
stared in slack-jawed shock, then hastily coiled her whip, lest she feel its
bite herself. Malice
stroked her jaw in thought. "The Spider Queen will appear somewhere in the
city today, and there is no telling what form she'll take. We cannot take the
risk of turning any stranger away." She turned to her son. "Dinin,
bring the goblin here. Whatever it wants, it shall get." Dinin
stared in surprise, but had the sense not to question his matron mother. He
returned minutes later with the goblin: a small, sniveling creature with green
skin and a warty face. Malice resisted the urge to stick her dagger into the
loathsome thing's throat. There were too many stories of families who had
turned away some wretched creature only to learn it had been Lloth in disguise,
even as they died from food turned into poison. Malice forced herself to smile. "Welcome
to House Do'Urden," she spoke. "Would you like some wine?" The
goblin nodded, rubbing gnarled hands together and baring yellow fangs in a
grin. "Garn, but I love the Festival of the Founding!" it croaked. Malice
herself was bathing the goblin's crusty feet in a silver basin when the feast
hall doors opened and Matron Baenre entered. "Don't
forget to wash between the toes," the ancient elf said in her rasping
voice. "Goblins are not known for thoroughness in hygiene." Malice
leapt to her feet, wiping her hands against her gown. "Matron Baenre! I
was only . . . that is, I was just trying . . ." Her cheeks glowed with
warm embarrassment. Baenre
cackled, leaning on her staff. "Fear not, Matron Malice. I appreciate a
matron mother who knows the value of tradition. But I think you have shown this
goblin as much hospitality as tradition warrants this day." The
goblin looked up, eyes bulging as it realized its fun was at an end. Malice
nodded to Dinin, and her son grabbed the goblin, dragging it kicking and
screaming from the hall. Malice breathed a sigh of relief. Things had gotten
off to an awkward start, but it seemed no harm had been done. Perhaps this was going
to turn out well after all. Recovering her sense of protocol, she lowered her
head in formal greeting. "We
are honored by your presence on this day of celebration, Matron Baenre." With an
impatient hand, the ancient dark elf waved the words away. "Well, of
course you are. Now, where is the mushroom wine? I'm thirsty." "This
way," Malice spoke, leading Matron Baenre toward a table. "I'm sure
you'll find everything to your satisfaction." "Oh,
I'll be the judge of that." Matron Baenre cackled again, and this time the
sound of her laughter was not quite so congenial. Malice
clenched her teeth. Maybe this wasn't going to be so easy after all. Chapter
Eleven Intruder Zak
pushed back the hood of the ragged robe he had donned over his piwafwi. He glanced
in either direction down the corridor, but there was no one in sight. It had
been easy enough to gain entrance to House Do'Urden by posing as a beggar. No
one was turned away on the Festival of the Founding. Once inside, Zak had used
his intimate knowledge of the compound to slip away. He had gone first to his
old chamber, to retrieve his swords. Then he had begun his search. Opening
his hand, Zak glanced at the glowing spiderjewel. At first he had been shocked
when the arachnid had led him here, to House Do'Urden. Someone here had
retrieved the Dagger of Menzoberra. Zak did not know how this could be, yet it
was. He could only hope the relic was not yet in Malice's hands, or he would
have no chance of regaining her favor. With silent speed, he moved down the
corridor. Soon
the sounds of revelry reached his ears. The feast hall was near. And by the
gleaming of the spiderjewel's ruby, so was the Dagger. Zak moved through an
archway and pressed himself into the concealment of a heat shadow. A figure
came into view, walking down the corridor, face hidden by a tray heaped with
dishes. The enchanted arachnid spun in agitation. This is
the one, Zak realized. This is the one who has taken the Dagger. He thrust the
spiderjewel into his pocket and gripped the hilts of his two swords. He
waited until his quarry was near, then leapt out, tripping. With a loud crash
of breaking crockery, the tray struck the floor. Zak thrust his swords down in
a crossed position, thinking to trap his quarry against the floor by the neck,
but the blades bit only stone, not flesh. His foe was more wily than he had
guessed. In the chaos, the other had rolled to the side and was even now trying
to crawl past Zak's legs. Fast as his quarry was, Zak was still a weapons
master. Before his prey could wriggle away again, Zak lashed out a boot,
pinning his enemy in a prone position. He lowered his sword until the tip bit
into the skin of the other's neck. At this, all wriggling stopped. "Turn
over," Zak ordered. "Let me see your face. But do it slowly, or
you'll lose your head in the process." The
other rolled over. Zak raised an eyebrow in surprise. This was hardly the foe
he had expected. "Hello,
Master Zaknafein," Drizzt Do'Urden said in a polite voice. Despite
himself, a chuckle rose in Zak's throat. The boy was a good fighter, and even
though he had been defeated, there was no fear in his eyes. The young drow had
spirit. More's the pity, Zak thought, for it would only be ground out of him in
the years ahead. But right now, Zak had other matters with which to concern
himself. He hauled Drizzt to his feet and flipped back the boy's piwafwi.
Tucked into Drizzt's belt was an ornate knife, a large purple gem winking in
its hilt. The spiderjewel had not erred. Zak
gave the boy a sharp stare. "Tell me how you came by this. Now." Drizzt
nodded in quick compliance. In even tones, he told of stumbling on the treasure
room and the scrying bowl, and how he had reached into the water to grasp the
relic. Zak listened in growing amazement. He did not doubt the boy's words. It
was clear he was no liar- another trait that would cause him trouble in the
dark world of the drow. "Are
you angry with me, Master Zaknafein?" Drizzt asked when he had finished. Zak did
not know how to answer that one. For some reason, he wished to reassure the
boy. Impossible as it seemed-this was one of Rizzen's scions, after all- Drizzt
reminded Zak of himself. He knelt and started to tell the boy that everything
was going to work out now. That
was when he heard the chittering. Zak jerked his head up. A cold edge of dread
sliced into his gut. He had forgotten about the jade spiders. Two
massive forms scuttled toward them, green and glistening, smooth stone made
animate. The function of the house's jade spiders was to protect the compound
against intruders. By attacking a scion of the house, Zak had made himself an
intruder, and he had seen what jade spiders did to intruders. Usually there
wasn't enough remaining to even identify the victim's race. Smooth
legs clicking against the stone floor, the jade spiders approached. "What's
happening?" Drizzt asked, glancing in confusion at the magical monsters.
"Why are the jade spiders attacking us?" "They're
not attacking us," Zak growled. "It's me they're after. Now get
back." He drew his swords, one in each hand. A grim
light flashed in the boy's strange purple eyes. "No, I'm going to help
you." Zak
stared in astonishment, then shook his head. He started to tell the young drow
to get back, but it was too late. The chitinous clicking sound crescendoed as
the jade spiders attacked. The
weapons master was ready for them. His two blades formed a whirling barrier
before him. The spiders reached out only to have their barbed legs beaten back.
However, the swords did nothing more than keep the spiders at bay. Even the
adamantite blades could not bite through enchanted stone. Zak continued to
swing his swords in a dizzying pattern, fending off the spiders, but step by
step, he lost ground, inching back toward the open archway. He
heard the chittering behind him almost too late. A third jade spider approached
from the rear. He glanced over his shoulder to see it lumber through the
archway, right toward Drizzt. In its attempt to get at Zak it would kill the
boy. "Drizzt, run!" he shouted. But the
boy held his ground. He gripped the Dagger of Menzoberra in one hand, and with
the other scooped up a carving knife from among the broken crockery on the
floor. With an intent look, he waved the blades at the spider. His motions were
wild and ineffectual, and the spider batted the knives aside, opening its
pincers, ready to sink them into the boy's flesh. Zak tried to break away from
the other spiders but could not disengage. The third spider lunged toward
Drizzt for the killing blow. It
happened with such speed Zak almost didn't believe his eyes. Face grim with
determination, Drizzt thrust out both knives in a distinctive position: one
high, one low, both slightly offset. The higher knife descended even as the
lower knife rose, catching one of the spider's hooked mandibles between them.
As the two contacted, the Dagger of Menzoberra flashed with violet radiance.
The stone mandible shattered to dust. The jade spider reared back, emitting a
piercing wail of pain. So
amazed was Zak that he nearly let down his guard. A leg swiped at him, and he
renewed his onslaught even as he glanced again at Drizzt. The motion had been
crude and clumsy, but there could be no doubt. It was the torque vise. Zak had
performed the move a thousand times himself on his enemies. But it was his
signature trick. He had never taught it to another. How was it that this young
boy seemed to have known by instinct just how to perform it? Then
the truth hit Zak. Of course. Why had he not seen it before? Drizzt's spirit,
his instinctive skill with weapons, the light of defiance in his strange
lavender eyes . . . Malice had lied to him eleven years ago. This was no child
of Rizzen's. "My
son . . ." Zak breathed in wonder. The
third jade spider was recovering. Even a blow from the Dagger of Menzoberra had
not been enough to keep it at bay for long. Drizzt had the instinct of a
fighter, but he lacked the experience. That first blow had been lucky. The
second might not be. Zak
launched a furious attack at the jade spiders, driving them back for a moment.
He jerked open the door of a side chamber and pushed a surprised Drizzt inside. "Lock
the door, Drizzt!" he shouted. "And don't open it until I tell
you!" Drizzt
shook his head in protest. "But I want to help you fight!" This
was no time to be soft with the boy. "That's an order!" Zak snarled.
"Do it!" Drizzt
hung his head, his expression wounded, then nodded, shutting the door to the
side chamber. Zak waited to hear the heavy lock slide into place. Satisfied, he
turned to engage his foes. The three jade spiders had recovered and scuttled
toward him as one. A fierce grin spread across Zak's dusky visage as he raised
his swords. He had something to fight for now. "Come
on, you magical vermin," he growled, and the jade spiders did. Chapter
Twelve Dagger
Bearer "Hello,
Drizzt Do'Urden," spoke a sultry voice. Gasping
in surprise, Drizzt spun around. At first the small storeroom appeared empty.
Then the shadows unfolded before him. He blinked and found he was not alone
after all. She was
the most beautiful drow lady he had ever seen. Her skin was as dark as onyx and
as radiant as faerie fire, and her bone-white hair fell over her smooth
shoulders in a single lustrous wave. She was clad in a trailing gown of what
seemed thick black velvet. Her deep red lips parted in a small smile, revealing
pearl-white teeth. Most remarkable of all were her eyes. They were purple, just
like Drizzt's own. Muffled
but clear, Drizzt heard the sounds of battle outside the door. "I should
be out there, helping him," he protested. "I'm going to be a warrior
one day, you know." The
lady laughed-clear water on dark stone. "Oh, yes. I know. But your place
right now is here, Dagger Bearer." Drizzt
gazed at the ornate dagger in his grip. Its purple gem winked back like a
secret eye. He looked up at the lady. "How
do you know me?" he demanded. "I
know many things," she replied. A breath of wind seemed to ripple the
fabric of her gown, but Drizzt had felt no breeze. With a start he realized the
truth. It was her dress itself that was moving. The gown was not fashioned of
black velvet, but of tiny spiders, each clinging to another, weaving a living
fabric. Drizzt
licked his lips. "I'm not. . . I'm not afraid of spiders, you know." "Truly?"
Her smile deepened, a perilous expression. "Then come closer, child." The
lady in the dress of spiders raised a slender arm, beckoning him, and Drizzt
could not resist her power. Chapter
Thirteen The
Favor of Lloth Matron
Malice strode down the corridor toward the sounds of commotion, furious someone
had dared disturb her celebration. Curious-or hoping to see blood-much of the
feasting party followed in her wake, including, to her chagrin, Matron Baenre.
Malice could only hope whatever she found would not embarrass her in front of
the powerful matron of Menzoberranzan's First House. Her
hopes were dashed when she rounded a corner and took in the scene before her. A
mixture of emotions crashed through Malice: astonishment, rage, and an
inexplicable feeling of... exultation The
three jade spiders had him cornered. One of his swords had been knocked from
his hand, and the other was broken a foot from the hilt. Blood trickled from
the corner of his mouth. One jade spider he could have handled with ease, two
with difficulty. But even for him, three was too much. They closed in for the
kill. "Is
that not your weapons master, Matron Malice?" a voice croaked in her ear.
Matron Baenre. Malice
shook her head in confusion. "No . . . yes. I mean ... he was, but
I..." "Make
up your mind, Sister," Baenre crooned in a mocking voice. Anger
cleared Malice's clouded mind. She would not be made a fool in her own house.
Not by her intractable weapons master. Not even by Matron Baenre herself. She
raised her voice in command. "Stop!" At once
the jade spiders heeded her order. The ensorcelled creatures retreated, then
folded themselves up, inanimate stone once more. Zaknafein leaned against the
wall, chest heaving, clutching a small wound in his side. Briza's jaw dropped
at the sight of the condemned weapons master, but for once she remembered to
keep silent, as did the other members of the household. All held their breath
as Malice approached him. "How?"
Her voice was flint: cool, hard, with a spark to its edge. "How did you
survive the ceremony of transformation in the Cavern of the Lost?" A
roguish gleam touched Zaknafein's eyes. He bared his bloody teeth in a sardonic
grin. "What can I say? Lloth's favor shone upon me." It was
a lie. They both knew it. But Malice did not dare probe deeper. He would only
defy her, and she did not wish to reveal her lack of control over him in front
of Matron Baenre. No one should have to suffer such a willful male. Whatever
feelings for Zaknafein still burned in her heart, they were eclipsed at that
moment by the dark blot of her outrage. "If
you are so favored by Lloth, you will be glad if I send you to her side in the
Abyss!" Malice cried. She plucked a spider-shaped dagger from between her
breasts and held it aloft. To her
astonishment, Zak did not resist. "As you wish, Matron Mother." He
bowed his head before her, presenting her with his bare neck. Malice
hesitated, regarding the weapons master in suspicion. What was Zaknafein up to? "It
is your right to take my life," Zak went on. "Of course, I do happen
to know where the Dagger of Menzoberra is at this very moment." Malice
drew in a hissing breath. So that was his game. Well, she would not be taken in
by his trickery. "Prove it," she snapped. "Or die." "Very
well." Zak
stood and opened a side door. All gasped as a small form stumbled out, lavender
eyes vague and distant. "Drizzt?"
Malice snarled at this increasingly bizarre charade. "What does the boy
have to do with this?" Zak
placed a hand on the young drow's shoulder. "Show them, Drizzt. Show them
the Dagger." The boy
blinked, his violet gaze coming into focus. A shiver passed through him.
"I can't, Master Zaknafein. I don't have it anymore." "What?"
Zak cried. A look of horror racked his face. He gripped the boy's shoulders in
desperation. "But what happened to it?" Drizzt
frowned, as if finding it difficult to recall just what had occurred. "It
was a lady. In the antechamber. She took the Dagger from me." Zak
gave the boy a rough shake. "Who? Who was it who took it from you? One of
your sisters?" Drizzt
winced in pain, shaking his head. "No. No, I don't know who she was. I've
never seen her before. But now she's gone." Zak
released the boy, shoulders slumping in defeat. Malice pressed the
spider-shaped blade against the weapons master's neck. "You have lost,
Zaknafein," she spat. "Whatever subterfuge you arranged to trick me,
it has failed. You escaped your doom once. You will not do so again." "Wait
a moment, Matron Malice. The spider is swift in dispatching its prey, but it is
never hasty." Malice
hesitated, holding the knife against the taut skin of Zaknafein's throat. She
watched in surprise as, with stiff movements, Matron Baenre approached the boy
Drizzt. The ancient drow reached out a gnarled hand, cupping his chin, raising
his strange lavender gaze to hers. "Tell
me more of this lady to whom you spoke, boy." Drizzt squirmed under the
crone's glare but could not escape her pincerlike grip. He gasped the words.
"I already said, Matron Baenre, I don't know who she was." "Oh?
Then why did you give her the Dagger?" Drizzt bit his lip, as if puzzled
himself. "She . . . she told me that I should give her the Dagger, that
Matron Mother Malice would be glad if I did. Somehow, when she said it, it all
made sense." Malice
could stand it no longer. All her carefully laid plans had been cast into ruin.
These males had made an utter mockery of her. House Do'Urden would not gain
station this day, but lose it. She would never gain a seat on Menzoberranzan's
ruling council now. "Liar!" she shrieked, moving away from Zak to
turn the knife on the boy. "No,
Matron Malice, the child does not lie," Baenre rasped in annoyance.
"See? The truth is written across his face." She waved a stunned
Malice back, and returned her piercing gaze to Drizzt. "Tell me, boy. What
did this lady look like?" A look
of awe crossed Drizzt's face. "She was beautiful, the most beautiful lady
I've ever seen. Only her dress. It was ... it was made of spiders." At
this, a gasp of shock ran through the gathered drow. Matron Baenre nodded, as
if this confirmed some suspicion. Drizzt
blinked, his expression of wonder gone, replaced by trepidation. "Did I do
something wrong, Matron Baenre?" The
crone cackled. "No, child. Do not fear. You did very well." She
released him from her grip. "Now leave us, boy. We have important matters
to discuss. Matters too great for small ears." Drizzt
gave a relieved nod, then scampered down the corridor, though not before
flashing an impertinent grin back at Matron Baenre. When he
was gone, Malice shook her head, her anger replaced by confusion. "I don't
understand." "Nor
do I," echoed Zak, approaching. "So
I see," Matron Baenre replied in a dry voice. "Let me be more
clear." At this the wizened drow raised her bony arms, addressing the
feasting party. "Rejoice, dark elves!" she cried in a high voice.
"Let all in the city know that our mistress Lloth, Dark Queen of Spiders,
Mother of the Drow, has appeared this day in House Do'Urden!" "All
hail Lloth!" the gathered dark elves echoed as they sank to their knees. At last
Malice understood. The lady in the dress of spiders ... it could be none other.
The last of Malice's rage vanished, replaced by sudden elation. Lloth had
appeared in her house on the Festival! And Matron Baenre had been here to witness
it. It was everything she had desired-everything she had schemed for. She
turned toward Baenre, her eyes glowing. The
ancient drow woman nodded. "Yes, Matron Malice, you have scored a great
victory this day." Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "But
remember, the favor of Lloth is a two-edged sword. The Spider Queen will be
watching you more closely now." In her
joy, Malice paid little heed to the crone's admonition. "House Do'Urden,
Eighth House of Menzoberranzan," she murmured the words to herself as her
daughters gathered around her. Yes, she liked the sound of that. Briza
chewed her lip with a glum expression. "It isn't fair," she sulked.
"Drizzt is only a child, and a male child at that. Why didn't Lloth appear
to me?" "Shut
up, you dolt," Malice snapped, but her annoyance was only half-hearted.
Even Briza could not dampen her satisfaction that day, or for many days to
come. Epilogue "Thank
you for responding to my summons in such a prompt manner, Zaknafein,"
Malice said in a pleased tone. Zak
strode past Malice's children and knelt before her chair. "Of course,
Matron Malice." The words came to him with ease now. He was already
getting used to playing the role of obedient servant. Her deep red lips parted
in a wicked smile. It was clear she liked him this way. "I
have had word from the council concerning your fate, Zaknafein," Malice
spoke then. "Because you escaped becoming a drider, it is as if the
sentence was never passed. You are absolved of your crimes." A wave
of relief coursed through Zak. He had feared that his sentence of driderhood
might still stand, but he should have known better. In Menzoberranzan, if one
could get away with a crime without being caught, it was as if the infraction
was never committed. Such was the nature of drow justice. He gave a curt nod. "I am pleased I will be able to
continue serving you, Matron. Will you be arranging any personal punishment for
my lapse?" At this, Malice beckoned him nearer. He approached, and she
whispered so that only he could hear. "I do not know what game you are
playing, Zaknafein. It does not matter. Even though you tried to defy me, you
gained me exactly what I craved." Her voice became a mocking croon.
"You speak of punishment. Let this be your punishment, then-know that whatever
you try to do, whatever your will, you serve me. You serve me, Zaknafein." Even as
she spoke this, Zak suppressed the urge to grin. Yes, he would pose as Malice's
willing servant. He would play her-and Lloth's-dark and twisted game. And all
the while he would wait for a chance to counter evil when Lloth's own tangled
rules allowed it. Once again, the Spider Mage's words echoed in his mind.
Master her by serving her. Zak would not forget. Outwardly,
the weapons master bowed his head. "As you wish, Matron Malice," was
all he said. He took his position behind her chair, next to Rizzen, who shot
him a scathing look, clearly unhappy Zak had regained the matron's favor. Zak
ignored the patron. Malice
and her daughters began to concoct some new scheme to further House Do'Urden's
rise in station. Zak did not listen. Instead, his eyes fell upon the boy
Drizzt. My son, he thought in wonder for the hundredth time. The boy stood to
one side of the chamber, eyes cast down at the floor as befit a page prince .
.. and stifling a yawn. On Matron Baenre's recommendation, they had not told
the boy the significance of his encounter or the true nature of the elf lady in
the gown of spiders. The matron mothers had deemed Drizzt too young to
understand. Zak knew they were wrong. But he was glad all the same. Better that
the boy not yet realize that, like all drow, he was doomed to become tangled in
Lloth's web. Zak sensed that the young drow was different, like himself. Lloth
had not corrupted him-not yet. And if Zak had anything to do with it, she never
would. Now Zaknafein did grin, and damn if anyone saw. Yes, he thought, perhaps
there was some good he could do in this dark world after all. A SLOW
DAY IN SKULLPORT An
Underdark Escapade Ed
Greenwood Eyes
blinked in the darkness, a prologue to a rare sound in Undermountain: a deep,
grating chuckle. Xuzoun had not been this excited in a long, long time. In the
damp, chill depths of the vast subterranean labyrinth that is the infamous
killing ground of Undermountain, in the winding ways not all that far north of
Skullport, a certain passage has its birth at an archway surmounted by a
smiling, reclining stone nymph. The carving lacks the unearthly and deadly
beauty of the real creature it represents, but is still strikingly attractive,
and word of it has spread over the years. Some folk even believe it represents
a goddess-perhaps Sune, the firehaired lady of love-and bow to it or pray
before it... and who is to say they're wrong? There
is certainly more to the statue than its lifelike beauty. Everyone who has
attempted in earnest to dislodge it and carry it away has been found dead-in
small, torn pieces-in the room before the arch. The bloodstained chisel one of
them let fall has now been left behind as a mute warning to enthusiasts of
portable sculpture who may happen upon the chamber of the arch in the future. Who
carved that arch, and why, are secrets still held by the mysterious builders of
this stretch of Waterdeep. The careful-and lucky-adventurer can, however, learn
what lies beyond the arch. A simple, smooth-walled passage, to be sure (so much
can readily be seen by someone looking at the nymph). But for some reason, few
walk far along this way. Those
who do will find that the passage soon narrows, descends sharply, and becomes a
rough tunnel hewn through damp rock. In several places, the ceaseless murmur of
echoes fill this route: fading but never silent remnants of distant cacophony
that seems to involve loud speech ... in tongues not understood or identified by
even the most careful listener. As the
intrigued traveler moves on, the grinning bones of human adventurers and
larger, snakelike things adorn the deepening way, and pits begin to occur.
Above several of these deadly shafts, palely shrouded in cobwebbed bones, hang
dark, ancient tree trunks that end in sharp points. Years have passed since
they fell like fangs to impale victims who are now mere twisted tangles of bone
and sinew, dangling silently, their lifeblood spilled long ago. Few
explorers come so far. One may have to wait days for a crumbling bone to break
free and fall into the depths with a small, dry sigh . . . and such sights are
the only exciting action hereabouts. Any
intruder who presses on past the area of pits- and manages to avoid personally
discovering new ones-will soon meet the endless gaze of a skull taller than
most men. A giant's head goggles down the passage, its empty sockets eerily lit
by the glowworms that dwell within. Their faint, slowly ambulating radiances
show what dealt death to the giant, waiting in the dimness just beyond: a
boulder almost as large as the riven skull, bristling with rusted metal spikes
as long as most men stand tall. The bands that gird the stone about and clasp
its massive swing chain are still strong. The many-spiked boulder hangs in the
passage like a waiting beholder, almost blocking the way, swinging slightly
from time to time in response to distant tremors and breezes of the depths. Only a
fool-or an adventurer-would come this far, or press on past the gigantic trap
in search of further perils. A bold intruder who does will soon come to a place
where a band of glowstone crosses the ceiling of the rough-hewn way, casting
faint, endless ruby light down on an old, comfortable-looking armchair and
footstool. These stout, welcoming pieces stand together in an alcove, flanked
by a little side table littered with old and yellowed books-lurid tales of
adventure, mostly, with a few tomes of the "lusty wizard" genre-and a
bookmark made of a long lock of knotted and berib-boned human hair. A
fortunate intruder will find the chair empty, and wonder forever how it came to
be there, and who uses it. An unlucky explorer, or one rash enough to take or
damage any of the items, will soon learn that it is one of the retreats of a
certain old and mad wizard known as Halaster, called by some the Lord of
Undermountain. Only he can call into Faerun the ghostly ring of floating,
skeletal liches that surround the chair, which hurl spells at those who offer
him violence. The fortunate visitor who found the alcove empty and lived to
walk on would soon find a stretch of passage where human bones drift and whirl
endlessly, awaiting a living foe to rake and bludgeon. These bones circle with
a slow patience that stirs into deadly hunger when an intruder comes within
their reach. Beyond
the bones the passage turns to the right and comes to its end in a vast
emptiness-a cavern large enough to hold some cities of the world above. ... A
cavern where many eyes now blinked again, as a point of light winked into
sudden life in the darkness. The
light pulsed, whirled about in a frenzied dance, and grew swiftly larger,
blazing up into the bright, floating image of... a human woman, all long silken
hair, liquid grace, fine attire, and dark, darting eyes. The
deep chuckle came again, and its source drifted close to the life-sized glowing
phantom, peering with many eyes at the vision. "Let
us begin," a deep voice rumbled in tones of triumph, and a thing of dusty
tentacles and flowing flesh rose almost wearily from the rocks of the cavern
floor to approach the image. As it
came, its tentacles fell back into a melting bulk that rose up, thinned, and
shaped itself with frightening speed into a twin of the phantom lady. Above
the glowing image and the shapeshifting thing, the many eyes watched critically
as one strove to match the other .. . many eyes on restless, snakelike stalks
belonging to a sphere split by a broad, jagged mouth of myriad teeth. A huge,
lone central orb in the floating sphere gleamed with excitement, and a deep
rumble of satisfaction rolled around the cavern. Xuzoun
was old even as beholders go, but to its kind there comes a time when the
patience of long years and cold cunning runs out. . . and for Xuzoun, that time
had come. The eye
tyrant drifted with excited speed around its enthralled doppleganger, looking
for the slightest difference from the conjured image . . . and emitting another
rumble of satisfaction when it found none. Motes of magelight swirled in its
wake as it went, working mighty magics. If all
went well, the shapeshifting thrall that now looked so beautiful and
delicate-every inch the breathless, cultured, sheltered human noble maiden-
would soon be wearing another shape: that of a certain Lord of Waterdeep. And
thereby would Xuzoun, through eyes and shapeshifting hands unshakably linked to
its will, reach at last into the World Above, and the rich, bustling city of
humans too stupid even to notice when they were being manipulated. Waterdeep,
City of Splendors, where gold coins flowed in rivers and folk came from all
over Faerun-and beyond-to dip their hands in the passing riches. And more: to
taste and smell power, wielded with subtlety or brute force. Power.
To be a part of it all, and shape ends and happenings to one's own desires.
That was the lure Xuzoun could taste, even here in the hidden dark. With this
thrall standing in the boots of the one called Durnan, master of the famous inn
called the Yawning Portal, Xuzoun would be able to readily convey items and
beings between Skullport and Waterdeep (for stiff fees) when desired . . . and
at a stroke become a channel for those flowing coins, and a part of all the
darkest intrigues of the Sword Coast. To live
again, after so much skulking and waiting in the endless dark! A long,
cold time ago, the Phaerimm had come, and the city of Ooltul had fallen.
Beholders had been rent and hurled down its labyrinthine passages in
spell-bursts until their gore-drenched husks choked the very avenues of the
City of Tyrants. Ooltul had once bent purple worms and illithids alike into
mind-thralled guardians, cut new passages and chambers out of solid rock with
melting ease, and casually slaughtered drow war bands and whelmed dark elven
armies alike, whenever they appeared. It had been the city of Xuzoun's birth.
The beholder could still scarce believe it had fallen, even after a slow
eternity of fleeing across the lightless Underdark from the relentless
Phaerimm, to come at last to fabled Skullport, the Source of Slaves, the most
famous of the places Where the World Above Met the World Below. ... The
place where Xuzoun had vowed to stay and flee no more. The eye tyrant looked
again at its thrall, and with an impatient thought, blew the glowing image of
the human maiden into a thousand dancing motes of magelight. They swirled in a
brief chaos, and then sped to the cavern walls to cling and glow palely there,
shedding the radiance necessary for the next spell to work. Aye,
the next spell. The lure that would bring the doomed Lord of Waterdeep to
Xuzoun. The old hero would come warily down into the depths of Undermountain to
rescue a young, pretty noble lady in need: Nythyx Thunderstaff, the daughter of
Durnan's old friend Anadul, who was brother to Baerom, head of the noble House
of Thunderstaff. And here he would die. The
beholder looked again at its doppleganger thrall, standing in the shape of
Nythyx, and through the mind-link made it shrink back and put one delicate hand
to its mouth in terror. A perfect likeness. Xuzoun smiled at the sight. Soon
Durnan would be within reach. Aye,
soon ... if all went well. As things so seldom did when one had dealings with
humans, Xuzoun thought wryly. Then it shrugged, eyestalks writhing like a nest
of disturbed caterpillars, and a few motes of magelight obediently rushed
together in front of it. They swirled briefly and became an eye-an eye that
watched the fearful maiden as she spoke the words Xuzoun bid her to. When
the message was done, the beholder rumbled in satisfaction as the glowing eye
circled it once before flying forth to find the human called Durnan. Durnan
the Lord of Waterdeep. Durnan the Master of the Portal. Durnan the Doomed. "And
so our blades beyond compare ..." Durnan sang, breaking off to bend down
and rummage in the bottom rungs of the rack. Selecting a bottle, he drew it
forth. "Did
brightly flash through haunted air," he continued, and blew sharply on
gray, furry dust that did not whirl up from the bottle's label, but merely slid
reluctantly sideways and fell away. Dantymer's Dew, 1336. Hmm. No Elixir of
Evermeet, but not a bad vintage. Azoun of Cormyr had been crowned that year . .
. and who was to say that he'd fared better than this wine? Durnan
ran the end of his dust-sash along the bottle and set it in the silently-floating
basket at his elbow. What else had he-? Ah, yes: Best Belaerd! Urrh. Why folk
liked the black licorice whiskey from far Sheirtalar was beyond him, but like
it they did, in increasing numbers, too, and one must move with the times. Huh. A
golden dragonshower upon that. Lads scarce old enough to shave swaggering into
his inn night after night with loud, arrogant voices and gleaming
dazzleshine-treated swords, which they eagerly waved around and bragged about.
. . Were we ever that crass when we were young, that. . . unsubtle? I suppose. Time is
the great healer of hurts and the lantern of favorable light; no doubt it was
making his youth brighter in his eyes even as it made his back creak, these
days, and his bones ache in damp weather. They were aching now. Durnan hefted a
brace of belaerd bottles into the basket and strode on, not bothering to look
back to be sure it was following him. Of
course it was. Old Engult cast proper spells, enchantments to last, not fade
and . . . die, as he had done, old and crabbed and feeble. They'd sung the
spell dirge for him not a tenday ago. Durnan
shook his head, ducked through a low arch into the next cellar, and defiantly
resumed the old battle song. "And a dozen dragons I slew there!" That
bellowed chorus echoed back at him from half a dozen dim corners, and he
grinned and put some hearty volume into the next line: "Six old ores and a
medusa fair!" The
words brought memories to mind, as the echoes rolled around him. This wasn't
just the deepest wine-cellar of the Yawning Portal. It was also the home of
many trophies of his sword-swinging days: that lich periapt glimmering over
there, where he'd hung it up as a lamp; this pair of ore-tusks, from the only
giant ore he'd ever met-well, if he'd lost that fight, it would've been the
only giant ore he'd ever meet; and the swords of fallen foes, seized from
lifeless, bloody hands on battlefields, or carried off as prizes from
spectre-haunted tombs and dragon hoards. A score or more blades hung here,
there, and everywhere about him, the pale gleams of their slowly failing
enchantments marking the walls of these dusty chambers and anchoring his
expensive web of spell wards. Durnan
looked around at them all, shook his head, and wondered how life had become so
dull and routine. His thoughts leapt to blazing, pitching decks on ships that
had sunk long ago, and dragons erupting out of ruined castles now fallen and
forgotten . . . the faces of snarling foes and welcoming ladies . . . and
around it all, the bright flash and snarl of swords, skirling in a deadly dance
he'd always won. Absently, Durnan hummed the rest of the song, and took up
another battle song of his youth as he strode on, the obedient basket in his
wake. Just how many old helms and blades and suchlike had he stashed and
well-nigh forgotten down here . .. ? And
then in the chamber before him, his wards flared into brilliant life, and the
burly old tavernmaster hadn't even time for an oath before the magical defenses
failed in a flash, and something bright burst out of a blazing gap in the
suddenly torn air, spat deadly spell energies in all directions, and swooped
toward him. Durnan
ducked low, snatching at the unseen basket behind him for a bottle to hurl, and
drew his belt knife. The glowing thing was small and round, and . . . splitting
open to reveal a scene within itself. As it widened into a magical frame and
glided to a smooth stop in the air in front of Durnan, the wards repaired
themselves with a last fitful snarl of magical fire, and peace returned to the
cellar. "Durnan?
Lord Durnan?" The face of the lass in the sending was familiar, though
he'd never heard that small, soft voice so atremble with fear before. Nythyx
Thunderstaff was standing in a dark cavern somewhere, a smudge of dirt on her
face and one bare shoulder gleaming above a torn and disarranged gown. Her dark
eyes were wide with terror. "If this reaches you, please come to me. I'm
in"-the noble maiden swallowed, bit her lip, and went
on-"Undermountain. The others have all run off, and . . . things are
following me. I think I'm somewhere near your cellars, but I'm not sure . . .
and my glowfire is dying down fast. Th-There's something following me. Please
come." The
scene darkened, and dwindled away to nothing, leaving Durnan still staring at
where those pleading eyes had been. The sending was genuine-it must be. Only
certain nobles dared openly address him as "lord," and he'd seen
Nythyx at a moonlit revel at the palace not four days ago. It was truly the
lass, all right, and she was scared. The cavern behind her might be anywhere in
Undermountain except nearby; around the Portal, the dungeon was all chambers
and smooth-cut halls. Her statement that "the others have all run
off" sounded like one of those daring forays by young noble boys with
bright new swords or dashing cloaks, a few flagons of courage, and a pressing
need to impress ladies. Such forays seldom ventured more than a few rooms
through the uppermost level of the endless labyrinth of Undermountain before
fear-or real danger-sent the hitherto-giggling participants hastening back to
the city above. So a
little girl with whom he'd laughed and played courtier-dolls, and later talked
of life and adventure and escaping the boredom of living as a dignified young
lady of a great house-hmm, not all that different, it seemed, from the boredom
of a retired adventurer- was lost and in distress somewhere in Undermountain.
And he was the only competent source of aid she knew to turn to. Durnan sighed.
His duty was clear. Not
that this was likely to rank with the daring deeds of his youth, but. . . The
tavernmaster frowned and strode to a certain pillar. Now, was it the fourth
stone down, or-? The
fourth stone held firm under his fingers, but the fifth stone obligingly ground
inward, revealing a slot with a lever in it. He pressed that finger of stone
down, and something unseen squealed slightly and clicked. He remembered to step
back before the stones, swinging out, dealt his knee a numbing blow, and then
glided forward again, feeling the old excitement leaping inside him. He peered
into the dark niche within. The
quillons of a blade glimmered as if in greeting. Durnan took it out and slid it
from its sheath-the long, heavy broadsword that had come from a tomb in a
frozen, nameless vale somewhere north of Silverymoon, one desperate day when
he'd been fleeing a band of ores. He'd hewn his way across half the northlands
with it, and then from deck to pirate deck up and down the Sword Coast. There'd
been a time when he could make a man's head leap from its shoulders. . . . The
muscles under his arm rippled just as they always had when he swung the blade,
narrowly missing the basket hovering behind him. It cut
the air with that sinuous might he loved so well . . . but seemed a lot heavier
than it once had- gods, had he run around waving this all day and all night?
Durnan brought it down to set its tip to the floor, and leaned on it as he
thought of where Nythyx might be ... lost somewhere in the dark and dangerous
ways beyond the walls of his cellars. For a
breath or two, the tavernmaster fingered the sword's familiar pommel and grip,
and then shrugged and did something to the plain ring on the middle finger of
his left hand. A tiny pinwheel of silver motes arose to silently circle the
ring; he bent over the swiftly fading, rushing radiances and whispered,
"Gone into Undermountain to rescue Nythyx Thunderstaff, old friend; I may
need help." The
last motes of magelight died. Durnan looked at the ring, sighed, and hefted the
sword again. His second sigh was louder. He shook his head grimly at his
failing strength, hung the sword back in the pillar, and went down the room to
where a shorter, lighter blade hung on the wall. This one had felt good in his
hand, too. It slid
out of its sheath in swift, eager silence. He tossed it in the air, caught it,
and instantly lunged at an imaginary opponent, springing up without pause to
whirl around and slash empty air just a hair or two above the bottles in the
basket floating behind him. It seemed to shrink away from his leaping steel,
but Durnan didn't notice as he bounded through an archway that his wards would
let only him pass through, and down the steep dark steps beyond. For the first
time in long, dusty years, he was off to war! The
floating basket of bottles, forgotten behind him, tried to dart through the
wards in his wake. There was a flash of aroused magic and a reeling rebound. The
basket seemed to sigh for just an instant before it crashed to the floor,
shattering at least one bottle of belaerd. Dark whiskey gurgled out to run
across the floor . . . but no one was there to hear it. "Transtra?
I know you're in there! Come out and fight, all the gods damn you, or
I'll-" The
speaker did not wait to finish his threat, but dealt the door a heavy blow. It
shuddered sufficiently that neither occupant of the chamber beyond the door
needed to see the bright edge of the axe blade breaking through on the second
blow to know that the door would not withstand a third strike. The
fat, red-faced man in the room broke off his muttered negotiations and stood
hastily back to give his business associate the room she needed. Serpentine
coils slithered around his feet as she drew herself up, swaying slightly, and
frowned in concentration. Transtra's
flame-red hair and beautiful, unclad upper body remained unchanged; the string
of rubies she wore still winked between her breasts. Below her slim waist,
however, the scales melted away, and her tail shrank into long human legs. Mirt
stepped firmly forward between them, the magic that protected him from her
touch flaring into life, and swept her into an amorous embrace just as a
splintering crash heralded the collapse of the door. The
shrieks and cart-rumbles of bustling Skullport flooded into the room. A
minotaur's long-horned head ducked through the wreckage of the door, warily
following the huge broadaxe. Its nostrils flared as it roared,
"Transtra?" Mirt
lifted his head from yielding, cherry-flavored lips and rumbled in testy tones,
"Ye've got the wrong room, hornhead . .. and I've paid for this one." The
minotaur bellowed its anger and lurched forward-but came to an abrupt halt as a
slim blade rose smoothly from between the floorboards in front of it, rising up
with deadly stealth. "The next one'll rise between your legs," the
fat moneylender growled, "unless they walk on out of here right swiftly.
Hear me?" The
minotaur glared at him, stared hard at the woman Mirt held, muttered,
"Sorry," and withdrew. The
stout moneylender held up a hand and let the second ring on it do its work,
enshrouding the open doorway and the walls all around them in a cloaking mist.
The sounds of Skullport died away abruptly as the ward took effect, and in the
sudden stillness a steely voice close by his throat said firmly, "My
thanks for your quick-witted courtesy, Mirt. You can let go of me now and step
well clear, grinning-faced codpiece and all." "Anything
to avoid unpleasantness-and gore," the moneylender quipped, complying.
"Ye make a fine lass, Transtra." "Not
for you, I don't," the lamia noble replied sharply as scales began to
reappear on her lengthening legs. "Let us keep to matters of trade-bars
and importation, shall we? I believe we'd gotten to six score casks of belaerd
and ten strongchests of heavy chain." "Ye
don't want to throw in a ruby or two?" Mirt rumbled in reply, raising an
eyebrow. The
lamia regarded him coldly. "No," she said shortly, "I
don't." "Ah,"
Mirt said airily, "then I've something of thine to return, it seems."
He held out a string of rubies in one stubby-fingered hand. Transtra
frowned at it, and then looked down to where her unbound hair cascaded over her
bosom. The bottom three stones on her string were missing. She snarled in anger
as she raised blazing eyes to his. Mirt
bowed gravely to her as she snatched her rubies back, and with his chin close
to the floor, he looked up and flashed her a momentary, rolling-eyed idiot's
grin. Transtra's
tail lashed the floor for a perilous moment or two thereafter before the
lamia's hiss of fury slowly relaxed into a rueful, head-shaking chuckle. "You've
never played me false yet," she said in quiet surprise, watching the
shaggy-haired man straighten up with a grunt and wheeze. "How is it, then,
that you make any coins at all?" "My
boundless charm," Mirt explained nonchalantly, "leaves rich women
swooning in my arms, anxious to make gifts of their baubles to one so attentive
and-er, gifted-as I. 'Tis what has brought me all this grand way, to where I am
today." "A
rented upstairs escort's chamber in the worst brothel in Skullport?"
Transtra asked sardonically, gliding toward him. Mirt
stuck hairy thumbs in his belt and harrumphed. "Well, lass, 'tis no secret
that my discretion-" "Has
slipped indeed if you dare to call me 'lass,' " was the acidic reply. The
lamia noble folded her arms and drew herself up, tapping the floor with the tip
of her tail in irritation. Mirt
waved a dismissive hand. "If ye think a little assumed pique will make me
remorseful and somehow beholden when we talk more trade, think awhile again, little
scaled one." "Little
scaled one?" the lamia noble hissed, truly angry now, bending toward him
with blazing eyes. "Why, I've a-" She
reared back, startled, and hastily raised her hands to hurl a spell as a
pinwheel of tiny lights suddenly appeared in midair in front of her. Transtra's
angry gaze went to the merchant, but saw that this apparition was no doing of
his; Mirt was as surprised as she. The lamia backed silently away, hands raised
in readiness. From
those circling lights arose a whisper familiar to Mirt. "Gone into
Undermountain to rescue Nythyx Thunderstaff, old friend; I may need help,"
it said. The first ring on his hand quivered in response, silently tugging Mirt
in the direction of the Yawning Portal, Durnan's distant inn. Mirt
followed that urging, striding in his battered, flopping old boots across the
floor and toward the shattered door. Transtra drew smoothly aside to let him
pass; he seemed to have forgotten she was in the room. The wards parted
soundlessly at the frowning old merchant's approach, and he stepped out into
the passage, finding it unencumbered by minotaurs. A few steps took him to the
nearest window. The fat
merchant looked out and down over the walled, warded courtyard of Bindle's
Blade, the newest tankard house in dark and dangerous Skullport. On his
arrival, he'd glanced at the tables there and had seen .. . aye, he had. . . . A
recent venture in Skullport were guide torches, which could be hired for an
evening and were carried about wherever one willed by floating, disembodied
skeletal hands. Many of these flickering innovations were bobbing and
glimmering among the carefully spaced tables of the Blade right now, and one of
them shone quite clearly on the face of Nythyx Thunderstaff. She sat calmly
with several slave-dealing women. A long, tall flagon of amberjack was in her
hand, and a slim long sword at her hip. As he watched, she laughed at someone's
jest, slid back in her chair, planted one delicately booted foot atop the
table, and raised her flagon in salute to the slaver who'd amused her. If that
was a woman in distress, Mirt thought he'd hate to see a confident and
contented one. Mirt
watched the young woman stretch in her chair, catlike, and glance around. He
drew back before she might happen to look up at the window, and shook his
shaggy head. "Well," he said slowly, "Well, well." "This
. . . thing that has befallen," the lamia noble said from close behind
him. "It has put an end to our trade talk for now, has it not?" Mirt
turned to look into eyes the color of flame, and noticed-not for the first
time-just how beautiful Transtra was. "It has," he said almost sadly,
and his business associate gave him a little smile ... as the flickering fire
of a ready spell faded from one slim, long-nailed hand. "There'll
be ... other evenings," she said, and slithered past so closely that her
leathery scales brushed along his arm. Mirt watched her go down the stairs into
the darkness before he stirred, harrumphed, and shook his head. It was a pity
he was so stout, and that lamias ate human flesh. He'd started to want that
little smile to mean the other thing. He
stepped back into his room and did something to the first ring. A tiny pinwheel
of silver motes obediently arose to silently circle it. He bent over them and whispered,
"Gone out into Skullport to answer Durnan's call for aid in rescuing
Nythyx Thunderstaff; I've seen her safe here, so suspect a ruse." The
magelight faded. The fat, aging Harper and Lord of Waterdeep muttered something
over his other ring, drawing the tatters of his ward in around him so he'd be
cloaked against flying death on his walk through Skullport. Shops and faces in
the undercity changed with brutal rapidity, but the place grew no more tolerant
of the weak and unwary. Mirt looked all around and took something small from
his belt pouch to hold ready in his hand as he trudged along the passage,
toward a hidden stair out of the House of the Long Slow Kiss. He left the door
of his room open behind him so that Hlardas would know he was gone and could
turn off the foot-treadle blades. He'd best shout a reminder as he passed the
kitchens. One could lose good chambermaids that way. Asper
hurled herself into a somersault over the startled guard's head and spun around
as her bare feet bounced to a landing on the cold flagstones. The city
guardsman turned with smooth speed, magnificent in his splendid armor-in time
to see the gleaming pommel of the young lady's poniard a finger's width from
his eyes, where its wicked point should have been. He'd barely begun to gape at
it when he felt the pommel of her reversed long sword nudge his ribs, in just
the place where it would have driven all the breath out of him had this fight
been in earnest. He
stared into the sweat-slick face of the grinning ash-blonde girl and shook his
head in surrender, drops of his own sweat flying from the end of his nose.
"I see ye do it," he growled, "but I still don't believe
it." "Consider
yourself slain, Herle," said the guardcaptain from behind him, "and
next time, try not to turn like some sort of sleeping elephant. She could have
put her blade through your neck and been gone out the door before you were well
into your pivot!" "Aye,
Captain," Herle said heavily. "Just once, I'd like to see y-" He fell
silent, gaping at a pinwheel of tiny lights that were silently appearing in
midair in front of his leather-clad sword-foe, one by one. In wary silence,
Asper watched them spin into bright solidity. She held up a hand to bid the
guardsmen keep still. A
hoarse whisper she knew well arose from those circling lights. "Gone out
into Skullport to answer Durnan's call for aid in rescuing Nythyx Thunderstaff;
I've seen her safe here, so suspect a ruse." The
motes of light then faded until only Asper could see them, thanks to Mirt's magic.
They drifted into a line leading north-and sharply downward. Into
Undermountain, below even this deep, dank cellar of the castle. Asper
frowned at those tiny points of light. She knew her man had sent her the
message in case Durnan's call had been false-a ruse to lure Mirt himself into
danger. And, ruse or not, unless either of the old Lords of Waterdeep had
changed a goodly amount in the last few days, they'd sorely need her aid in
some way, ere long. She turned and bowed to the watching guardsmen. "It's
been a pleasure breaking blades with you, as always, gentlesirs," she told
them, wiping the sweat from her brow with one leather-clad forearm as she
stepped into her boots. "I must go; I am needed." "Is
it something we should know about?" the guard-captain asked, frowning. Asper
shook her head. "Lords' business," she said, and ran lightly out of
the room, leaving all the arms-men staring after her. "How
can one woman's blade--even that woman's- matter to the Lords of
Waterdeep?" one guard asked in tones of wonder. "What is she, that
they need her to aid them so often?" "Friend,"
Herle replied, "you try to best her at blade-work next time, and then come
and ask me that again." He casually cast the blade in his hand end over
end down the length of that vast chamber, into the glory-hole in the far
corner-an opening no larger than his fist. The blade settled home to its hilt
with a rattling clang, and all his fellows of the guard turned to look at him
with whistles of awe. Herle spread his hands, without a trace of pride on his
face, and added, "You all saw what she did to me. However good one is,
there's always someone better." Another
guard shivered. "I'd not like to meet whoever is better than she." "And
now for the other working," the eye tyrant breathed, turning an eyestalk
toward a certain shadowed cavity high in the cavern wall. Obediently, something
small and glossy rose into view and drifted smoothly out into the greater
emptiness of the main cavern: a shining sphere of polished crystal, the size of
a large human head. It winked and sparkled as it glided toward the beholder,
and then suddenly grew brighter, a pale greenish glowing awakening within it. "Yessss,"
Xuzoun gloated as an image became apparent in the depths of the globe. A scene
of woodlands, wrapped about a young, slim human female who was turning smoothly
in her saddle to laugh, unbound blonde hair swirling about her shoulders. Her
mirth and unheard words were directed to a young man riding into the scene,
humor dancing in his own eyes. The watching beholder's mouth twisted in what
might just have been a sneer. "Shandril
Shessair within my power, and knowing it not," the eye tyrant purred.
"Only a few enchantments more, and then . . . ah, yes, then spellfire will
be drawn forth from her at my desire, to be hurled at any who defy me! Many
shall pay the debts they owe me, very shortly thereafter." A
stalactite elsewhere in the cavern yawned, and then muttered, " 'Only a
few enchantments more' before I rule the world? How many times have I heard
that before, I wonder?" A black
bat, hanging upside down from a nearby stalactite, turned its head and blinked.
"Elminster?" it asked. "It is you ... is it not? You felt the
weaving too?" "Of course, and of course," the rocky fang
replied. "I can feel all bindings laid on the lass. If Halaster did more
in his domain than just watch the free entertainment, I'd not be here, but. .
." "Watching
is almost always best," the stalactite beneath the clinging bat's claws
said coldly, and quivered slightly. "You always did act too swiftly, and
change Faerun too much, Elminster." The bat
took startled wing, beating a hasty flight across to the rock that was the Old
Mage. "Halaster?" it asked cautiously as it alighted and turned to
look back. "The same, Laeral," replied the dagger of rock where it
had first clung. "Are we agreed that this Xuzoun should never wield
spellfire?" The other two murmured, "Aye," together. "Then
trust me to foil this magic, in a way that will leave Shandril and the beholder
both unknowing," Halaster replied. "I keep my house ordered as I see
fit . . . though you, Lady Mage of Waterdeep, are welcome to dabble; your touch
is more deft than most." The bat
looked from one stalactite to the other, aware of a certain tension in the air
that felt like the two ancient archwizards had locked gazes and were staring
steadfastly into the depths of each other's souls. Silence stretched and sang
between them. And then, because of who she was, Laeral dared to ask, "And
what of Elminster? Is he also welcome in Undermountain?" "What
little sanity I have I owe to him," Halaster replied, "and I respect
him for his mastery of magic- and his compassion-more than any other living
mage. Yet, for what he did to me . . . what he had to do to me ... I bear him
no great love." Two
dark, hawklike eyes were fading into view in the rock, and they flickered as
the Master of Undermountain added quietly, "This is my home, and a man may
shut the gates of his home to anyone he desires to be free of." The
stalactite that was Elminster said as gently, "I have no quarrel with
that. Know that my gate is always open to you." "I
appreciate that," the dark-eyed stalactite told him grudgingly before it
faded silently away. He
hadn't used this passage for years, and had almost forgotten the trip step and
the ankle-break holes beyond. The battered old coffer was still on the high
ledge where it should have been, though. Durnan lifted out the string of
potions and gratefully slid them onto his belt, tapping the metal vials to be
sure they were still full. Then he took out the wisp of gauzy black cloth that
had lain beneath them, and bound it over his eyes. All at
once, the clinging darkness receded, and he could see as clearly in the gloom
as any creature that dwelt in the World Below. After a moment of thought, he
took the gorget out of its clip on the inside coffer lid and slid the second
night mask into its sleeve before he buckled it around his throat. After all,
it just might be needed. The
tavernmaster caught himself wondering what else he should bring along, and
sighed, banishing an image of himself staggering along under the weight of a
generously pot-and-flask-girdled pack larger than he was. It had been a long
time since he'd leapt into battle with only a sword in his hand and fire in his
eyes. It had been even longer since he'd felt that invulnerable. Durnan
drew a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders once or twice to break the tension
that had been building there, clapped a hand to the hilt of his sword to be
sure it rode loosely in its scabbard, and set off down the narrow passage. Two
secret doors ground open under his hand to let him pass, and he closed them
carefully behind him. Beyond the second was a room in Undermountain that he
knew well. Standing
just inside it, Durnan peered around to make sure nothing had changed since
he'd last seen it, then stepped carefully around the falling-block trap and
across the chamber. It was thick with dust, cobwebs, and the crumbling
skeletons of several unfortunate adventurers, still stuck to the tattered webs
of a long-slain spider. Shoving these husks aside with his blade, Durnan strode
softly out into the vast dungeon where so many creatures had died. Undermountain
was the abode of the mad wizard Halaster, and the graveyard of thousands of
fearsome monsters and foolhardy men alike. Once it had been Durnan's
playground, a place to stay limber after a long day standing behind the bar
listening to young nobles and would-be adventurers from afar boast of what
they'd do and win, down in the lightless depths. All too often, he'd come
across their bodies too late to save them from traps they should have been
anticipating, and predators they should have been ready for. Thinking
of which .. . He drew his blade and stabbed upward as he leaned through an open
doorway. The sword slid into something solid and yet yielding, and Durnan drew
back to avoid the falling body. The thing that had awaited him above the door
crashed heavily to the flagstones. It was a kobold, with a strangle wire still
clutched in its convulsing hands. Durnan
put his sword tip through its throat, just to be sure, as he kicked the heavy
stone door hard, sending it smashing back against the wall of the chamber.
There were some wet cracking sounds and a bubbling gasp from behind it, and
something fell to the floor. Something koboldish. A third
of the sly, yammering little beasts moved into view at the far end of the room,
and Durnan brought his sword up to strike aside the javelin it hurled. The
bracers he wore protected him against missiles that bore no enchantments, but
'twould be a little late, for instance, to discover that this particular
javelin was magical, once it was in his throat. The
throw was wide, and a smooth sidestep took him completely out of the whirling
weapon's path. Even before the javelin crashed off stone somewhere behind him,
the old warrior was moving. Durnan
caught hold of the door frame as he charged through, and swung himself around
hard to the right. As he'd expected, a line of three kobolds was waiting along
the wall there, their spiked clubs and wicked blades raised. The tavernmaster
had a glimpse of their startled faces before his blade found the face of the
foremost. He kept rushing, driving the dying creature back into its fellows, tumbling
them all to the floor. He kicked, stomped, and thrust ruthlessly with his
blade, knowing how vicious kobolds could be, and spun from the last fallen
victim to face the one who'd hurled the javelin. It was
snarling at him and backing away, fear in its eyes as it saw all of its fellows
dead or dying. Durnan advanced a step. It spat in his direction and suddenly
turned and fled through the archway at the far end of the room. Durnan knelt,
plucked up a kobold blade, and flung it as hard as he could. There
was a heavy crash, clang, and moan down the passage beyond the arch, but Durnan
was already running after the kobold he'd felled. The wise man leaves no foes
alive behind him in Undermountain. A
thrust ended the kobold's feeble crawl, and Durnan picked up its bleeding body
and hurled it into the next room. As he'd expected, something greenish-yellow
flowed swiftly down the wall toward the corpse. Durnan peered into the
room-paying particular attention to the ceiling. Satisfied that it held only
one carrion crawler, he sprinted across the chamber and through the right-hand
door at its far end, pulling the heavy stone barrier closed behind him.
Something far off and in agony screamed in the dark distance ahead. The
passage in front of him formed the only link between the warren of rooms around
his cellars and the rest of Undermountain. It was always a place to watch
warily for oozes, slimes, and other silent, hard-to-see creeping things. Scorch
marks and unpleasant twisted and bubbling remnants on the stones around told
him that the kobolds had recently cleared this way of at least one such peril.
Durnan stalked cautiously on, wondering how Mirt was faring, and how soon
they'd meet. It felt good to be in action again, though the glory days of the
Four were long gone. Once
the brazen, impudent band of adventurers he and Mirt had led together had been
the toast of Waterdeep, and a common headache of honest merchants up and down
the Sword Coast-the heroes of impudent tales that men roared at in half a
hundred taverns. The years had passed, though, and such things had faded ...
as, he supposed, they always did. All that was left of those times were some
happy memories, the deep trust they yet shared, and the linked message rings
all of the Four still wore. Durnan
saw Mirt and Asper often, but Randal Morn was off fighting in the distant hold
of Daggerdale, to keep his rightful rule over that fair land. And the ranger,
Florin Falconhand, who'd stood in for Asper on a foray or three, was a Knight
of Myth Drannor these days, and seldom seen on the Sword Coast. There were even
whispers that he'd spent time in Evermeet recently. Durnan
was still recalling splendid victories the Four had shared when sudden motes of
magelight welled up all around him in the empty passage. He'd just time to feel
disgusted-taken by sorcery again?- when his world was overwhelmed with whirling
lights, and there was nothing under his boots anymore . . . "Beshaba's
kiss!" he swore disgustedly. The tavern-master knew a teleport was
whisking him away to somewhere worse. They
always took you somewhere worse. .. . Transtra
stood in a room that few in Skullport knew was her own, eyes narrow and face
frowning. Old Mirt's ring had spoken, and that meant one of the Four had called
on him for aid. And when the Four called, it always meant trouble for
someone-and sooner or later, if that fat old merchant didn't lose some weight
and gain some prudence in trade for it, the recipient of the trouble was going
to be him. Perhaps on an occasion sooner than he expected . . . such as this
one. The
lamia stirred into sudden life, tossing her flame-red hair so that it cascaded
down her back like languid fire, and glided across the tiles like a gigantic,
upright snake. The soft, ever-shifting spell lights she loved dappled her
gleaming flesh in a pattern that made her slave-a thin and dirty human male
cowering on his knees in a corner of the room-swallow and turn his eyes swiftly
away. Transtra was apt to be cruel when his more lusty thoughts became
apparent. . . and her cruelty often reached its climax in enthusiastic
floggings with well-salted whips. The slave shivered involuntarily at the
memories of his last one. The dry
slithering of her scales on the tiles drew closer, and then stopped. The man
kept his gaze on the corner, trying not to tremble as cold fear rose in his
throat, and he wondered just what she might do this time. "Torthan,"
she said, almost gently, "get up and go do a thing for me." Torthan
reluctantly raised his eyes to meet hers. "Great lady?" "Open
the gate that brings Ulisss, and then go to your room," Transtra told him. As he
hastened obediently away, Torthan could hear her muttering the first words of
one of the web of spells she used to lay unshakable commands on the behir. When
the twelve-legged serpent thing glided with deadly speed into the room, raised
its horned head, and gaped its jaws at her, Transtra faced it with both of her
hands held over her head, spell flames circling them. Ulisss
lowered its head in a gesture of submission and sighed in disgust. One day it
would catch its cruel mistress in a moment of weakness and slay her . . . but
not this day. Transtra
let the fires rage up and down her arms as she slithered up to the huge serpent
and embraced its head as if it were a pet, stroking it behind its horns just
where Ulisss best loved her touch. Under
her caress, warily tense muscles relaxed with a quivering surge, and iron-hard
scales slowly, reluctantly, began to rub against her as the monster purred.
Transtra let a spell image of Mirt flow into the slow, dim mind of Ulisss, and
said softly, "Hearken, oh scaly beloved, for I have a task for thee.
Follow this man- aye, his girth is amusingly enormous-and . . ." As she
whispered on, the behir's eyes grew brighter and more golden with wicked hunger
and excitement- and when she released it, it slithered off on its mission with
eager haste. Transtra
swayed upright, folded her arms across her breasts, and watched it go. Though
there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes, the smile that crept slowly onto her
face was catlike in its anticipation. She
readied the spell that would let her watch both Mirt and Ulisss and spy on what
befell from afar, and her tongue curled out between her lips in private mirth.
The possible loss of a business associate was a small price to pay for the
grand entertainment to come. "What
can go wrong? The plan is perfect," Iraeghlee said testily, its
mouth-tentacles whipping and curling in irritation. "You're
not the first being down the centuries to say those words," Yloebre
remarked dryly, twirling the slim glass of duiruin in its fingers so that the
luminous golden bubbles deep in the black wine winked and sparkled. The
illithid leaned toward its compatriot. "Any number of things can go awry." "Such
as?" Iraeghlee challenged. "Not even the Merciless Ones Beneath
Anauroch know of our whisperer. The beholder's no fool, and yet has no inkling
of its presence ... or, thus, our influence." "That
may be so only because we've not awakened any control over it yet,"
Yloebre told the depths of the glass it held. The small worms there curled and
uncurled in their endless undead dance, which kept the oily black wine from
thickening into a syrup. "Do
you doubt my skill?" Iraeghlee spat, leaning forward in its chair with a
hissing of rippling silk sleeves. "It ate the whisperer, which in turn ate
its way into what little Xuzoun has of the paltry things eye tyrants are
pleased to call their brains! I felt it take in beholder blood, and grow! I
felt it through the linkage my magic made-a link I can make anew whenever I
desire! Do you doubt me, younger one? Do you truly dare?" "Untwist
thy tentacles and hiss less loudly," Yloebre responded calmly, sipping
more wine. "I doubt nothing as to your ability to establish control over
the eye tyrant-only as to our shared ability to escape the notice of the powers
hereabouts. The whisperer is a brain node, linked to you by magic . . . and the
Place of Skulls above us, and the city above that, seem to be fairly crawling
with wizards and priests able to see magic use, and themselves governed-nay,
driven-by that appalling human fault known as 'curiosity.' What is to keep us
from coming under attack within a breath or two of your crushing Xuzoun's
will?" Iraeghlee's
mauve skin was almost black with anger. Its voice quivered with rage and menace
as it said slowly, "Hear this, feeblewits, and let one hearing be enough:
no drow nor human, from matron mothers to archmages, can detect our whisperer,
or us while we remain here." Yloebre
glanced at the stone walls around them, adorned by a single glow-shift
sculpture that chimed softly from time to time as its shape altered. The
chamber they sat in held only their floating chairs, several floating tables
(including the palely glowing one between them), and the fluted and many-hued
array of flasks and glasses that its current sample had come from. Unseen runes
of power crawled and twisted on the undersides of the tables, awaiting a call
to life from either illithid, but there were no other defenses save what they
could personally cast or wield. Not
that such things were likely to be needed. They were six shifts away from a
cesspool under the gambling house known as the Blushing Bride's Burial Pit, in
southern Skullport-a chain of trapped teleports that should be long enough to
fool or slay even the most persistent and powerful of nosy wizards. It was
at about that moment that the table between them grew two dark, grave eyes-and
exploded into blazing shards that hurled both mind flayers, broken and
sizzling, against the walls of their hideaway. The
last words Yloebre ever heard, as it struggled against searing, rising red
pain, was a man's voice saying disgustedly, "Stupid illithids. Must they
always meddle?" The
crushed, half-melted bodies of the mind flayers slid like slime down the walls
of the chamber; neither of them survived long enough to see Halaster
Black-cloak's eyes blast their tables and flasks to dancing sparks and flying
dust. When
his gaze had roved about the entire chamber and he sensed no other
mind-signatures on the whisperer in the beholder's distant brain, the wizard
sighed and turned to pass through the teleport once more ... only to pause and
glare with renewed energy at the chiming glow-shift sculpture. It had
escaped-or resisted-his destructive gaze unharmed. Halaster's black eyes
narrowed, and then hardened into rays of darkness that leapt and stabbed
through the air-only to strike the sculpture and be drained away to somewhere
else, leaving the chiming construct unharmed. "Who-?"
Halaster snarled, shifting into a more tangible, upright form. The
sculpture cleared its throat and said mildly, "Why, me, of course. We
agreed that action in thy house was undesirable if not of thy doing . . . but
we said nothing of mere watching. 'Tis how I learn things, ye see." "Elminster,"
Halaster said softly, fading back into a darkness studded with two eyes as
sharp as spear points. "One day you'll overstep the marks I set. . . and
then. .." "Ye'll
try to slay me, and fail, and I'll have to decide how merciful to be with
ye," the sculpture replied merrily. "Those who set marks, know ye,
are usually better employed doing something else." "Do
not presume to threaten me," Halaster's voice answered him, as if from a
great distance, as the darkness that was the Master of Undermountain began to whirl
about the unseen teleport. "That
was not a threat," the sculpture said mildly. "] never threaten. I
only-promise." The
reply that came back out of the teleport sounded very much like the rude
lip-flapping sound known in some realms as a "raspberry." Durnan
was still swearing when the whirling blue mists faded and the world returned: a
darkly cavernous world lit by many lamps and torches, sharp with the smell of a
recent spell blast. Smokes curled lazily past him as he stumbled on uneven,
shifting rubble for a moment, and then crouched, blade up, to look all around. There
was a murmur off to his right. Durnan looked that way first and found himself
regarding an interested crowd of mongrelmen, hobgoblins, bugbears, orcs, and
worse. They were standing on a torchlit street making bets and excited comments
- as they stared right back at him. Skullport.
He was in Skullport. The surprise on some of the faces and the sudden energy of
the betting suggested that his arrival hadn't been expected. Wherefore this
crowd had gathered to witness something else. Durnan glanced left and right
into the dark, smoking ruin around him. Ah hah. Indeed. A
beholder hung in the air off to his left, its eyes gleaming with malice as it
glared at him and through him, at ... a mauve, glistening creature with a
tentacled face and white, pupilless eyes. It stood in dark, ornate robes, well
off to his right - and was raising its three-fingered hands in clawing,
spell-hurling gestures as it coldly hissed an incantation. A mind flayer . . .
and an eye tyrant. Dueling with magic. And he was between them. "Thank
you, Beshaba!" the tavernmaster snarled in sarcastic thanks to the goddess
of misfortune. He dived headlong onto the rubble, framing a scene in his mind
of opening a certain ivory door with the dragonscale key. The mental vision
grew clear, the door swung wide-and Durnan remembered to close his eyes just in
time. The
white light in his mind was nothing to the blinding flash that marked the
breaking of the dragon rune he bore on his left wristlet. As that broad metal
band crumbled, giving his forearm an eerie tingling sensation, Durnan rolled
over a low stone wall, dropped onto a sunken floor, and found his feet. There was
a hubbub of new excitement from the crowd as the tavernmaster started his
sprint through the pillars and tumbled stones, and got his eyes open again. The
white ring of radiance that marked the rune's release of power was still
rolling outward, moving with him in a flickering, expanding dome of protection.
Spell rays and gaze attacks alike would be shattered by its touch ... for an
all-too-short time. "Tymora
aid me!" he gasped as he ran, dodging between two blackened stubs of stone
wall that stood like frozen fingers, reaching vainly for the cavern ceiling
overhead. If Lady Luck smiled on him, the dragon rune would guard his back from
the beholder's eye powers long enough for him to reach the mind flayer. Aye,
if... Dark
robes flickered ahead as the illithid dodged this way and that, trying to
glimpse its quarry darting through the ruins. Durnan snatched out his belt
knife as he ran, dust sash flapping, and the mind flayer spat one loud word
somewhere ahead of him. There
was a flash, a roar of tortured stone, and one of the walls ahead burst into
fist-sized chunks of rubble. Durnan spun around behind a pillar until the worst
of the crashings were done around him, and then sped on. If a certain old and
overweight tavernmaster could just move well enough, there'd be no time for the
thing to work another spell! He
snarled at his own slowness as he leapt on over the rubble. By the pillar he'd
had a momentary glimpse of the beholder, drifting along after him, but keeping
well back. It must not be hungry ... or at least, not very hungry. He was
close to his foe now, stones rolling underfoot in his haste as he burst through
a doorway into a room that had been blasted away, and saw the mind flayer
beyond the crumbling wall ahead. Its glistening, slime-covered hands dived to
its belt and plucked forth a broad-bladed hooked sword. A blade? Usually they
were too eager to flail at one's head with those brain-sucking tentacles to
bother with steel. The
squidlike growths around the thing's mauve mouth were writhing in excitement,
Durnan saw, as he came around one last jagged end of wall and rushed down on
his foe. A boot
coming down wrongly on loose rubble now could mean his swift death, he reminded
himself grimly, and hunkered down as he ran to keep his balance, skidding
deliberately when he reached a knob of stone he could hook one boot around. Eagerly,
the mind flayer pounced on the seemingly off-balance human, its four tentacles
stabbing greedily out. Durnan raised one arm to fend them aside, hooked the
edge of his knife around the nearest one, and slashed viciously at their roots. The
mind flayer's sword came up rather clumsily to clang against his blade, and he
used the speed he'd built to smash it aside with one shoulder and dive past the
thing, lashing out with one boot to kick it in the chest. There
were shouts from the watching crowd, and the fast-paced chatter of changing
bets as Durnan rolled to his feet, bounced off a spar of stone, and charged
back at the thing. He dare not turn his back on it and try to run for the
street-not only would it have time to hurl a spell at his back, but the crowd
might well draw steel on him, or bar his way for its own amusement, to force
him to turn and fight. The
mind flayer's body seemed misshapen; it wavered as it rose from the rubble
where it had fallen- just in time to quail and hiss under the bite of Durnan's
sword. Once, twice, the true steel slashed, hacking tentacles away . . . and
the blood that splattered forth was not the milky ichor it should have been,
but a dark, reddish-green gore! Frowning,
Durnan cut away the last tentacle and drew back his blade for a final thrust
through one of those furiously glaring white eyes. It melted away before him,
slumping down into something like a long, reddish worm or clump of worms that
slithered and flapped its wet, fast-sprouting wings in haste to escape. He
hacked at the glistening thing in disgust, backing away to keep an eye out for
tentacles heading for his ankles. There
was angry shouting from the crowd: the shapeshift had told them the thing
Durnan faced was no mind flayer, but something else . . . and who could bet on
an unknown shapeshifting thing that was swiftly being hacked apart by this
hard-breathing human? Amid
curses, & tankard flew through the air to rattle among the tumbled stones
not far away. It was shortly followed by another. Enraged bettors were venting
their feelings. Luckily, the state of things in Skullport was such that few
would dare throw daggers when a ready knife might be needed nearer to hand. "Well,
thank the gods for such grand favors," Durnan muttered aloud at that grim
thought as he ducked away from a part of the worm-thing that had suddenly grown
bony spurs and was flailing at him. He took
one numbing gash high on his arm, near his left shoulder-and then he and his
foe both staggered. Someone in the crowd had hurled at them both a blasting
spell strong enough to rock the ruins around them-and the dragon rune's dome
had flung it straight back at its source. The
packed throng of spectators was suddenly a screaming, fleeing mob generously
sprayed with blood; pulped, boneless things struggled weakly on the slick
stones around a ring of cleared space at the center of the lane. Durnan
lunged under his foe's bony, flailing arm and caught hold of the wormlike
coils, lifting them with a sudden grunt of effort. There was a horrible
shifting and wriggling in his hands as slashing teeth and talons struggled to
be born, and then the tavernmaster set his teeth and heaved, the muscles in his
shoulders rippled once, and the shapeshifting thing was flung away through the
air. It
landed with a heavy, wet smack, and flopped spasmodically once or twice-but
could not lift itself off the row of iron spikes that stuck up through its
flowing flesh like a line of blades. It sagged, burbled forth a whistling sigh,
and hung limp. Dark gore dripped slowly onto the stones beneath it. Useful
things, sword-blade fences. A deep
blue glow flickered and faded around the corpse as it melted back into the
ungainly limbs and bare-brained, fanged head of a doppleganger. Durnan's
eyes narrowed as a small white flare marked the passing of his own dragon rune
defenses. Someone-in the crowd?-had been feeding that beast spells, and
probably controlling it, too. "I
am Xuzoun," a deep voice rolled out from close behind him, heavy with
confident menace, "and you, Durnan of Waterdeep, have just slain my most
loyal servant." Durnan
spun around to find-as he'd expected-the beholder looming over him, great and
terrible. Its huge, lone central eye gloated coldly as the stones all around
him erupted into conjured, questing black tentacles. "The
teleport that brought me here was yours, then?" Durnan
asked. "And this . . . duel staged for my benefit?" His face and
voice showed no fear as his sword and knife came up smoothly to face the eye
tyrant-and the tentacles grew around him like swaying, upright eels. "Of
course," the beholder told him silkily. "I've gone to much trouble to
take you." Durnan
cast a quick look around at the slowly and carefully closing ring of tentacles.
"And why would that be?" he asked softly. "I
desire to wear the body of a Lord of Waterdeep for a time," the fell
monster said with a smile that showed him a row of jagged fangs, some of which
outstripped his sword for length. "And-unfortunately for the
sometimes-famous and often beloved-of-the-gods man called Durnan-I've chosen
you." Strange
sights in plenty are seen in Skullport, and folk who survive there long have
learned not to stare overmuch, nor linger long in one place, lest they be
marked for dealing with later. So it was that no lizard-man or scurrying
halfling moved more than a wary eyeball as a little line of drifting, dancing
sparks of radiance came out of the darkness, heading down a certain alley that
was narrow and noisome even for the Source of Slaves. A sorceress out ahunting
from the great city above, perhaps, or a fetch sent by a noble's pet wizard ...
or a brood of will o' wisp younglings? It was better not to speculate, but
merely to observe without being seen to look, and mark where the lights went. More
than a few of those watchful eyes widened as they recognized the shuffling,
wheezing bulk that trudged along in the lights' wake, worn leather boots
flopping. A Lord of Waterdeep, now . . . Many folk
skulking the streets of Skullport would fain be seeing the sun over Waterdeep
above, were it not for the lords' decrees. Mirt specifically had made rather
more than a hand-count of personal foes down the years, too. Some of them had
offered much coin for his delivery to their feet, alive and more or less whole,
or failing that, just his head, goggling on a platter. So it
was that the distinctive rolling walk and bristling mustache was noticed by
many in the circumspect crowd, and excited whispers and hurryings followed
those recognitions. It was not long before a dagger spun out of the night,
thrown hard and unerringly, coming fast at the old Harper's left eyeball. Mirt
ignored it, keeping his gaze instead on the stones underfoot, bodies that might
move to block his path, and the guiding trail of motes. The
dagger struck his invisible shields and spun away with the faintest of singing
sounds, heading back at the hand that had flung it. So, too, did a stone that
leapt out of the darkness at the back of Mirt's head- and another; the band of
slayers-for-hire hight Hoelorton's Hands were known to be deft hands with a
sling. Or a
cudgel. Mirt heard the faint scraping sound of a rushing boot on stone, and
spun around like a wary barrel, his belt dagger gleaming in one fat fist. Two
rogues were almost upon him, running fast. One swung his stout club in a deadly
arc as he came. The fat
moneylender's hairy fingers plucked at the battered wood as it whistled past,
and pulled. Overbalanced, the startled man had barely time for an apprehensive
grunt as the pommel of Mirt's dagger came up under his chin. The blow sent him
swiftly into the arms of the ladies who whisper softly to warriors in slumber:
he crashed over like a felled tree, spitting teeth from his shattered jaw, eyes
already dark. The
second man had to dance around the falling body, and met Mirt's roundhouse left
while still trying to raise his cudgel. Mirt let his knuckles take the man's
head into the nearest wall, hard, and felt something break under them before he
spun away to follow the drifting lights again, wheezing along patiently as if
nothing had befallen. The two slumped forms in the alley did not rise to
follow. Another
dagger flashed out of the darkness, and a bucketful of stones plummetted from
the air as Mirt trudged under one of the many catwalks that crisscrossed the
emptiness above most streets and passages of Skullport. His shields sent both
offerings back whence they'd come, journeys marked by strangled, gurgling
cries. Mirt
sighed in reply-Faerun certainly seemed to breed no pressing shortage of fools
these days-and hunched his shoulders to pass under a particularly low catwalk. A
garotte slipped down and around his throat as he emerged into the torchlight
beyond-but the fat old lord paid it no apparent heed, striding deliberately on.
Only the corded muscles rising into view on his thick neck betrayed the effort
it took to walk on without slowing, as the waxed cord skittered over the hard,
smooth steel of the gorget that covered his grizzled throat. It took
less than a breath before the wheezing merchant reached the full stretch of the
deadly cord and the skilled arms that wielded it. With a startled oath, their
leather-clad owner pitched forward out of the darkness above, hauled down into
the street like a grain-sack from a loft. A casual swing of one thick arm
brought a belt dagger solidly into the masked man's temple, and the garotte
fell to the cobbles alongside its limp and crumpled owner. Mirt did not even
bother to look down; this was Skullport, after all. Moreover, business awaited
him ahead . . . and if he knew Durnan, 'twould be hasty business. Three
masked figures stepped out of a side alley, down the passage ahead of him, but
Mirt showed no sign of slowing or drawing the stout sword at his belt. He
forged on steadily into waiting death, and after a tense moment one of the
three stepped back and waved at his fellows to do likewise. "Your
pardon, Mirt," he growled. "You're looking so well, I almost didn't
know you." "Prettily
said, Ilbarth," Mirt grunted, turning suddenly to glare at one of the
others, who'd sidled just a step too close to the fat old man's back. "So
ye can live, all of ye." "Generous,
White-Whiskers," that man said softly, "when it's three to one." "I'm
known for my open-handed generosity," Mirt said, baring his teeth in a
grin without slowing, "so I'll let ye live a second time, Aldon. Take care
ye don't use up all thy luck and my patience, now." Aldon
took one uncertain step in pursuit of the wheezing man. "How'd you know my
name?" "He
knows everyone in Skullport," Ilbarth said with a nervous grin.
"Isn't that right, Mirt? I'll bet cold coin you've lived all your life
down here." "Not
yet," Mirt grunted, turning to fix him with one cold and level gray-blue
eye. "Not quite yet." He
turned away from them and went on down the alley without looking back, but the
three men did not follow. They stood watching him for a time, and soon had
cause to be very glad they'd not proceeded with more violent activities. The old
moneylender strode past a tentacle that slid down from an upper window to pluck
aloft a man who'd summoned it, stepped around an ore sprawled on its face in a
pool of blood, a spear standing up in its back- and found his way suddenly
blocked by a dozen or more lithe, slim black figures, whose skin was as jet
black as the soft leathers they wore. Almost mockingly, the guiding motes of
light winked and sparkled in the distance beyond them. "How
now, old man?" one of the drow hissed. "Care to buy your life with a
careful and verbose listing of all your wealth, where it can be found, and just
how it's guarded?" "No,"
Mirt growled, "I'm in a hurry. So stand aside, and I'll let all of ye
live." Cold,
mocking laughter gave him reply, and one of the dark elves sneered, "Kind
of you, indeed." "Indeed,
but I won't tarry," Mirt growled. "Stand aside, now!" "Giving
us orders, old man?" the drow who'd first spoken responded tartly.
"For that, you'll taste a whip!" Slim gloved fingers went eagerly to
a thigh sheath. "Or
three," another of the drow agreed, as other hands made the same movement,
and slim black cords curled and cracked. Mirt
sighed, opened his cupped hand to reveal the thing he'd taken from his pouch in
the House of the Long Slow Kiss, and murmured a word. The
battered metal chevron in his palm erupted in a ringing, leaping sparkle of
steel-and the old moneylender stood, calmly watching, as the magic he'd
unleashed became a hundred slashing, darting swords that flew about the alley
in front of him in a deadly whirlwind. Drow leapt desperately for safety,
anywhere it might lie ... but died anyway, amid screams from open windows
above. Someone paused on a catwalk to watch-and someone else smote that watcher
from behind, contributing a helplessly plunging, senseless body to the flashing
carnage below. "Enough!"
Mirt growled, as he watched the unfortunate falling man get cut to ribbons. The
moneylender spat a second strange word, and the blades obediently melted away,
leaving the alley empty of menacing forms in his path. He strode on. His
next few steps were in slippery black blood, but the motes were still twinkling
in the gloom ahead, heading for a sudden, distant flash of spell light. In its
flare, Mirt saw many folk gathered to watch something off to the left, crowded
together to enjoy-a fight? a duel? Bets were being placed, and the more
belligerent were jostling for a better view. There
was another flash-which resolved itself into the blue pinwheel that marked the
appearance of someone using an old catch-teleport spell-and out of its heart
stumbled Durnan, moving fast. Mirt's old friend was in some sort of ruin,
caught in the midst of a spell duel between-gods blast all!-a beholder, and
someone ... a mage? Nay, mauve skin; that could only mean a mind flayer. Ye
gods. Hasty business indeed! "Idiot!"
Mirt described Durnan fervently, and broke into a trot, feeling in his pouch
for some handy small salvation or other. "Hearken,
all!" he panted, to the uneven stones ahead of him as his shaggy bulk gathered
speed, "and take note: 'tis the Wheezing Warrior to the rescue-
again!" Something
cold struck the back of his neck, and clung. Durnan snarled and chopped at it,
even as a pair of black tentacles twined about his blade and pulled, trying to
drag it down. Durnan
slashed out with the dagger in his other hand, seeking to free his sword. The
chill at the back of his neck was spreading, cold caressing fingers spreading
along his shoulders. "What, by the bones of the cursed-?" he snarled. The
beholder smiled down at him. "Your memories will be mine first. . . before
I take the tiny candle that you call a mind-and blow it out!" Durnan
rolled his eyes. "You sound like a bad actor trying to impress gawping
nobles in North Ward!" And then the point of his dagger found the pommel
of his sword. He pressed down firmly, and hissed a certain word. The gem
in the pommel burst with a tiny blaze of its own-and slowly, in impressive
silence, all of the black tentacles faded away. "So much for your
spell," the tavernmaster grunted, throwing the dagger hard into the
beholder's large, staring central eye. The
world erupted in a roar of pain and fury. The eye tyrant bucked in midair like
a wild stallion trying to shake off ropes, shuddered, and then rolled over with
terrible speed, eyestalks reaching out to transfix Durnan in many fell gazes. Nothing
happened. "Mystra
grant that this my spellshatter last just a trifle longer," Durnan prayed
aloud, hands stabbing down to his boots for more daggers. That great mouth was
very close now, and the roaring coming from it was shaking the tavernmaster's
body. Teeth chattering helplessly, Durnan watched those fangs gape wide. . .. Not far
away, a black cobweb quivered and seemed to stiffen. Then a hoarse, dusty voice
issued from it-a voice that squeaked and hissed from long disuse. "Someone
is using a spellshatter," it told the empty darkness of the crypt around
it. Not
surprisingly, there was no reply. After a
moment's pause, the cobweb shot forth an arm like the tentacle of a black
octopus, and plunged it into the stone of the far wall-as if the tentacle were
a mere shadow, able to freely drift through solid things. Then the entire
cobweb shifted like a gigantic, ungainly spider and followed the tentacle,
sliding into the stones of the crypt wall. A
breath later, the black tentacle emerged from a solid wall in Skullport,
wriggled out across an alley, and turned to probe up and down the narrow,
reeking way. A rat paused in its gnawings and scuttlings to watch this new,
probably edible worm or snake-but sank back down behind a pile of refuse when
the tentacle grew swiftly into a spiderlike growth that covered most of the
wall. This spiderlike thing then became a flapping black cloak . . . from which
grew the shuffling figure of a robed, cowled man, whose eyes gleamed in the
darkness as brightly as the rat's own orbs. The
man's robe swished past the cowering rodent. He stepped out of the alley,
looked out across a blackened, tumbled area of devastation where a building had
burned or been blasted apart, and said clearly, "Hmmm." A
beholder was bobbing above a lone human, the magelight of carelessly crafted
spells streaming around it, but was constrained from reaching its human by some
invisible shield or other. The spellshatter, no doubt. "Hmmm,"
the man said again, and stepped backward into the wall, sinking smoothly into
the solid stone until only two dark, watchful patches remained to mark where
his eyes must be. Wisely,
the rat scuttled silently away. With archwizards, one can never be sure.
Halaster Blackcloak was known to be both one of the most powerful arch wizards
of all, and more than a little . . . erratic in his behavior. He seemed to be
settling into the wall to watch whatever was going on in the ruins, but-if one
could ever be safe in Skullport-it was better to be safely away from him ...
far away from him. Asper
slid to a stop on a high catwalk and clutched its rail for a moment to catch
her breath. It had been a long, hard run, and more than one foolish beast had tried
to make her its supper along the way. The blade in her hand was still dark and
wet from her last encounter. The leap from the end of a little-known
tunnel-which wound down through the heart of Mount Waterdeep to end in a sheer
drop, high in the ceiling of the cavern that held most of Skullport-down to the
dark roofs below was always a throat-tightening thing. Gasping
for air, Mirt's lady tossed her head. Sweat streamed down her face despite her
frequent wipes at it, plastering ash-blonde tresses to her forehead and
dripping from the end of her nose. Asper sighed air deep into her lungs, shook
her head to hurl away more sweat, clipped the ring on her sword-pommel to the
matching one at her throat, spun the ribbon around so the still-gory blade
would bounce along at her back as she traveled on, and peered out over
Skullport, waiting for her breathing to slow. The
often-deadly place seemed somehow quiet tonight. The mysterious guardian
skulls-or whatever they truly were-drifted here and there through the gloom
high above the streets, where the stone fangs of the cavern ceiling made a
silent forest close overhead. Asper loved this world of flitting bats,
occasional screams, and muttered conspiracies. She enjoyed a leisurely prowl
among the crumbling roof gargoyles, silently glowing wards, and wrought iron
climb-nots, where crossbows waited for sneak thieves to trip their lines and
folk seldom opened shutters covered with rusting crazy quilts of overlapping,
battered old shields, whose owners no longer needed them-or anything. But
this journey had been anything but leisurely. Asper clung to the rail as if it
were a lover, and peered north. There had been something ... a flicker . . .
there! Spell
light flashed in a place of darkness-some sort of ruin, it seemed, liberally
endowed with rough heaps and pillars of blackened stone. In this second flash,
Asper saw the unmistakable sphere of a beholder, eye-stalks writhing in pain or
rage, quivering in the air low over some sort of foe . . . probably a man. It
was the sort of trouble Durnan or her beloved were almost sure to be drawn
into. Asper
vaulted lightly over the rail and fell through the cool air, ignoring the oath
uttered by a startled face at a window as she passed. Her boots found a second
catwalk, slipped for a moment on damp boards that danced back up under the
weight of her landing, and then held firm. Asper crouched low as the catwalk's
tremblings grew gentler, the fingertips of one hand just touching the boards in
front of her, and looked again at the beholder. The problem was, Skullport was
all too apt to be crawling with this sort of thing: the kind of strife Mirt and
Durnan would get caught up in ... but had they chosen this particular strife,
or found amusement elsewhere? Then
her eyes fell on what she'd been searching for- far ahead of her, along the
narrow alley that ran from beneath her catwalk to the ruins where the beholder
danced. A familiar lurching form, portly where he wasn't burly, shambled and
wheezed along with that bluff, fearless unconcern she loved so well. Mirt the
Moneylender, the man whose heart drove and carried the Lords of Waterdeep, was
lumbering like a hopping hippo over the heaped rubble where the alleyway
emptied into the chaos of the ruin-trotting up to an enraged beholder to rescue
his friend. This
was their fight, then. Asper frowned. She quickly undid her belt, plucked
something from behind its buckle, and set it down carefully on the boards
beside her. It would not do to be touched by the sort of magic a beholder's eyes
could hurl while carrying that little bauble. She
buckled up her belt again, bit her lip in thought, turned smoothly, and ran a
little way along the catwalk. There, someone bolder than most had strung a line
of washing from the high, hanging way to a balcony. Though the cord was old and
soft where glowmold had been washed away many times, it held one hurrying,
catlike woman in leathers long enough for her to reach the balcony. Asper got
one boot on the balcony rail and kicked hard; the aging iron squealed in
protest as she leapt away into darkness, fingers straining for the lantern line
she sought. It was
barbed to keep unscrupulous folk from winching down the iron basket of
glowworms that served some fearful merchant as a back door lantern. The gloves
Asper wore ended in middle-finger rings, leaving her fingers and most of her
palms bare to grip things unhampered-but she shed only a little blood as she
caught hold, swung, and let go again, heading feetfirst for another catwalk. Her
eyes were on the battle ahead. The eye tyrant seemed to be trying to bite
Durnan, who was ducking and rolling among stubby fingers of stone wall. As
Asper's feet found the boards of the catwalk, slid in something unpleasant, and
shot her right across it into empty air beyond, she saw the beholder bite down.
Blocks of stone crumbled, and Durnan dived away, a dagger flashing in his hand.
Mirt was getting close now, and beyond them all-as she brought her feet
together to crash down through the rotting roof of a bone-cart-Asper could see
a few warily watching creatures. A minotaur and a kenku were among them,
pointing at Mirt disgustedly and shouting to each other. Wagers were being
changed, it seemed. Then
Asper's feet plunged through silk that was gray with age, and into brittle bones
beyond. She shut her eyes against flying shards as she sank into a crouch,
letting her legs take the force of her landing. A rough
male ore's voice snarled, "What, by all the brain-boring tentacles of
dripping Ilsenine's sycophants, was that?" "Special
delivery," Asper told the unseen merchant, as her sword flashed out. Silk
fell away like cobwebs, and she sprang past startled, furious eyes and gleaming
tusks onto the street beyond. "Grrrenarrr!"
The ore's roar of rage echoed off the buildings around, and Asper dodged
sharply toward one side of the alley, bringing her sword up and back behind her
without looking or slowing. A heavy hand axe rang off its tip and rattled along
an iron gate beside her. Asper ran on into the darkness, calling back, "Pleasant
meeting, bloodtusks!" The ore
term of respect was unlikely to mollify a merchant whose cart-top had just been
ruined, but she was in a hurry. Up ahead, the beholder shook the air in a
roaring frenzy that far outmatched the snarls of the ore behind her. Rays
lashed out in all directions from its writhing, coiling eyestalks. Those that
stabbed down met some sort of shield and faded away, and one that lashed out
toward Mirt had a similar fate. The others were causing spectacular explosions,
bursts of flame and lightning-and in one spot, the stone was melting like syrup
and slumping down upon itself in a slow flood. Magelight
flashed and curled around the eye tyrant as it poured forth spells in a display
that had the audience scrambling for cover. The shouted adjustments to wagers
rang back hollowly from windows, balconies, and corners all around as the
ground shook, stone shrieked, and the last of the ruin's blackened walls
toppled, with slow majesty, down atop the struggling tavernmaster. Dust
rose slowly, the heaving underfoot subsided, and the ringing that had risen in
Asper's ears was not enough to drown out Mirt's roar of challenge. "About!
Turn about, ye blasted lump of floating suet! I'll look ye in all yer eyes and
stare ye down, and there'll be a blade-thrust into every one of 'em before
ye'll have time to flee! Turn about, I say!" Asper
winced at her lord's imprudence, even as a rueful smile twisted her lips. This
was her Mirt, all right. Winded
by his shouting, the fat old Lord of Waterdeep puffed and wheezed straight at
the beholder. His old boots flopped as he scrambled up a shifting pile of
rubble. At its top, he made a show of drawing his stout old sword and raising
it in challenge. "Do ye hear me, ball of offal? I-" "Hear
you quite well enough," the beholder said with menacing silence, "Be
silent forever, fat man." Beams of deadly radiance flashed from its eyes. Something
unseen in the air blocked the rays, which struck with such savage force that
the very emptiness darkened. The fat moneylender staggered to keep his footing,
thrust back under the weight of the magic that clawed and tore at his shields. The eye
tyrant screamed in fresh rage - was every puling human protected against all
his powers? - and lashed out repeatedly with spells and thrusting eye beams.
The ground shook anew, and Mirt disappeared down a sliding mound of rubble as
stones broke free from buildings all around and plunged to the streets. As
Asper crouched low and scrambled forward, a balcony broke off a large mansion
to her left and crashed to its iron-gated forecourt, splitting paving stones. A stone
shard whirled out of nowhere and laid her cheek open with the ease of a slicing
razor. Asper hissed at the close call and put a hand up to shield her face,
spreading her fingers to see Mirt struggling along like a man battling his way
into the face of a gale-force wind. Blackness sparked and roiled around him as
his shields slowly melted away - soon they would surely fail, and he would be
blasted to a rain of blood . . . and she would lose him, forever. There
was only one way she could help, and it might mean her life. Thrown away
vainly, too, if she fouled up the lone chance she'd get. Asper swallowed,
tossed her head to draw breath and blow errant hairs from her eyes, and slapped
the hilt of her sword so that the rune carved there would be smeared with the
gore still leaking from her torn fingers. She felt its familiar ridges, slick
and sticky with her blood, and nodded in satisfaction. Turning herself
carefully to face the raging eye tyrant, she firmly whispered two words aloud. The
sword shuddered in her hands and then bucked, and she clung to it grimly as the
rune's power was unleashed. It blazed away into nothingness as the sword
dragged her up into the air and flung her forward. Eerie silence fell. She was
invisible now, she knew, springing up into the air on a one-way vault that
would end in a bone-shattering encounter with the cavern wall or a sickening
plunge to the ground if she judged wrongly. The
beholder hadn't noticed her; it was still lashing her lord with futile gazes
and hurled spells as she rose out of the flashing and trembling air, passing up
and over the monster-now! The
rune's power winked out in obedience to her will, and Asper found herself falling,
sword first, as Mirt's roars and the excited shouts of the watching Skulkans
rushed back around her. Straight down at the curving, segmented body of the eye
tyrant she plunged, headed for just behind the squirming forest of its
eyestalks. Asper spread her legs and braced herself for the landing-she'd have
only a bare breath to strike before it flung her away. She'd
mixed the stoneclaw sap and creeper gum herself, and spread it on the soles of
her boots more thickly than most thieves, miners, and sailors would. It had
seen her through more catwalk and rooftop landings on this foray than she cared
to think about just now, and if it served her just once more . .. With
solid thumps, Asper's boots struck the beholder's body, and the blade in her
hands flashed once and back again before she'd even caught her balance. Almost
cut through, an eyestalk flopped and thrashed beside her, spattering her with
stinging yellow-green gore as another eye turned her way. Her boots found
purchase on the curving body plates, and Asper lunged desperately, putting her
sword tip through the questing eye and shaking violently to drag the steel free
before another orb could bathe her in its deadly gaze. Three
of the eyestalks were turning, like slow serpents, and the beholder was rolling
over to fling her off. Asper kicked out at one eye, as her balance went, and
flailed with her blade at another. She fell hard on the bony plates of the
monster's body, arm wrapped around an eyestalk. She clung to it with one hand
and drove the quillons of her blade into the questing orb that came curling at
her. Milky fluid burst forth, drenching her. Spitting out the reeking slime,
Asper grimly slashed at another eye. Then she was falling, the beholder's bony
bulk no longer under her. Stones
rushed up to meet her, and Asper tucked herself around her sword, trying to
roll. There was no time, and with numbing force, she crashed into what was left
of a wall, and then reeled back helplessly. Mists swirled in front of her eyes,
and a new wetness on her chin told where she'd bitten through her lip. Mirt
was roaring out her name and sprinting toward her, arms spread to embrace her.
Would his failing shields protect them both? Not
from this death. The
beholder's large central eye was a rent, shriveled ruin, milky liquid dripping
from a slash in the sightless bulge, but the smaller eyes on their stalks
glittered with maddened rage. They stared at her, growing swiftly nearer. The
charging monster would either ram her into the stones and crush the life from
her, or roll over at the last instant to shred her with its fangs- teeth
adorning a jagged mouth quite large enough to swallow her. Asper
shuddered, shook her head to clear it, and raised the gore-streaming blade she
still held. Mirt came gasping up to her, stout sword raised-and the beholder's
eyes vanished behind its own bulk. It rolled over to reveal the gaping maw that
would devour her. A giant
among its own kind and armed with spells that they lacked, magic enough to
overmatch many a human mage, Xuzoun had been contemptuously overconfident. It
was always a mistake with humans, he vaguely remembered an older tyrant telling
him once. It
would take many spells and long, long months in hiding to regain what had been
lost in a few moments of red, reaving pain . . . but first to still the hands
that had done this, forever! Mirt
fetched up against Asper, panting. "Are ye mad, lass? Yon-" Asper
shoved him away, hard, spun about, and dived away. Mirt staggered backward and,
with a roar of pain, sat down hard on bruising stone. The beholder crashed into
the stones where they'd stood, snapping and tearing with its teeth. Rubble
sprayed or rolled in all directions as the beholder raked the heap of stone
apart, teeth grating on rock. The impact sent it cartwheeling helplessly away
through the air-and uncovered a battered, unsteadily reeling tavernmaster. Durnan
found his feet and climbed grimly out of the heaped stones, growling at the
pain of several stiffening bruises. He'd been buried long enough to know the
first cold touch of despair and was in a mood to rend beholders. "Urrrgh,"
Mirt snarled, waddling awkwardly to his feet. "What's this the earth spits
forth? Tavernmasters gone carelessly strolling through Skullport?" "Well
met, old friend," Durnan said, grinning and clapping Mirt on the shoulder
with fingers that seemed made of iron. Mirt's
mustache made that overall bristling movement that betokened a smile. "I
saw the little minx ye came seeking, sitting as cool as ye please in Bindle's
Blade, tossing down amberjack-so I came in haste, knowing ye'd be avidly
hunting down a trap!" He cast a look at the beholder as it thudded into
the wall of a stronghouse, where pale faces had just suddenly vanished from
view. "So what did ye do to get a tyrant mad at ye? Refuse to kiss
it?" "Your
wit slides out razor sharp, as always, Old Wolf," Durnan said with a sly
smile that belied the light, innocent tone of his words. Mirt
gestured rudely in reply, and added, "Well?" "Nothing,"
Durnan said flatly, as they watched the beholder reel, steady itself, and begin
to drift their way with menacingly slow, careful speed. "I came out of the
Portal to aid a noble lady-and strode straight into a spell that snatched me
here." He grinned suddenly. "Well, at least it saved me a bit of
walking." Mirt
harrumphed. "Pity it didn't do the same for me." Rock shifted behind
him, and he whirled around, sword out and low-only to relax and smile.
"Lass, lass, how many times have I told thee how much I hate being sneaked
up on from behind?" he chided Asper halfheartedly. She gestured past him
with her sword. "You'd
better turn around again, then, my lord," she told him calmly, as a
plucking at his belt told him that Durnan had snatched one of his daggers. Mirt
grunted like a walrus and heaved himself around, puffing-in time to see the
beholder rushing down at them again, beams of reaving light lancing out from
its eyes. "Keep
behind me, both of ye!" the fat moneylender roared. "I'm
shielded!" "Against
teeth like those? That's a spell you'll have to show me some time!" Durnan
said, standing at Mirt's shoulder with a dagger in either fist. He'd lost his
blade under all the rocks, and one eye had swollen almost shut, but the
tavernmaster seemed content-even eager-as death roared down at them again. With
the ease and fluid grace of a prowling serpent, Asper slid up to stand at
Mirt's other shoulder. "It seems strange to be worrying about a beholder's
teeth," she said, "and not its eyes, for once." "Get
back, lass!" Mirt roared. "As if I haven't worries enough to-" The
beholder crashed into them, snarling and snapping. They hacked and slashed
ineffectually against its bony body plates. Its hot
breath whirled around them as they jumped and hewed vainly and ducked
aside-only to be struck and hurled away by what felt like a fast-moving castle
wall. Durnan grunted as the tyrant smashed him down like a rag doll, and then
rolled away into a gully as the beholder tried to crush him. Asper could not
keep her feet when the jaws reached for her. She slid out of sight beneath the
monster, only to duck up again, stab at it- and be thrown end over end across
the ruins, sword flying from her numbed hands to clang and clatter to its own
fall. With a gasp and a moan, she fetched up against a broken-off pillar, but
Mirt was too busy to hear her. He was
scrambling and cursing and flailing away against persistent fangs, sword
ringing off bony plates and fangs alike. In the end, he managed to avoid losing
an arm only by setting his sword upright against the closing jaws and letting
go. The eye tyrant's jaws caught on the blade, bent it, and spat it out. By
then, the three battered, wincing companions were rising out of the rubble
widely scattered about the ruin. The bettors yelled fresh wagers in the
distance. "Oh,
by the way: this is Xuzoun," Durnan said formally, indicating the eye
tyrant with a flourish. "Ill
met," Mirt growled, struggling to his feet. "Damned ill met." Then
the faint, everpresent singing of his shields fell silent: his defense against
the beholder's eyes was gone. "Gods
blast it," the old moneylender muttered. "To die in Skullport, of all
places, and win someone's wager for him . . ." "Keep
apart," Asper said warningly from the rocks off to his right, "lest
it take us all down at once." "Cheerful
advice," Durnan commented, watching Xuzoun as it turned slowly to survey
them all, unaware no shields remained to foil its magic. "Anyone still
have magic to hand?" "That'll
help us against this? Nay," Mirt growled, watching death slowly come for them.
All it would take now would be for the beast to lash out with one eye, on a
whim, and discover they were defenseless. Xuzoun
had sent forth much magic against these humans and seen it all boil away
harmlessly, or come clawing back to harm its hurler. Lords of Waterdeep were
tougher than most mortals, it seemed. How to defeat these two-perhaps three, if
the woman was one, too-without destroying their bodies? The
doppleganger was dead, so preservation of these humans-their bodies, at
least-more or less intact was important. They foiled all magic with ease, and
there seemed no way to overcome their wills. And yet, to flee from battle with
them now, before an audience of Skulkans, galled. The
beholder's advance slowed, and then stopped. It rose a prudent distance above
the ruin and hung there, considering. "Right,
then, I'm off," Mirt said heartily, turning to go. "It's not the
season for beholder-hunting, anyway, and I've business to see to, that I
left-" One of
Xuzoun's eyes flashed. A stone the size of a gauntleted fist rose from the
rubble and flashed toward the old moneylender, flying as hard and straight as
any arrow. These humans might have shields to foil magic, but what if the stone
were flying fast enough, and aimed true, when the magic that flung it was
stripped away? Turning slowly end over end, the stone shot on. "Old
Wolf-down!" Asper screamed, seeing it. Mirt had heard that tone from her a
time or two before in his life, and flopped to his belly without delay. The
stone whistled past close overhead and shattered with a sharp crack against a
wall beyond. The
beholder was descending, and at the same time a slab of stone the size of a
small cart was rising above Durnan. He ducked away, but it followed, lowering
itself with care, chasing him. The Master of the Yawning Portal spat out a
curse and started a sprinting scramble across the rocks of the ruin. The
beholder smiled as it drifted after him. If the
great weight of the stone pinned the running lord without having to strike him
down and do harm, he'd be trapped and helpless-a prisoner until Xuzoun was
ready to steal his mind and take over his body. If it worked with the one, why
then there were stones aplenty here, and only two humans more. Wheezing
to his feet and regarding the stone pursuing Durnan with horror, Mirt was
startled by a loud rattling of rock behind him. He wheeled around with a
snarl-was one of those watching gamblers trying to change the odds?-and found
himself staring at a scaly blue monster that looked like a huge and sinuous
crocodile. Its head reared up to regard him as it raced over the broken rubble
on a small forest of fast-churning legs. It was
a behir, a man-eating lizard-thing that could spit lightning bolts! "Ah,
just what we need!" Mirt snarled despairingly, raising his belt dagger and
knowing what a useless little fang it was against such onrushing death.
"Some right bastard of a mage must be toying with us!" Setting
himself the same way a weary bull lowers its head to face a fast-scudding
storm, the fat old Lord of Waterdeep prepared to fight this new foe. The behir
opened its jaws impossibly wide as it came, so that Mirt was staring into a maw
as large as a spacious doorway. A forked tongue wriggled in its depths in a
fascinating dance that plunged at him more swiftly than any man could run. Asper
screamed out Mirt's name and sprinted toward him, a small knife from her boot
flashing in her hand- but she was too far off to do more than watch. The
reptile snapped its jaws once, tilted its head toward Mirt to deliver what he
could only describe as a wink, and surged past the astonished moneylender to
spit lighting into the open mouth of the beholder. Xuzoun
screamed-a high, sobbing wail like too many cries Mirt had heard human women
make-and spun away over the ruins, lightning playing about its body. Its
eyestalks jerked and coiled spasmodically, and it was trailing smoke when it
struck a leaning pillar and crashed heavily to the ground. The rushing behir
was upon it in a breath, coiling over its foe as it snapped its jaws and tore
away eyestalks in eager, merciless haste. The three humans watched, a little
awed, and then in unspoken accord came together in the center of the stony
devastation to watch the beholder die. "Is
there any hole here small enough that we can get into it and hold off that
thing?" Asper asked softly, watching the scaly blue head toss as it tore
away beholder flesh. A last bubbling wail from the thing beneath its claws died
away. None of
them saw a crystal sphere materialize silently beside the riven eye tyrant,
flicker with the last vestiges of a spell glow . . . and then crumble to dust,
which drifted away. "A
few, no doubt," Durnan replied grimly, watching the carnage, "but
none of them would shield us in the slightest from its lightning." Asper
sighed, a long, shuddering sound, and tossed her head. Her eyes were very
bright as she said softly, "I thought so," and raised her little
knife as if it was some great magical long sword. When
the crocodilelike head turned from its feasting, it saw the little knife,
Mirt's belt dagger beside it, and the similar dagger Durnan held ready, and its
eyes flashed golden with amusement. The great jaws opened, and a hissing roar
came out. The jaws worked and rippled with effort, and for a moment, Asper
thought it was trying to speak. Then it tossed its head in disgust, drew in a
deep breath, and tried again, turning its eyes on Mirt. They all heard its
rattling roar quite distinctly: "Thank Transtraaaa . .." Then it
lowered its head, folded its legs against its body, and slithered away. They
watched it wind its snakelike way out of the ruins into the street beyond. The
audience of surviving gamblers shrank back to make way for it. It vanished
around a corner-Spider-silk Lane, Durnan thought-and left them alone with a
torn-open, quite dead beholder. "I
wonder what she'll ask you in payment?" Durnan asked the Old Wolf. Mirt
growled a wordless reply, shrugged, and then turned to his lady as if seeing
her for the first time. "Hello, Little Fruitbasket," he leered,
extending his lips in a chimplike pout to be kissed. Slowly,
Asper stuck her tongue out in eloquent reply, and made the spitting-to-the-side
mime that young Waterdhavian ladies use to signal disgust or emphatic
disapproval. And
then she winked and grinned. Mirt
started to grin back, but it faded quickly as he saw the danger signal of
Asper's eyebrows rising, and the accompanying glitter in the dark eyes boring
into him. A moment later she asked softly, "Just who is this 'Transtraaaa'
woman, anyway?" Mirt
gave her a sour look. "Pull in the claws, little one: she's no woman, but
a lamia." It was
the turn for Durnan's eyebrows to rise. "Slave-trading, Mirt?" The fat
moneylender gave him a disgusted look, and turned to start the long trudge back
up the alley. "Ye know me better than that," he rumbled.
"Slaving's work for those who've no scruples, less sense, and too much
wealth. Nobles, for instance." Durnan
groaned. "Let's not start that one again. We rooted out all we could find,
and Khel set spy spells . . . there'll always be a few dabblers, no doubt, but
nothing we can't handle-" Lightning
roared across the ruins to split the stones at his feet. "Oh?
Care to try to handle me, tavernmaster?" The voice echoed and rolled
around them, made louder by magic: the taunting voice of an arrogant young
woman of culture and breeding. The
three lords looked up whence the lightning had come and saw a lone figure
standing on the catwalk where Asper had inspected a line of washing not so long
ago: a slim, haughty figure in a dark green cloak whose folds showed the shape
of a long sword beneath it. The uppermost part of the figure was all flashing
eyes and curling auburn hair, piled high around graceful shoulders. "Young
Nythyx," Mirt roared, "Come down from there!" In
reply, two gloved hands parted the cloak from within to reveal the glowing,
deadly things they bore: Netherese blast scepters, crackling with simmering
lightning. "Come up and get me, 'fat man," Nythyx Thunderstaff
sneered. "I don't take orders from drunken old commoners." Durnan
looked up at her, eyes narrowed. "You're a slaver, then?" He strode
calmly toward the mouth of the alley, and after a moment Mirt and Asper
followed. The
scepters were leveled at them, and the young woman who held them shrugged and
said almost defiantly, "Yes." Durnan
kept on walking, but shook his head in smiling disbelief. "You've never
shackled men, or dragged ores out of carry cages. If you tried, they'd toss you
around like a child's ball!" Lighting
stabbed at him, in wordless, deadly reply. An
unclad woman whose hair and eyes shared the color of leaping flame leaned out
of a window at the mouth of the alley and stiffened. "Blast
scepters!" she hissed. As her
eyes blazed even brighter, she flowed forward out of the window. Her lower body
was human to the hips, but from there down it was the scaled, sinuous bulk of a
serpent. She slithered along the wall, drawing herself upright, and raised her
hands to weave a spell. A dark,
chill hand caught at her shoulder. She
spun about, hands growing talons with lightning speed. "Who-?" "I
am sometimes called Halaster Blackcloak," the wall told her. A cowled face
melted out of its stones to join the arm that held her. Flame-red eyes met dark
ones, and after a moment Transtra shivered and looked away. The hand released
its hold on her, and Halaster's voice was almost kindly as he added,
"They'll be fine. Watch. Just watch." Lightning
spat down at the tavernmaster, slashing aside lanterns and washing. Durnan
calmly leapt aside, rolled to his feet, and resumed his steady walk a dozen
paces ahead and to the left of where he'd been walking. He
looked up through smoking rags and swaying ropes and remarked, "Ah. You
cook every slave who says something you don't like, eh? This may be one reason
why we've never heard of your stellar slaving career." Lighting
cracked again. In its wake the young noblewoman shrieked, "Don't you dare
mock me, tavern-master! My master would have killed you, all of you, if it
hadn't been for that-that snake-thing! You're very lucky to be alive to toss
smart words my way right now!" "Ye
really should practice with that toy," Mirt growled, waggling one large
and hairy finger her way, "if ye harbor any fond hopes of ever hitting
someone with it." At his
shoulder, Asper frowned. "You served . . . the beholder?" she asked
the woman aloft. They
were close enough now to clearly see Nythyx Thunderstaff's slim lips draw into
a tight line. The young noblewoman stared down at them, pale and trembling with
rage, and said, "Yes. With Xuzoun, I wielded power and influence. Great
lords poured me their best wines in hopes of gaining just the slaves they
desired. You've ended that, you three, and will pay for doing so. This I
swear." "I've
heard of consorts that fathers disapprove of," Mirt rumbled, "but
lass, lass, how could ye be so foolish?" "Foolish?"
Nythyx shrieked, thrusting forth the scepters she held to point almost straight
down at their upturned faces. "Foolish? Who's the fool here, Old
Wolf?" She triggered both blast scepters. Asper
had been muttering something under her breath-and at that moment the catwalk
bucked and broke apart as the blast star she'd left behind on it obediently
exploded. "Ye
are, if ye know no better than to let us walk right up when ye had the power to
torch us all," Mirt told Nythyx as the young noblewoman tumbled helplessly
down, down to the cobbles at their feet. Futile lightnings sputtered forth to
scorch the buildings on either side, but found no way to slow her killing fall. Or-nearly
killing fall. A scant few feet above the stones, Durnan rushed forward, leapt
high to meet her, and cradled her deftly in his arms, crashing down into a
crouch that took the force of her descent. Nythyx
stared at him for one astonished moment. Her face twisted, and she raised the
one scepter she'd managed to hang on to, aiming at his face. The tavernmaster,
however, brought one expert fist down across her chin in a swipe that left her
slack-jawed and senseless. Durnan
watched the winking and sputtering scepter fall slowly from her hand. When it
clattered on the cobbles, he kicked it to Asper, looked for a moment at the
now-empty face of the woman in his arms, then swung her onto his shoulder for
the long carry back to her father's arms in Waterdeep. Just what, he wondered,
was he going to tell Lord Thunderstaff. .. ? Rubies
caught his eyes as her long, ostentatious earrings dangled down beside his
chest. Durnan stared at them, shook his head, and said wearily, "I'm
getting too old for this. What a day!" Mirt
shrugged as one of his arms found its way around Asper's shoulders. "Eh?
What say ye? 'Twas a bit of a slow day in Skullport, I'd say!" The
words had scarce left his mouth when the front of a nearby building burst with
a flash and roar out into the alley, shattering shutters across the way and
sending another catwalk into dancing collapse. Flashing fingers of blue-white
fire spat from the curling smoke of the riven building even before the flung
stones of its walls had finished falling. On those fiery fingers were borne two
writhing bodies. The
three Lords of Waterdeep watched the pair struggling vainly against the magic.
They were women of greater age and much more lush beauty than either Asper or
Nythyx-beauty revealed through the tatters of their smouldering robes. They
shrieked past the three lords, pulled in a sharp curve along the front of a
butcher shop, and continued on down the alley, propelled by the raging magic
that held them captive. The
lords turned to watch, in time to see a black flame rise suddenly into being
along one wall, partway down the alley. It was a dancing shadow without fuel or
heat, which seemed neither to die nor rise higher, but merely to continue. From
behind its concealing veil, Transtra watched a shadowy hand rise from the
cobbles behind Mirt's boot, deftly close on the forgotten blast scepter-which
lay fallen and still sparking feebly on the cobbles-and draw it down through
the solid stone. A moment later, the hand reappeared beside her and offered her
the scepter. "You
see? Patience does bring rewards," Halaster murmured. The lamia noble
looked at him in wonderment, then at the scepter, and slowly stretched forth
her hand for it. The wizard smiled thinly. "There's no trap; take
it." Transtra
regarded him, eyes unreadable. "Why have you given me this?" Eyes as
black as a starless night looked back into hers. "I have few friends,
Lady, and I'd like to gain another-as you gained yonder moneylender." Transtra
looked at the two sorceresses clawing and sobbing against the unknown magic
that was carrying them inexorably down the alley, drew in a deep breath, looked
back at Halaster, and stretched forth her other hand. "I'm
willing to gain one, too," she said steadily, and the smile that answered
her was like a wave of warm spiced wine that carried her along unresisting. The
wizard replied, "Then trust me, and come." Cool
black fingers closed on hers, and drew her toward the wall, into the chill
embrace of the stones. Transtra swallowed, closed her eyes, and kept firm hold
of the fingers that took her on, into silence, away from the alley. The
black flame along one side of the alley was suddenly gone as if it had never
been, revealing a dirty stone wall broken by one dark, open window. As the two
struggling sorceresses flew past that spot, their splendid bodies wriggled,
lengthened-and turned warty and green. "Trolls?"
Asper asked, frowning. Her two
companions nodded. The
forcibly transformed women plunged across the ruins into darkness, tumbling in
the grip of the magic that propelled them. A
moment later, on the far side of the great cavern whence they'd gone, two
gigantic orbs blazed open, and a thunderous voice rumbled, "Who
dares-?" There
followed rumblings that shook even so large a cavern as this, which marked the
stirring of a huge, long-quiescent body. Something larger than several
buildings rose up on the far side of the ruins. As the
black dragon raised its scaly bulk higher than the roofs of Skullport, to glare
down the alley, Asper whispered something over the Netherese scepter. A nimbus
of blue-and-gold fire surrounded her hand. "Touch me, both of you,"
she said, "and bring the not-so-noble lady's hand against mine." Durnan
touched Nythyx's limp hand to Asper's, and she whispered something. The scepter
began to whine and pulse, brighter at each flare. "What
have ye done, las"?" Mirt rumbled. "Used
this thing to power the little carry-stone you gave me, so as to whisk us all
back to Mirt's Mansion," she replied. As she spoke, the familiar blue mists
of teleportation began to rise and swirl all around them. Asper smiled and
turned her head to face Durnan. "I must agree with my lord," she said
sweetly to the tavernmaster. "A slow day, in truth." "May
there be many more of them," Durnan said, breathing his heartfelt wish. The
dragon's charge made the stony pave of the alley buckle and heave under their
boots. The
mists rushed up to claim them, spinning them back to a place where there'd be a
fire and a warm bathing pool, ready wine . . . and no dragons. What more could
a retired adventurer ask for? Those
who like to know their players, and have searched in vain for a program, take
heart-and hearken! The bold players featured in the preceding escapade are as
follows: ALDON:
The strongest and most slow-witted of a trio of human thieves who style
themselves the Masked Mayhem, Aldon and his comrades hold absolute rule [ over
about six yards' worth of two alleys in Skullport. ASPER:
The onetime ward of Mirt the Moneylender, I who rescued her as a young child
from the ruins of a burning city, Asper has become his ladylove, sword
companion, and (all too often) rescuer. A deadly, acrobatic swordswoman, she
was the real brains of the stalwart adventuring band known as the Four-and is
now I one of the real brains among the Lords of Waterdeep. I Mirt loves her
more than life itself-and several score I of city guardsmen dream of her kisses
... in vain, of J course (sigh). DURNAN:
This laconic, unruffled, weather-beaten I man is well known in Waterdeep as the
master of the Yawning Portal, that famous tavern whose taproom holds the
entrance to the vast and deep dungeon of Undermountain. Durnan's thews,
fearless manner, and cool handling of belligerent adventurers have won him
admiring glances from young ladies. Few, however, know that this burly
philosopher was once an adventurer, whose blade let sunlight into the innards
of more monsters of Faerun than several dozen chartered adventuring companies
combined. A onetime member of the Four, Durnan is now one of the most practical
and widely-respected father figures in the city-and in secret (oops), one of
the most capable Lords of Waterdeep. ELMINSTER:
Known as "the Old Mage" to a generation, and the Sage of Shadowdale
to the overly-formal, this white-haired, impressively bearded old rogue should
need no introduction to Faerunians. One of the Chosen of Mystra, he is an
archmage mighty enough to make more than one world tremble-and he paid me
handsomely to say this, too. HALASTER
BLACKCLOAK: A legendary villain in Waterdeep, "the Mad Mage" is a
lurking figure used to frighten children into good behavior. Not a few of them
down the decades have had nightmares about the sinister Lord of Undermountain,
whose very gaze can kill, who skulks the cellars and dark dungeon passages
beneath the city, and hurls spells with crazed brilliance, slaughtering
beholders, rending dragons . .. and sending bouquets of flowers walking up to
startled young Waterdhavian ladies at their coming-out revels. HERLE:
"Best Blade" of the Black Falcon Patrol of the City Guard of
Waterdeep, Herle is a tall, courteous man-deadly with a sword and with his
flashing eyes and skillful tongue. Ask any noble Waterdhavian lady he's been
assigned to escort-when you're out of earshot of her husband. ILBARTH:
This quick-tongued leader is the master strategist of the Masked Mayhem
thieving band of Skullport. Ilbarth is one of those lovable rogues who's almost
as handsome as he thinks he is, knows folk almost as well as he thinks he does,
and with much luck might avoid his grave for a season or two longer. Place no
bets on this. IRAEGHLEE:
This illithid (mind flayer, of that mauve-skinned, mouth-tentacled race who
like to suck; out the brains of humans who have any) might have had a longer
career of manipulation and multifold intrigue if his arrogance had been a
trifle weaker, and' his foresight a trifle stronger-flaws not unknown, I fear,
to many human mages and adventurers. LAERAL
ARUNSUN SILVERHAND: The Lady Mage of Waterdeep is consort to the famous Khelben
"Blackstaff" Arunsun (Lord Mage of Waterdeep), who rescued her from
the fell artifact known as the Crown of Horns. Laeral is one of the Chosen of
Mystra and one of the Seven Sisters watched over by Elminster. She serves as
the understanding, worldly representative of the Lords of Waterdeep in
Skullport (often in disguise), and was once the leader of an adventuring group
known as the Nine. Her grace and beauty are outstripped only by her mastery of
magic. MIRT:
It is untrue to say that Mirt the Moneylender outmasses a horse. A pony, now ..
. This shrewd, grasping, sarcastic old rogue is beloved by all who don't owe
him money. He is sometimes called "the Wheezing Warrior" by those too
young to remember his days as Mirt the Merciless, a mercenary general feared from
the quays of Calimport to the stony gates of Mirabar. Later he was the Old
Wolf, canniest of all the pirate captains to plunder the Sword Coast. These
days, he must content himself merely with being a senior Harper, a
not-so-secret Lord of Waterdeep, and the city's busiest critic of newly opened
taverns and houses of revelry. NYTHYX
THUNDERSTAFF: One of the young, pretty, and ruthless noble ladies with which
Waterdeep abounds, Nythyx is a daughter of Anadul Thunder staff, an old friend
of Durnan. While he lived, Anadul was brother to Baerom, head of the noble
House of Thunderstaff. Nythyx has a taste for danger, feeling important,
wielding power, and indulging in cruelties. She may well wind up ruling the
city someday . . . if she doesn't get trampled in the rush of all the other
young beauties of similar tastes and skills. Watch her; if you keep hidden, the
entertainment's free. SHANDRIL
SHESSAIR: This young, heart-strong lass is pursued by half of Faerun (the evil,
magic-wielding half) because she happens to possess the rare and awesome power
of spellfire, with which she may someday just reshape the world ... if she
survives the almost daily attacks of those who want her spellfire, that is. TORTHAN:
A human male slave of the Lady Transtra, Torthan worships his mistress almost
as much as he fears her. His tale is a sad one to date, but is a long way from
ended. "Torthan's lineage will surprise some, when at last 'tis
revealed" (or so Elminster has said, in what I believe was an unguarded
moment). TRANSTRA:
This cruel, worldly-wise lamia noble belongs to that deadly race of man-eating
creatures. A slaver of some prominence in Skullport, "Lady" Transtra
is a sometime business associate of Mirt. . . and of some far more unsavory
folk who thankfully don't appear in this tale. ULISSS:
A behir bonded to Transtra, Ulisss is one of a race of reptilian, snakelike
carnivores that have many legs, can spit lightning, and devour many unwanted
warriors and adventurers. Hatred and love for Transtra war within Ulisss; they
both know that hatred will win out some day ... in the form of a treachery that
Ulisss fears Transtra is all too ready for. VOUNDARRA:
This young sorceress is met only briefly, on her helpless flight down an alley
in Skullport to an unwanted meeting with Vulharindauloth. The spell that sent
her on that journey, and the one who cast it, are secrets to be revealed
elsewhere and else-when ... as is Voundarra's fate. VULHARINDAULOTH:
A gigantic elder black dragon, Vulharindauloth is peacefully asleep in a wall
of the cavern that holds the corner of Skullport we visit ... or at least, is
peacefully asleep until the dying moments of this tale (and I do mean dying . .
. ). How Vulharindauloth came to be there, and what he'll do in his awakened
rage, are matters to be explored at later time-and from a safe distance. On the
far side of) Selune, a century from now, perhaps. XUZOUN:
This beholder (eye tyrant) is old enough to know better, but too impatient with
skulking not toj try to place several mind-controlled dopplegange slaves in the
places of Durnan and other importan Waterdhavians, so as to set itself up as
the true ruler the city. There are graveyards full of folk who've cov eted that
position . . . but Xuzoun did keep more of an; eye on things than most of them.
(Sorry.) YLOEBRE:
An illithid (mind flayer) and fello schemer of Iraeghlee, Yloebre shares his
business pa ner's shattering fate. It's possible Yloebre might have a future
career-but, knowing Halaster, not likely. ZARISSA:
The second and even more lushly beautiful sorceress we see plunging helplessly
through the murky air of that alley in Skullport, Zarissa is on her unwilling
way to awaken a black dragon. It's possible we'll learn about the spell that
sent her along witl Voundarra, its caster, and Zarissa's fate, in some other
tale. And then again-perhaps not. RITE OF
BLOOD Elaine
Cunningham Chapter
One Journey
into Darkness There
were in the lands of Toril powerful men whose names were seldom heard, and
whose deeds were spoken of only in furtive whispers. Among these were the
Twilight Traders, a coalition of merchant captains who did business with the
mysterious peoples of the Underdark. There
were perhaps six in this exclusive brotherhood, and all were canny, fearless
souls who possessed far more ambitions than morals. Membership in this
clandestine group was carefully guarded, achieved only through a long and
difficult process that was monitored not only by the members, but by mysterious
forces from Below. Those who survived the initiation were granted a rare window
into the hidden realms: the right to enter the underground trade city known as
Mantol-Derith. An
enormous cavern hidden some three miles below the surface, Mantol-Derith was
shrouded with more layers of magic and might than a wizard's stronghold.
Secrecy was its first line of defense: even in the Underdark, not many knew of
the marketplace's existence. Its exact location was known only to a few. Even
many of the merchants who regularly did business there would have been hard
pressed to place the cavern on a map. So convoluted were the routes leading to
Mantol-Derith that even duergar and deep gnomes could not hold their relative
bearings along the way. Between the market and any nearby settlement lay
labyrinths of monster-infested tunnels complicated by secret doors, portals of
teleportation, and magical traps. No one
"stumbled upon Mantol-Derith;" a merchant either knew the route
intimately or died along the way. Nor
could the marketplace be located by magical means. The strange radiations of
the Underdark were strong in the thick, solid stone surrounding the cavern. No
tendril of magic could pass through-all were either diffused or reflected back
to the sender, sometimes dangerously mutated. Thus, any attempt at magical inquiry
into the mysteries of Mantol-Derith was fated to end in frustration or tragedy. Even
the drow, the undisputed masters of the Underdark, did not have easy access to
this market. In the nearest dark-elven settlement, the great city of
Menzoberranzan, no more than eight merchant companies at any one time knew the
secret paths. This knowledge was the key to immense wealth and power, and its
possession the highest mark of status attainable by members of the merchant
class. Accordingly, it was pursued with an avid ferocity, with complex levels
of intrigue and bloody battles of weaponry and magic, all of which would
probably earn nods of approval from the city's ruling matrons-if indeed the
priestesses of Lloth were inclined to take notice of the doings of mere
commoners. Few of
Menzoberranzan's ruling females-except for those matron mothers who maintained
alliances with this or that merchant band-had much interest in the world beyond
their city's cavern. These drow were an insular people: utterly convinced of
their own racial superiority, fanatically absorbed in their worship of Lloth,
completely enmeshed in the strife and intrigue inspired by their Lady of Chaos. Status
was all, and the struggle for power all-consuming. Very little could compel the
subterranean elves to tear their eyes from their traditionally narrow focus.
But Xandra Shobalar, third-born daughter of a noble house, was driven by the
most powerful motivating forces known to the drow: hatred and revenge. The
members of House Shobalar were reclusive even by the standards of paranoid
Menzoberranzan, and they were seldom seen outside of the family complex. At the
moment, Xandra was farther from home than she had ever intended to go. The
journey to Mantol-Derith was long-the midnight hour of Narbondel would come and
pass perhaps as many as one hundred times from the outset of her quest until
she stood once again within the walls of House Shobalar. Few
noble females cared to be away for so long, for fear that they would return to
find their positions usurped. Xandra had no such fears. She had ten sisters,
five of whom were, like Xandra, counted among the rare female wizards of
Menzoberranzan. But none of these five wanted her job. Xandra
was Mistress of Magic, charged with the wizardly training of all young
Shobalars as well as the household's magically gifted fosterlings. She had a
great deal of responsibility, certainly, but there was far more glory to be
found in the hoarding of spell power, and in conducting the mysterious
experiments that yielded new and wondrous items of magic. If one of the
Shobalar wizards should ever have a change of heart and try to wrest the
instructor's position away, the powerful Xandra would certainly kill her-but
only as a matter of form. No drow female allowed another to take what was hers,
even if she herself did not particularly want it. Xandra
Shobalar might not have been particularly enamored of her role, but she was
exceedingly good at what she did. The Shobalar wizards were reputed to be among
the most innovative in Menzoberranzan, and all of her students were well and
thoroughly taught. These
included the children-both female and male-of House Shobalar, a few second- and
third-born sons from other noble houses, which Xandra accepted as apprentices,
and a number of promising common-born boy-children that she acquired by
purchase, theft, or adoption-an option that usually occurred after the
convenient death of an entire family, rendering the magically-gifted child an
orphan. However
they came to House Shobalar, Xandra's students routinely won top marks in
yearly competitions meant to spur the efforts of the young drow. Such victories
opened the doors of Sorcere, the mage school at the famed academy Tier Breche.
So far every Shobalar-trained student who wished to become a wizard had been
admitted to the academy, and most had excelled in the Art. Even those students
who learned only the rudiments of magic, and went on to become priestesses or
fighters, were considered formidable magical opponents. This
high standard was a matter of pride, which Xandra Shobalar possessed in no
small measure. It was
this very reputation for excellence, however, that had caused the problem that
brought Xandra to distant Mantol-Derith. Almost
ten years before, Xandra had acquired a new student, a female of rare wizardly
promise. At first, the Shobalar Mistress had been overjoyed, for she saw in the
girl-child an opportunity to raise her own reputation to new heights. After
all, she had been entrusted with the magical education of Liriel Baenre, the
only daughter and apparent heiress of Gromph Baenre, the powerful archmage of
Menzoberranzan! If the child proved to be truly gifted-and this was almost a
certainty, for why else would the mighty Gromph bother with a child born of a
useless beauty such as Sosdrielle Vandree?-then
it was not unlikely that young Liriel might in due time inherit her sire's
title. What
renown would be hers, Xandra exulted, if she could lay claim to training
Menzoberranzan's next archmage! The first female to hold that high position! Her
initial joy was dimmed somewhat by Gromph's insistence that this arrangement be
kept in confidence. It was not an impossibility, given the reclusive nature of
the Shobalar clan, but it was brutally hard on Xandra not to be able to tout
her latest student and claim the enhanced status that Baenre favor conferred
upon her House. Still,
the Mistress Wizard looked forward to the time when the little girl could
compete-and win!-at the mageling contests, and she bided her time in smug
anticipation of glories to come. From
the start, young Liriel exceeded all of Xandra's hopes. Traditionally, the
study of magic began when children entered their Ascharlexten Decade-the
tumultuous passage between early childhood and puberty. During these years,
which usually began at the age of fifteen or so and were deemed to end either
with the onset of puberty or the twenty-fifth year- whichever came first-drow
children at last became physically strong enough to begin to channel the forces
of wizardly magic, and well-schooled enough to read and write the complicated
Drowish language. Liriel,
however, came to Xandra at the age of five, when she was little more than a
babe. Although
most dark elves felt the stirrings of their innate, spell-like drow powers in
early childhood, Liriel already possessed a formidable command of her magical
heritage, and furthermore, she could already read the written runes of Drowish.
Most importantly, she possessed in extraordinary measure the inborn talent
needed to make a magic-wielding drow into a true wizard. In a remarkably short
time, the tiny child had learned to read simple spell scrolls, reproduce the
arcane marks, and commit fairly complex spells to memory. Xandra was ecstatic.
Liriel instantly became her pride, her pet, her indulged and-almost-beloved
fosterling. And
thus she had remained, for nearly five years. At that point, the child began to
pull ahead of the Shobalar's Ascharlexten-aged students. Xandra began to worry.
When Liriel's abilities surpassed those of the much-older Bythnara, Xandra's
own daughter, Xandra knew resentment. When the Baenre girl began to wield
spells that would challenge the abilities of the lesser Shobalar wizards,
Xandra's resentment hardened into the cold, competitive hatred a drow female
held for her peers. When young Liriel gained her full height and began to
fulfill her childhood promise of extraordinary beauty to come, Xandra simmered
with a deep and very personal envy. And when the little wench's growing
interest in the male soldiers and servants of House Shobalar made it apparent
that she was entering her Ascharlexten, Xandra saw an opportunity and plotted a
dramatic-and final-end to Liriel's education. It was
a fairly typical progression, as drow relationships went, made unusual only by
the sheer force of Xandra's animosity and the lengths she was willing to go to
assuage her burning resentment of Gromph Baenre's too-talented daughter. This,
then, was the succession of events that had brought Xandra to the streets of
Mantol-Derith. Despite
her urgent need, the drow wizard could not help marveling at the sights that
surrounded her. Xandra had never before stepped outside of the vast cavern that
held Menzoberranzan, and this strange and exotic marketplace bore little
resemblance to her home city. Mantol-Derith
was set in a vast natural grotto, a cavern that had been carved in distant eons
by restless waters, which were even now busily at work. Xandra was accustomed
to the staid black depths of Menzoberranzan's Lake Donigarten, and the deep,
silent wells that were the carefully guarded treasures of each noble household. Here in
Mantol-Derith, water was a living and vital force. Indeed, the cavern's
dominant sound was that of moving water: waterfalls splashed down the grotto
walls and fell from chutes from the high-domed cavern ceiling, fountains played
softly in the small pools that seemed to be around every turn, bubbling streams
cut through the cavern. Apart
from the gentle splash and gurgle that echoed ceaselessly through the grotto,
the market city was strangely silent. Mantol Derith was not a bustling bazaar,
but a place for clandestine deals, shrewd negotiations. Nor was
it particularly crowded. By the best reckoning Xandra could get, there were
fewer than two hundred individuals in the entire cavern. The soft murmur of
voices and the occasional, muted click of boots upon the gem-crusted paths gave
little evidence of even that many inhabitants. Light
was far more plentiful than sound. A few dim lanterns were enough to set the
whole cavern asparkle, for the walls were encrusted with multicolored crystals
and gems. Bright stonework was everywhere: the walls containing fountain pools
were wondrous mosaics fashioned from semiprecious gems, the bridges that
spanned the stream were carved-or perhaps grown- from crystal, the walkways
were paved with flat-cut gemstones. At the moment, Xandra's slippers whispered
against a path fashioned from brilliant green malachite. It was unnerving, even
for a drow accustomed to the splendors of Menzoberranzan, to tread upon such
wealth. At
least the air felt familiar to the subterranean elf. Moist and heavy, it was,
and dominated by the scent of mushrooms. Groves of giant fungi ringed the
central market. Beneath the enormous, fluted caps, merchants had set up small
stalls offering a variety of goods. Perfumes, aromatic woods, spices, and
exotic sweetly scented fruits-which had become a fashionable indulgence to the
Underdark's wealthy-added piquant notes of fragrance to the damp air. To
Xandra, the strangest thing about this marketplace was the apparent truce that
existed among the various warring races who did business here. Mingling among
the stalls and passing each other peaceably on the streets were the
stone-colored deep gnomes known as svirfneblin; the deep-dwelling, dark-hearted
duergar; a few unsavory merchants from the surface worlds; and, of course, the
drow. At the four corners of the cavern, vast warehouses had been excavated to
provide storage as well as separate housing for the four factions: svirfneblin,
drow, duergar, and surface dwellers. Xandra's path took her toward the
surface-dweller cavern. The
sound of rushing water intensified as Xandra neared her goal, for the corner of
the marketplace that sold goods from the Lands of Light was located near the
largest waterfall. The air was especially damp here, and the stalls and tables
were draped with canvas to keep out the pervasive mist. Moisture
pooled on the rocky floor of the grotto and dampened the wools and furs worn by
the surface dwellers who clustered here-a motley collection of ores, ogres,
humans, and various combinations thereof. Xandra
grimaced and pulled the folds of her cloak over the lower half of her face to
ward off the fetid odor. She scanned the bustling, smelly crowd for the man who
fit the description she'd been given. Apparently
finding a drow female in such a crowd was a simpler task than singling out one
human; from the depths of one long tentlike structure came a low, melodious
voice, calling the wizard properly by her name and title. Xandra turned toward
the sound, startled to hear a drow voice in such a sordid setting. But the
small, stooped figure that hobbled toward her was that of a human male. The man
was old by the measure of humankind, with white hair, a dark and weathered
face, and a slow, faltering tread. He had not gone unscathed by his years- a
cane aided his faltering steps, and a dark patch covered his left eye. These
infirmities did not seem to have dimmed the man's pride or hampered his success;
he displayed ample evidence of both. The
cane was carved from lustrous wood and ornamented with gems and gilding. Over a
silvered tunic of fine silk, he wore a cape embroidered with gold thread and
fastened with a diamond neck clasp. Gems the size of laplizard eggs glittered
on his fingers and at his throat. His smile was both welcoming and confident-
that of a male who possessed much and was well satisfied with his own measure. "Hadrogh
Prohl?" Xandra inquired. The
merchant bowed. "At your service, Mistress Shobalar," he said in
fluent but badly accented Drowish. "You
know of me. Then you must also have some idea what I need." "But
of course, Mistress, and I will be pleased to assist you in whatever way I can.
The presence of so noble a lady honors this establishment. Please, step this
way," he said, moving aside so that she could enter the canvas pavilion. Hadrogh's
words were correct, his manner proper almost to the point of being
obsequious-which was, of course, the prudent approach to take when dealing with
drow females of stature. Even so, something about the merchant struck Xandra as
not quite right. To all appearances, he seemed at ease-friendly, relaxed to the
point of being casual, even unobservant. In other words, a naive and utter
fool. How such a man had survived so long in the tunnels of the Underdark was a
mystery to the Shobalar wizard. And yet, she noted that Hadrogh, unlike most
humans, did not require the punishing light of torches and lanterns. His
tent was comfortably dark, but he had no apparent difficulty negotiating his
way through the maze of crates and tables that held his wares. A
curious Xandra whispered the words to a simple spell, one that would yield some
answers about the man's nature and the magic he might carry. She was not
entirely surprised when the seeking magic skittered off the merchant; either he
was astute enough to carry something that deflected magical inquiry, or he
possessed an innate magical immunity that nearly matched her own. Xandra
had her suspicions about the merchant's origins, suspicions that were too
appalling to voice, but she did not doubt that this "human" was quite
at home in the Underdark, and quite capable of taking care of himself, despite
his fragile, aged facade. The
half-drow merchant-for Xandra's suspicions were indeed correct-appeared to be
unaware of the female's scrutiny. He led the way to the very back of the canvas
pavilion. Here stood a row of large cages, each with a single occupant. Hadrogh
swept a hand toward them, and then stepped back so that Xandra could examine
the merchandise as she would. The
wizard walked slowly along the row of cages, examining the exotic creatures who
were destined for slavery. There were no shortage of slaves to be had in the
Underdark, but the status-conscious dark elves were ever eager to acquire new
and unusual possessions, and there was a high demand for servants brought from
the Lands of Light. Halfling females were prized as ladies' maids for their
deft hands and their skill at weaving, curling, and twisting hair into
elaborate works of art. Mountain dwarves, who possessed a finer touch with
weapons and jewels than their duergar kin, were considered hard to manage but
well worth the trouble it took to keep them. Humans were useful as beasts of
burden and as sources of spells and potions unknown Below. Exotic beasts were
popular, too. A few of the more ostentatious drow kept them as pets or
displayed them in small private zoos. Some of these animals found their way to
the arena in the Manyfolks district of Menzoberranzan. There, drow who
possessed a taste for vicarious slaughter gathered to watch and wager while
dangerous beasts fought each other, slaves of various races, and even
drow-soldiers eager to prove their battle prowess or mercenaries who coveted
the handful of coins and the fleeting fame that were the survivors' reward. Hadrogh
could supply slaves or beasts to meet almost any taste. Xandra nodded with
satisfaction as she eyed the collection; indeed, she had been well served by
the informant who'd sent her to this half-breed merchant. "I
was not told, my lady, what manner of slave you required. If you would describe
your needs, perhaps I could guide your selection," Hadrogh offered. A
strange light entered the wizard's crimson eyes. "Not slaves," she
corrected him. "Prey." "Ah."
The merchant seemed not at all surprised by this grim pronouncement. "The
Blooding, I take it?" Xandra
nodded absently. The Blooding was a uniquely drow ritual, a rite of passage in
which young dark elves were required to hunt and kill an intelligent or
dangerous creature, preferably one native to the Lands of Light. Surface raids
were one means of accomplishing this task, but it was not unusual for these
hunts to take place in the tunnels of the wild Underdark, provided suitable
captives could be acquired. Never had the selection of the ritual prey been so
important, and Xandra looked over the prospective choices carefully. Her
crimson eyes lingered longingly on the huddled form of a pale-skinned,
golden-haired elven child. The hate-filled drow bore a special enmity for their
surface kindred. Faerie elves, as the light-dwelling elves were called, were
the preferred target of those Blooding ceremonies that took the form of a raid,
but they were seldom hunted Below. Captured faeries could will themselves to
die, and most did so long before they reached these dark caverns. Accordingly,
there would be great prestige in obtaining such rare quarry for the ritual
hunt. Regretfully
Xandra shook her head. Although
the boy-child was certainly old enough to provide sport-he was probably near
the age of the drow who would hunt him-his glazed, haunted eyes suggested
otherwise. The
young faerie elf seemed oblivious to his surroundings; his gaze was fixed upon
some nightmare-filled world that only he inhabited. True, the boy-child would
command a fabulous price; there were many drow who would pay dearly for the
pleasure of destroying even so pitiful a faerie. Xandra, however, was in need
of deadlier prey. She
walked over to the next cage, in which prowled a magnificent catlike beast with
tawny fur and wings like those of a deepbat. As the creature paced the cage,
its tail-which was long and supple and tipped with iron spikes-lashed about
furiously, clanging each time it hit the bars. The beast's hideous, humanoid
face was contorted with fury, and the eyes that burned into Xandra's were
bright with hunger and hatred. Now
this was promising! Not wishing to appear too interested-which would certainly
add many gold pieces to the asking price-Xandra turned to the merchant and
lifted one eyebrow in a skeptical, questioning arch. "This
is a manticore. A fearsome monster," wheedled Hadrogh. "The creature
is driven by a powerful hunger for human flesh-though certainly it would not be
adverse to dining upon drow, if such is your desire! By which," he added
hastily, "I meant only to imply that the beast's voracious nature would
add excitement to the hunt. The manticore is itself a hunter, and a worthy
opponent!" Xandra
looked the thing over, noting with approval its daggerlike claws and fangs.
"Intelligent?" "Cunning,
certainly." "But
is it capable of devising strategy and discerning counterstrategy, to the third
and fourth levels?" the wizard persisted. "The youngling mage who
will face her Blooding is formidable; I need prey that will truly test her
abilities." The
merchant spread his hands and shrugged. "Strength and hunger are also
mighty weapons. These the manticore has in abundance." "Since
you have not said otherwise, I assume it wields no magic," the wizard
observed. "Has it at least some natural resistance to spellcasting?" "Alas,
none. What you ask, great lady, are things that belong rightfully to the drow.
Such powers are difficult to find in lesser beings," the merchant said in
a tone that was carefully calculated to flatter and appease. Xandra
sniffed and turned to the next cage, where an enormous, white-furred creature
gnawed audibly on a haunch of rothe. The
thing was a bit like a quaggoth-a bearlike beast native to the Underdark-except
for its pointed head and strong, musky odor. "No,
a yeti is not quite right for your purposes," Hadrogh said thoughtfully.
"Your young wizard could track such a beast by its scent alone!" Suddenly
the merchant's uncovered eye lit up, and he snapped his fingers. "But
wait! It may be that I have precisely what you require." He
bustled off, returning in moments with a human male in tow. Xandra's
first response was disgust. The merchant seemed a canny sort, too knowledgeable
in the ways of the drow to offer such inferior merchandise. Her scornful gaze
swept over the human-noting his coarse, dwarflike form, the pale leathery skin
of his bearded face, the odd tattoos showing through the stubble of gray hair
that peppered his skull, the dusty robes of a bright red shade that would be
considered tawdry even by one of the low-rent male companions who did business
in the Eastmyr district. But
when Xandra met the captive's eyes-which were as green and hard as the finest
malachite-the sneer melted from her lips. What she saw in those eyes stunned
her: intelligence far beyond her expectations, pride, cunning, rage, and
implacable hatred. Hardly
daring to hope, Xandra glanced at the man's hands. Yes, the wrists were crossed
and bound together, the hands swathed in a thick cocoon of silken bandages. No
doubt some of the fingers had been broken as well-such precautions were only
prudent when dealing with captive spellcasters. No matter. The powerful clerics
of House Shobalar could heal such injuries soon enough. "A
wizard," she stated, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "A
powerful wizard," the merchant emphasized. "We
shall see," Xandra murmured. "Unbind him-I would test his
skills." Hadrogh,
to his credit, did not try to dissuade the female. The merchant quickly unbound
the human's hands. He even lit a pair of small candles, providing enough dim
light so that the man could see. The
red-robed man flexed his fingers painfully. Xandra noted that the human's hands
seemed stiff, but unharmed. She tossed an inquiring glare at the merchant. "An
amulet of containment," Hadrogh explained, pointing to the collar of gold
that tightly encircled the man's neck. "It is a magical shield that keeps
the wizard from casting any of the spells he has learned and committed to
memory. He can, however, learn and cast new spells. His mind is intact, as are
his remembered spells. As are his hands, for that matter. Admittedly, this is a
costly method of transporting magically-gifted slaves, but my reputation
demands that I deliveiij undamaged merchandise." A rare
smile broke across Xandra's face. She had| never heard of such an arrangement,
but it was idealljl suited to her purposes. Cunning,
quickness of mind, and magical aptitude) were the qualities she needed. If the
human passed! these tests, she could teach him what he needed toi know. That
his mind could be searched at some latex| time, and its store of magical
knowledge plundered foi| her own use, was a bonus. | The
drow quickly removed three small items from! the bag at her waist and showed
them to the watchful human. Slowly, she moved through the gestures andjj spoke
the words of a simple spell. In response to heil casting, a small globe of
darkness settled over one o| the candles, completely blotting out its light. | Xandra
handed an identical set of spell components) to the human. "Now you,"
she commanded. The
red-clad wizard obviously understood what wasj expected of him. Pride and anger
darkened his face, butj only for a moment-the lure of an unlearned spelj proved
too strong for him to resist. Slowly, withl painstaking care, he mirrored
Xandra's gestures and? mimicked her words. The second candle flickered, then)
dimmed. Its flame was still faintly visible through the] gray fog that had
suddenly surrounded it. I "The
human shows promise," the Shobalar wizard admitted. It was unusual for any
wizard to reproduce a] spell-even imperfectly-without having seen and] studied
the magical symbols. "His pronunciation is| deplorable, though, and will
continue to hamper hi^ progress. You wouldn't by chance have a wizard in stock
who can speak Drowish? Or even Undercommonlj Such would be easier to
train." 3 Hadrogh
bowed deeply and hurried out of sight. A moment later he returned, alone, but
with one hand! held palm-up and outstretched so that Xandra could see he had
another solution to suggest. The faint light of the fog-shrouded candle
glimmered on the two tiny silver earrings in his hand, each in the form of a
half-circle. "To
translate speech," the merchant explained. "One pierces the ear, so
that he might understand, the other his mouth, so that he might be understood.
May I demonstrate?" When
Xandra nodded, the merchant lifted his empty hand and snapped his fingers
twice. Two
half-ore guards hastened to his side. They seized the human wizard and held him
fast while Hadrogh pressed the rings' tiny metal spikes through the man's
earlobe and the left side of his upper lip. Immediately the human gave off a
string of Drowish curses, predications so colorful and virulent that an
astonished Hadrogh fell back a step. Xandra
laughed delightedly. "How
much?" she demanded. The
merchant named an enormous price, hastening to assure Xandra that the figure
named included the magical collar and rings. The drow wizard rapidly estimated
the cost of these items, added the potential worth of the spells she would
steal from this human, and threw in the death of Liriel Baenre. "A
bargain," Xandra said with dark satisfaction. Chapter
Two Shades
of Crimson Tresk
Mulander paced the floor of his cell, his trailing scarlet robes whispering
behind him. It had not been easy, persuading the Mistress to provide him with
the bright silk garments, but he was a Red Wizard and so he would remain,
however far he might be from his native Thay. Nearly
two years had passed since Mulander had first encountered Xandra Shobalar and
begun his strange apprenticeship. Although he had not once left this room-a
large chamber carved from solid rock and vented only by tiny openings in the
ceiling, well above his reach-he had not been badly treated. He had food and
wine in plenty, whatever comforts he required, and, most importantly, an
intense and thorough education in the magic of the Underdark. It was an
opportunity that many of his peers would have seized without a qualm, and in
truth, Mulander did not entirely regret his fate. The Red
Wizard was a necromancer, a powerful member of the Researcher faction-that
group of wizards who were content to leave Thay's boundaries as they were and
who instead sought ever stronger and more fearsome magics. Utterly devoted to
the principles of the Researchers, Mulander was still somewhat of an oddity
among his peers, for he was one of a very few high-ranking wizards whose blood
was not solely that of the ruling Mulan race. His
father's father had been Rashemi, and his inheritance from his grandsire was a
thick, muscled body and a luxuriant crop of facial hair. From his wizard mother
had come his talent and ambition, as well as the height and the sallow
complexion that were considered marks of nobility in Thay. Mulander's
cold, gemlike green eyes and narrow scimitar nose lent him a terrifying aspect,
and although he conformed to custom and affected baldness, he was rather vain
of the thick, long gray beard that set him apart from the nearly hairless
Mulan. In all, he was an imposing man, who carried his sixty winters with ease
upon his broad, proud shoulders. He was strong of body and mind and magic; the
passing years had only served to thin his graying hair, which he regretted not
at all, for it made the daily task of shaving his pate less onerous. Mistress
Shobalar had indulged him in this, as well, providing him with incredibly
keen-edged shaving gear and a halfling servant to do the honors. Indeed, the
drow female seemed fascinated by the tattoos that covered Mulander's head. As
well she should be: each mark was a magical rune that, when activated with the
appropriate spell, could transform bits of dead matter into fearsome magical
servants. Provide him with a corpse, and he would produce an army. Or could,
were he able to access his necromantic magic! Mulander
grimaced and slipped a finger under the gold collar that encircled his neck-and
imprisoned his Art. "In
time, you will be permitted to remove that," said a cool voice behind him. The Red
Wizard jolted, then turned to face Xandra Shobalar. Even after two years, her
sudden arrivals unnerved him-as they were no doubt intended to do. But
today the implied promise in the drow's words banished his usual resentment. "When?" "In
time," Xandra repeated. She strolled over to a deep chair and, in a
leisurely fashion, seated herself. Two years was not a long time in the life of
a drow, but she was well aware of the human's impatience, and she intended to
enjoy it. Enjoyable,
too, was the murderous rage, barely contained, in the Red Wizard's eyes. Xandra
entertained herself with fantasies of seeing that wrath unleashed upon her
Baenre fosterling. At
last, the long-anticipated day was nearly at hand. "You
have learned well," the Mistress began. "Soon you will have a chance
to test your newfound skills. Succeed, and the reward will be great." The
drow plucked a tiny golden key from her bodice and held it high. She cocked her
head to one side and sent the Red Wizard a cold, taunting smile. Mulander's
eyes widened with realization, then gleamed with an emotion that went far
beyond greed. His intense, hungry gaze followed the key as Xandra slowly
lowered it and tucked it back into its intimate hiding place. "I
see that you understand what this is. Would you like to know what you must do
to earn it?" she asked coyly. A
shudder of revulsion shimmered down the Red Wizard's spine. He fervently hoped
that his flowing robes hid his instinctive-and potentially fatal- response. He
knew immediately that it had not; Xandra's smile widened and grew mocking. "Not
this time, dear Mulander," she purred. "I have another sort of
adventure in mind for you." The
Mistress quickly described the rite of the Blooding, the ritual hunt that each
young elf was required to undergo before being accounted a true drow. Mulander
listened with growing dismay. "And
I am to be this prey," he said in a dazed tone. Anger
flashed in Xandra's eyes like crimson fire. "Do not be a fool! You must
prevail! Would I have gone to such trouble and expense otherwise?" "A
spell battle," he muttered, beginning to understand. "You have been
preparing me for a spell battle! And the spells you have taught me?" "They
represent all the offensive spells your young opponent knows, as well as the
appropriate counter-spells." Xandra leaned forward, and her face was
deadly serious. "You will not see me again. You will have a new tutor for
perhaps thirty cycles of Narbondel. A battle wizard. He will work with you
daily and instruct you in the tactics of drow warfare. Learn all he has to
teach during the course of this session." "For
he will not live to give another lesson," Mulander reasoned. Xandra
smiled. "How astute. For a human, you possess a most promising streak of
duplicity! But you are among drow, and you have much to learn about subtlety
and treachery." The
wizard bristled. "We in Thay are no strangers to treachery! No wizard
could survive to my age, much less reach my position, without such
skills!" "Really?"
The drow's voiced dripped with sarcasm. "If that is the case, then how did
you come to be here?" Mulander
responded only with a sullen glare, but the Mistress of Magic did not seem to
require an answer. "You possess a great deal of very interesting
magic," she said, complimenting him. "More than I would have guessed
a human capable of wielding, and judging from your pride, more than most of
your peers have achieved. How, then, could you have been overcome and sold into
slavery, but by treachery?" Not
waiting for a response, Xandra rose from her chair. "These are the terms I
offer you," she said, her manner suddenly all business. "At the
proper time, you will be taken into the wild tunnels surrounding this city-as
part of your preparations, you will be given a map of the area to commit to
memory. There you will confront a fledgling wizard, a drow female marked by her
golden eyes. She will carry the key that will release you from that collar. You
must defeat her in spell battle-do whatever you must to ensure that she does
not survive. "You
may then take the key from her body, and go wheresoever you will. The girl will
be alone, and you will not be pursued. It may be that you can find your way to
the Lands of Light-if indeed there is still a place for you there. If not, with
the spells I have taught you, as well as the return of your own death magic,
you should be able to live and thrive Below." Mulander
listened stoically, carefully masking the sudden bright surge of hope that the
drow's words awoke in his heart. For all he knew, this could be an elaborate
trap, and he refused to display his elation for this wretched female's
amusement. Or did
she perhaps expect him to show fear? If that
was the case, she would also be disappointed. He knew none. The Red Wizard did
not for one moment doubt the outcome of this contest, for he knew the full
measure of his powers, even if Xandra Shobalar did not. He was
more than capable of defeating an elven girl in spell battle-he would kill the
little wench and set himself up in some hidden cavern of this underground
world, a place surrounded by magics of warding and misdirection that would keep
even the powerful dark elves from his door. This he
would do, for the Shobalar wizard was right about one thing-there was no
welcome awaiting Mulander in Thay, and no welcome for Red Wizards in any land
other than Thay. Another of Xandra's thrusts had found its mark, as well: he
had indeed been undone through treachery. Mulander had been betrayed by his
young apprentice, as he himself had betrayed his own master. It occurred to
him, suddenly, to wonder what treachery Xandra's young prodigy might have in
store for her mistress! "You
are smiling," the drow observed. "My terms are to your liking?" "Very
much so," Mulander said, thinking it prudent to keep his fantasies to
himself. "Then
let me add to your enjoyment," Xandra said softly. She advanced upon the
man and reached up to place one slim black hand against his jaw. His
instinctive flinch, and his effort to disguise the response, seemed to amuse
her. She swayed closer, her slim body just barely brushing against his robes.
Her crimson eyes burned up into his, and Mulander felt a tendril of compelling
magic creep into his mind. "Tell
me truly, Mulander," she said-and her words were mocking, for they both
knew that the spell she cast upon him would allow him to speak nothing but
truth. "Do you hate me so very much?" Mulander
held her gaze. "With all my soul!" he vowed, with more passion than
he had ever before displayed-more than he knew he possessed. "Good,"
Xandra breathed. She raised both arms high and clasped her hands behind his
neck; then she floated upward until her eyes were on a level with the much
taller man. "Then remember my face as you hunt the girl, and remember
this." The
drow pressed her lips to Mulander's in a macabre parody of a kiss. Her passion
was like his: it was all hatred and pride. Her
kiss, like many that he himself had forced upon the youths and maidens
apprenticed to him, was a claim of total ownership, a gesture of cruelty and
utter contempt that was more painful to the proud man than a dagger's thrust.
Even so, he winced when the drow's teeth sank deep into his lower lip. Xandra
abruptly released him and floated away, suspended in the air like a dark wraith
and smiling coldly as she wiped a drop of his blood from her mouth. "Remember,"
she admonished him, and then she vanished as suddenly as she had come. Left
alone in his cell, Tresk Mulander nodded grimly. He would long remember Xandra
Shobalar, and for as long as he lived he would pray to every dark god whose
name he knew that her death would be slow and painful and ignominious. In the
meanwhile, he would vent some of his seething hatred upon the other drow wench
who presumed to look upon him-him, a Red Wizard and a master of necromancy!-as
prey. "Let
the hunt begin," Mulander said, and his bloodied lips curved in a grim
smile as he savored the secret he had hoarded from Xandra Shobalar, and that he
would soon unleash upon her young student. Chapter
Three A Grand
Adventure The
door of Bythnara Shobalar's bedchamber thudded solidly against the wall, flung
open with an exuberance that could herald only one person. Bythnara did not
look up from the book she was reading, did not so much as flinch. By now she was
too accustomed to the irrepressible Baenre brat to show much of a reaction. But it
was impossible to ignore Liriel for long. The elfmaid spun into their shared
bedchamber, her arms out wide and her wild mane of white hair flying as she
whirled and leapt in an ecstatic little dance. The
older girl eyed her resignedly. "Who cast a dervish spell on you?"
she inquired in a sour tone. Liriel
abruptly halted her dance and flung her arms around her chambermate. "Oh,
Bythnara! I am to undergo the Blooding ritual at last! Mistress just
said!" The
Shobalar female disentangled herself as inconspicuously as possible as she rose
from her chair, and she looked around for some pretense that would excuse her
for wriggling out of the younger girl's impulsive embrace. On the far side of
the room, a pair of woolen trews lay crumpled on the floor; Liriel tended to
treat her clothes with the same blithe disregard that a snake shows its
outgrown and abandoned skin. Bythnara was forever picking up after the untidy
little wench. Doing so now allowed her to put as much space as possible between
herself and the unwanted affection lavished upon her by her young rival. "And
high time it is," the Shobalar wizard-in-training said bluntly as she
smoothed and folded the discarded garment. "You will soon be eighteen, and
you are already well into your Ascharlexten Decade. I've often wondered why my
Mistress Mother has waited so long!" "As
have I," Liriel said frankly. "But Xandra explained it to me. She
said that she could not initiate the rite until she had found exactly the right
quarry, one that would truly test my skills. Think of it! A grand and gallant
hunt-an adventure in the wild tunnels of the Dark Dominion!" she exulted,
flinging herself down on her cot with a gusty sigh of satisfaction. "Mistress
Xandra," Bythnara coldly corrected her. She knew, as did everyone in House
Shobalar, that Liriel Baenre was to be treated with utmost respect, but even
the archmage's daughter was required to observe certain protocols. "Mistress
Xandra," the girl echoed obligingly. She rolled over onto her stomach and
propped up her chin in both hands. "I wonder what I shall hunt," she
said in a dreamy tone. "There are so many wondrous and fearsome beasts
roaming the Lands of Light! I have been reading about them," she confided
with a grin. "Maybe a great wild cat with a black-and-gold striped pelt,
or a huge brown bear-which is rather like a four-legged quaggoth. Or even a
fire-belching dragon!" she concluded, giggling a bit at her own absurdity. "We
can only hope," Bythnara muttered. If
Liriel heard her chambermate's bitter comment, she gave no indication.
"Whatever the quarry, I shall meet it with equal force," she vowed.
"I will use weapons that correspond to its natural attacks and defenses:
dagger against claw, arrow against stooping attack. No fireballs, no venom
clouds, no transforming it into an ebony statue!" "You
know that spell?" the Shobalar demanded, her face and voice utterly
aghast. It was a casting that required considerable power, an irreversible
transformation, and a favorite punitive tool of the Baenre priestesses who
ruled in the Academy. The possibility that this impulsive child could wield
such a spell was appalling, considering that Bythnara had insulted the Baenre
girl twice since she'd entered the room. By the standards of Menzoberranzan,
this was more than ample justification for such retribution! But
Liriel merely tossed her chambermate a mischievous grin. The young wizard
sniffed and turned away. She had known Liriel for twelve years, but she had
never reconciled herself to the girl's good-natured teasing. Liriel
loved to laugh, and she loved to have others laugh with her. Since few drow
shared her particular brand of humor, she had recently taken to playing little
pranks for the amusement of the other students. Bythnara
had never been the recipient of these, but neither did she find them
particularly enjoyable. Life was a grim, serious business, and magic an Art to
be mastered, not a child's plaything. The fact that this particular
"child" possessed a command of magic greater than her own rankled
deeply with the proud female. Nor was
this the only thing that stoked Bythnara's jealously. Mistress Xandra,
Bythnara's own mother, had always showed special favor to the Baenre girl-
favor that often bordered on affection. This, Bythnara would never forget, and
never forgive. Neither was she pleased by the fact that her own male companions
had a hard time remembering their place and their purpose whenever the
golden-eyed wench was about. Bythnara
was twenty-eight and in ripe early adolescence; Liriel was in many ways still a
child. Even so, there was more than enough promise in the girl's face land form
to draw masculine eyes. Rumor had it that Liriel was beginning to return these
attentions, and that she reveled in such sport with her characteristic, playful
abandon. This, too, Bythnara disapproved, although exactly why that was, she
could not say. "Will
you come to my coming-of-age ceremony?" Liriel asked with a touch of wistfulness
in her voice. "After the ritual, I mean." "Of
course. It is required." This
time Bythnara's curt remark did earn a response-an almost imperceptible wince.
But Liriel recovered quickly, so quickly that the older female barely had time
to enjoy her victory. A shuttered expression came over the Baenre girl's face,
and she lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "So
it is," she said evenly. "I faintly remember that I was required to
attend yours, several years back. What was your quarry?" "A
goblin," Bythnara said stiffly. This was a sore spot with her, for goblins
were as a rule accounted neither intelligent nor particularly dangerous. She
had dispatched the creature easily enough with a spell of holding and a sharp
knife. Her own Blooding had been mere routine, not the grand adventure of which
Liriel dreamed. Grand adventure, indeed! The girl was impossibly naive! Or was
she? With a sudden jolt, it occurred to Bythnara that Liriel's last question
had hardly been ingenuous. Few verbal thrusts could have hit the mark more
squarely. Her eyes settled on the girl and narrowed dangerously. , Again
Liriel shrugged. "What was it that Matron Hinkutes'nat said in chapel a
darkcycle or two past? 'The drow culture is one of constant change, and so we
must either adapt or die.' " Her
tone was light, and there was nothing in her face or her words that could give
Bythnara reasonable cause for complaint. Yet
Liriel was clearly, subtly, giving notice that she had long been aware of
Bythnara's verbal thrusts, and that henceforth she would not take them in
silence, but parry and riposte. It was
well done; even the seething Bythnara had to admit that. If adaptability was
indeed the key to survival, then this seemingly idealistic little wench would
probably live to be as ancient as her wretched grandame, old Matron Baenre
herself! As for
Bythnara, she found herself at a complete and disconcerting lack for words. A
tentative knock on the open door relieved Bythnara of the need to respond. She
turned to face one of her mother's servants, a highly decorative young drow
male discarded by some lesser house. In perfunctory fashion, he offered the
required bow to the Shobalar female, and then turned his attention upon the
younger girl. "You
are wanted, Princess," the male said, addressing Liriel by the proper
formal title for a young female of the First House. Later,
the girl would no doubt be accorded more prestigious titles: archmage, if
Xandra had her way, or wizard, or priestess, or even-Lloth forbid-matron.
Princess was a title of birth, not accomplishment. Even so, Bythnara begrudged
it. She hustled the royal brat and the handsome messenger out of her room with
scant ceremony and closed the door firmly behind them. Liriel's
shoulders rose and fell in a long sigh. The servant, who was about her own age
and who knew Bythnara far better than he cared to, cast her a look that
bordered on sympathy. "What
does Xandra want now?" she asked resignedly as they made their way toward
the apartment that housed the Mistress of Magic. The
servant cast furtive glances up and down the corridors before answering.
"The archmage sent for you. His servant awaits you in Mistress Xandra's
chambers even now." Liriel
stopped in midstride. "My father?" "Gromph
Baenre, archmage of Menzoberranzan," the male affirmed. Once
again Liriel reached for "the mask"-her private term for the
expression she had practiced and perfected in front of her looking glass: the
insouciant little smile, eyes that expressed nothing but a bit of cynical
amusement. Yet behind her flippant facade, the girl's mind whirled with a
thousand questions. Drow
life was full of complexities and contradictions, but in Liriel's experience,
nothing was more complicated than her feelings for her drow sire. She revered
and resented and adored and feared and hated and longed for her father-all at
once, and all from a distance. And as far as Liriel could tell, every one of
these emotions was entirely unrequited. The great archmage of Menzoberranzan
was an utter mystery to her. Gromph Baenre
was without question her true sire, but drow lineage was traced through the
females. The archmage had gone against custom and adopted his daughter into the
Baenre clan-at great personal cost to Liriel-and then promptly abandoned her to
the Shobalars' care. What
could Gromph Baenre want of her now? It had been years since she had heard from
him, although his servants regularly saw that the Shobalars were recompensed
for her keep and training and ensured that she had pocket money to spend at her
infrequent outings to the Bazaar. In Liriel's opinion, this personal summons
could only mean trouble. Yet what had she done? Or, more to the point, which of
her escapades had been discovered and reported? Then a
new possibility occurred to her, one so full of hope and promise that "the
mask" dissipated like spent faerie fire. A bubble of joyous laughter burst
from the elfmaid, and she threw her arms around the astonished-and highly
gratified-young male. After
the Blooding, she would be accounted a true drow! Perhaps now Gromph would deem
her worthy of his attention, perhaps even take over her training himself! Surely
he had heard of her progress, and knew that there was little more for her to
learn in House Shobalar. That
must be it! concluded Liriel as she wriggled out of the servant's increasingly
enthusiastic embrace. She set out at a brisk pace for Xandra's chambers,
spurred on by the rarest of all drow emotions: hope. No
dark-elven male took much notice of his children, but soon Liriel would be a
child no more, and ready for the next level of magical training. Usually that
would involve the Academy, but she was far too young for that. Surely Gromph
had devised another plan for her future! Liriel's
shining anticipation dimmed at the sight of her father's messenger: an
elf-sized stone golem that was only too familiar. The magical construct was
part of her earliest and most terrible memory. Yet even the appearance of the
deadly messenger could not banish entirely her joy, or silence the delightful
possibility that sang through her heart: perhaps her father wanted her at last! At
Xandra's insistence, a full octate patrol of spider-mounted soldiers escorted
Liriel and the golem to the fashionable Narbondellyn district, where Gromph
Baenre kept a private home. For once, Liriel rode past the Darkspires without
marveling at the fanglike formations of black rock. For once, she did not
notice the handsome captain of the guard, who stood this watch at the gates of
the Horlbar compound. She even passed by the elegant little shops that sold
perfumes and whisper-soft silk garments and magical figurines and other
fascinating wares, without sparing them a single longing glance. What
were such things, compared with even a moment of her father's time? As
eager as she was, however, Liriel had to steel herself for the first glimpse of
Gromph Baenre's mansion. She had been born there, and had spent the first five
years of her life in the luxurious apartments of her mother, Sosdrielle
Vandree, who had served for many years as Gromph's mistress. It had been a cozy
world, just Liriel and her mother and the few servants who tended them. Liriel
had since come to understand that Sosdrielle-who had been a rare beauty, but
who lacked both the magical talent and the deadly ambition needed to excel in
Menzoberranzan-had doted upon her child and had made Liriel the beloved center
of her world. Despite this, or perhaps, because of this, Liriel had not been
able to bring herself to look upon her first home since the day she left it,
more than twelve years before. Carved
from the heart of an enormous stalactite, the archmage's private home was
reputedly warded about with more magic than any other two wizards in the city
could muster between them. Liriel slid down from her spider mount-a distinctively
Shobalar means of conveyance-and followed the silent and deadly golem toward
the black structure. The
stone golem touched one of the moving runes that writhed and shifted on the
dark wall; a door appeared at once. Gesturing for Liriel to follow, the golem
disappeared inside. The
young drow took a deep breath and fell in behind the servant. She remembered,
vaguely, the way to Gromph Baenre's private study. Here she had first met her
father, and had first discovered her talent for and love of wizardry. It seemed
fitting that she begin the next phase of her life here, as well. Gromph
Baenre looked up when she entered his study. His amber eyes, so like her own,
regarded her coolly. "Please,
sit down," he invited her, gesturing with one elegant, long-fingered hand
toward a chair. "We have much to discuss." Liriel
quietly did as she was bid. The archmage did not speak at once, and for a long
moment she was content merely to study him. He looked exactly as she
remembered: austere yet handsome, a drow male in his magnificent prime. This
was not surprising, considering how slowly dark elves aged, yet Gromph was
reputed to have witnessed the birth and death of seven centuries. Protocol
demanded that Liriel wait for the high-ranking wizard to speak first, but after
several silent moments she could bear no more. "I am to undergo the
Blooding," she announced with pride. The
archmage nodded somberly. "As I have heard. You will remain here in my
home until the time for the ritual, for there is much to learn and little time
for preparations." Liriel's
brows plunged into a frown of puzzlement. Had she not been doing just that
these past twelve years? Had she not gained basic but powerful skills in battle
magic and drow weaponry? She had little interest in the sword, but no one she
knew could out-shoot her with the hand bow, or best her with thrown weapons!
Surely she knew enough to emerge from the ritual with victorious and blooded
hands! A
small, hard smile touched the archmage's lips. "There is much more to being
a drow than engaging in crude slaughter. I am not entirely certain, however,
that Xandra Shobalar remembers this basic fact!" These
cryptic words troubled Liriel. "Sir?" Gromph
did not bother to explain himself. He reached into a compartment under his desk
and took from it a small, green bottle. "This is a vial of holding. It
will capture and store any creature that the Shobalar Mistress pits against
you." "But
the hunt!" Liriel protested. The
archmage's smile did not waver, but his eyes turned cold. "Do not be a
fool," he said softly. "If the hunt turns against you and your quarry
gains the upper hand, you will capture it in this vial! You can spill its blood
easily enough, and thus fulfill the letter of the ritual's requirements. Look-"
he said as he twisted off the stopper and showed her the glistening mithril
needle that thrust down from it. "Cap
the vial, and you have slain your prey. All you need do is smash the vial, and
the dead creature will lie before you, a dagger-the transmuted needle, of
course-thrust through its heart or into its eye. You will carry an identical
dagger to the opening ceremony, of course, to forestall any possible inquiries
into the weapon that caused the creature's death. This dagger is magical and
will dissipate when the mithril needle is blooded, to remove the possibility
that it might be found discarded along your path. If pride is your concern, no
one need know the manner of your quarry's death." Feeling
oddly betrayed, Liriel took the glass bottle and pressed the stopper firmly
back into place. In truth, she found this unsporting solution appalling. But
since the vial was a gift from her father, she searched her mind for something
positive to say. "Mistress
Xandra will be fascinated by this," she offered in a dull voice, knowing
well the Shobalar wizard's fondness for magical devices of any kind. "She
must not know of the vial, or of any of the spells you will learn in this
place! Nor does she need to hear of your other, more dubious skills. Please,
save that look of wide-eyed innocence to beguile the house guards," he
said dryly. "I know only too well the mercenary captain who boasts that he
taught a princess to throw knives as well as any tavern cutthroat alive! Though
how you managed to slip past the guard-spiders that Matron Hinkutes'nat posts
at every turn, and find your way through the city to that particular tavern, is
beyond my imagination." Liriel
grinned wickedly. "I stumbled upon the tavern that first time, and Captain
Jarlaxle knew me by my House medallion and indulged my wish to learn-of many
things! But it is true that I have often fooled the spiders. Shall I tell you
how?" "Perhaps
later. I must have your blood oath that this vial will be kept from Xandra's
eyes." "But
why?" she persisted, truly perplexed by this demand. Gromph
studied his daughter for a long time. "How many young drow die during the
Blooding?" he asked at last. "A
few," Liriel admitted. "Surface raids often go wrong-the humans or
faerie elves sometime learn of the attack in time to prepare, or they fight
better than expected, or in larger numbers. And it is likely that from time to
time a drow dagger slips between a youngling's ribs," she said
matter-of-factly. "In those rites that are taken Below, sometimes
initiates become lost in the wild Underdark, or stumble upon some monster that
is beyond their skill with magic and weapons." "And
sometimes, they are slain by the very things they hunt," Gromph said. This
was a given; the girl shrugged, as if to ask what the point was. "I
do not desire to see any harm come to you. Xandra Shobalar may not share my
good wishes," he said bluntly. Liriel
suddenly went cold. Many emotions simmered and danced deep within her, waiting
for her to reach in and pluck one free-yet she truly felt none of them. Her
tumultuous responses remained just beyond her touch, for she had no idea which
one to chose. How
could Gromph suggest that Xandra Shobalar could betray her? The Mistress of
Magic had raised her, lavishing more attention and indulgent favor upon her
than most drow younglings ever dreamed of receiving! Apart from her own
mother-who had given Liriel not only life, but a wonderful five-year cocoon of
warmth and security and even love-Liriel believed that Xandra was the person
most responsible for making her what she was. And that was saying a great deal.
Although Liriel could not remember her mother's face, she understood that she
had received from Sosdrielle Vandree something that was rare among her kindred,
something that nothing and no one could take from her. Not even Gromph Baenre,
who had ordered her beloved mother's death twelve years ago! Liriel
stared at her father, too dumbfounded to realize that her churning thoughts
were written clearly in her eyes. "You
do not trust me," the archmage stated in a voice absolutely devoid of
emotion. "This is good-I was beginning to despair of your judgment. It may
be that you will survive this ritual, after all. Now listen carefully as I
describe the steps needed to activate the vial of holding." Chapter
Four The
Blooding The
Blooding ritual took place on the third darkcycle after Liriel's meeting with
her father. She was returned to House Shobalar as the day grew old, for all
such rituals began at the dark hour of Narbondel. When
the great timepiece of Menzoberranzan dimmed to mark the hour of midnight,
Liriel stood before Hinkutes'nat Alar Shobalar, the matron mother of the clan. The
young drow had had few dealings with the Shobalar matriarch, and she felt
slightly unnerved by the dark and regal figure before her. Hinkutes'nat
was a high priestess of Lloth, as befitted a ruling matron, and she was typical
of those who followed the ways of the drow's goddess, the Spider Queen. Her
throne room was as grim and forbidding a lair as anything Liriel had ever seen.
Shadows were everywhere, for the skulls of many Shobalar victims had been
fashioned into faintly glowing lanterns that threw patterns of death upon every
surface and cast ghastly purple highlights upon the dark faces assembled before
the matron's throne. A large
cage stood in the middle of the chamber, ready to receive the prey for the
Blooding ceremony. It was surrounded on all four sides by the giant, magically
bred spiders that formed the heart of the Shobalar guard. In fact, giant spiders
stood guard everywhere- in every corner of the chamber, on each of the steps
that led up to the throne dais, even suspended from the chamber's ceiling on
long, glistening threads. In all,
the throne room was a fit setting for the Shobalar matriarch. Cold and
treacherous, the matron resembled a spider holding court in the center of her
own web. She
wore a black robe upon which webs had been embroidered in silver thread, and
the gaze that she turned upon Liriel was as calm and pitiless as that of any
arachnid that ever had lived. She was spiderlike in character, as well: even
among the treacherous drow, the Shobalar Matron had earned a reputation for the
tangled nature of the deals she spun. "You
have prepared the prey?" the matron inquired of her third-born daughter. "I
have," Xandra said. "The youngling drow who stands before you shows
great promise, as one would expect of a daughter of House Baenre. To offer her
less than a true challenge would be an insult to the First Family." Matron
Hinkutes'nat lifted one eyebrow. "I see," she said dryly. "Well,
that is your prerogative, and within the rules set for the Blooding ritual. It
is unlikely that recourse will be taken, but you understand that you will bear
the brunt of any unpleasantness that might result?" When Xandra nodded
grim acceptance, the matron again turned to Liriel. "And you, Princess,
are you ready to begin?" The
Baenre girl dipped into a deep bow, doing her best to dim her shining eyes and
school her face into expressionless calm. Three
days in Gromph's household had not quite destroyed her eagerness for this
adventure. "This,
then, will be your prey," Mistress Xandra said. She lifted both arms high,
and brought them down to her sides in a quick sweep. A faint crackle vibrated
through the damp and heavy air of the chamber, and the bars of the cage flared
with sudden fey light. Every eye in the room turned to behold the ritual
quarry. Liriel's
heart pounded with excitement-she was certain that everyone could hear it! Then
the light surrounding the cage faded, and she was equally sure that all could
feel the hard, cold hand that gripped her chest and muffled its restless
rhythm. Within
the cage stood a human male garbed in robes of bright red. Liriel had seldom
encountered humans and had few thoughts concerning them, but suddenly she found
that she had no desire to slaughter this one. He was too elflike, too much like
a real person! "This
is an outrage," she said in a low, angry voice. "I was led to believe
that my Blooding would be a test of skill and courage, a hunt involving some
dangerous surface creature, such as a boar or a hydra!" "If
you misunderstood the nature of the Blooding, it was through no fault of
mine," Mistress Xandra retorted. "For years you have heard tales of
surface raids. What did you think were slain-cattle? Prey is prey, whether it
has two legs or four. You have attended the ceremonies; you know what has been
required of those who have gone before you." "I
will not do this thing," Liriel said with a regal hauteur that would have
done justice to Matron Baenre herself. "You
have no choice in the matter," Matron Hinkutes'nat pointed out. "It
is the part of the mistress or matron to chose the prey, and to name the terms
of the hunt. "Proceed,"
she said, turning to her daughter. Mistress
Xandra permitted herself a smile. "The human wizard-for such he is-will be
transported to a cavern in the Dark Dominions that lie to the southwest of
Menzoberranzan. You, Liriel Baenre, will be escorted to a nearby tunnel. You
must hunt and destroy the human, using any weapon at your disposal. Ten
dark-cycles you have to accomplish this; we will not seek you before this time
is up. "But
you must take this key," Xandra continued as she handed a tiny golden
object to the girl. "I have strung it upon a chain-keep it on your person
at all times. It is not our purpose that you come to grief: with this key, you
can summon immediate aid from House Shobalar, should the need arise. You have
much talent, and you have been well trained," the Mistress added in a less
severe tone. "We have every confidence in your success." The
older female's apparent concern for her well-being gave Liriel a glimmer of
hope. "Mistress,
I cannot slay this wizard!" she said in a despairing whisper, letting her
eyes speak clearly of her distress. Surely Xandra, who had trained and fostered
her, would understand how she felt and would lift this burden from her! "You
will kill, or you will be killed," the Shobalar wizard proclaimed.
"That is the challenge of the Blooding, and it is the reality of drow
life!" Xandra's
voice was cold and even, but Liriel did not miss the glint in the wizard's red
eyes. Stunned and enlightened, Liriel stared at her trusted mentor. Kill or
be killed. There could be little doubt which outcome Xandra preferred. Liriel
tore her gaze away from the vindictive crimson stare and did her best to attend
to the ceremony that followed. As she stood silently through the matron's
ritual blessing, the girl was struck by a strange and very vivid mental image:
somewhere deep within her heart, a tiny light flickered and died-a harbinger,
perhaps, of darkness to come. A moment of inexplicable sadness touched Liriel,
but it was gone before she could marvel at so strange an emotion. To a young
dark elf, such a vision seemed right and fitting-a cause for elation rather
than regret. Soon, very soon, she would be a true drow indeed! Chapter
Five Kill or
Be Killed On
silent feet, Liriel eased her way down the dark tunnel. One of the gifts her
father had given her were boots of elvenkind, wondrous treasures crafted of
soft leather and dark-elven magic. With them, she could walk with no more noise
than her own shadow. She
also wore a fine new cloak-not a piwafwi, for that uniquely drow cloak was
usually worn only by those who had proven themselves by this very ritual. Of
course, there were exceptions to this rule, and Liriel did indeed possess one
of the magical cloaks of concealment-it played a significant role in her
frequent escapes from House Shobalar-but youngling dark elves were not
permitted to wear them during the Blooding. The advantage of invisibility
removed most of the challenge, and was therefore deemed inappropriate for the
first major kill. Thus
Liriel was plainly visible to the heat-perceptive eyes of the Underdark's many
strange and deadly creatures, and therefore in constant danger. The
young drow kept keenly alert as she walked. Yet her heart was not in the hunt.
She was not entirely certain she still had a heart: grief and rage had left her
feeling strangely hollow. Liriel
was accustomed to betrayals both large and small, and she was still trying to
assimilate her realization that she must shrug them off and move ahead - albeit
with caution. So it had been with Bythnara, whose snippy comments and small
jealousies had once pained her deeply. So it had been even with her father, who
twelve years earlier had wronged Liriel more deeply than any other person had
before or since. But it
would not be so with Xandra Shobalar, Liriel vowed grimly. Xandra's betrayal
was different, and it would not go unremarked - or unavenged. Vengeance
was the principle passion of the dark elves, but it was an emotion new to
Liriel. She savored it as if it were a goblet of the spiced green wine she had
recently tasted - bitter, certainly, but capable of sharpening the passions and
hardening resolve. Liriel was very young, and willing to accept and overlook
many things in her dark-elven kindred. This, however, was the first time she
had seen the desire for her death written in another drow's eyes. Liriel
understood instinctively that this could not go unpunished if she herself hoped
to survive. But at
a deeper, even more personal level, the girl bitterly resented Xandra for
forcing her to disregard her own deep instincts and act against her will. Liriel
rebelled bitterly against the need to submit to her Mistress's demands, yet
what else could she do if she was to be accounted a true drow? What
else, indeed? A smile
slowly crept over Liriel's dark face as a solution to her dilemma began to take
shape in her mind. There is much more to being a drow, her father had
admonished her, than engaging in crude slaughter. The
painful weight on the young drow's chest lifted a bit, and for the first time
she realized a very strange thing: she did not fear the dreaded wild Underdark.
It seemed to her that this wilderness was a wondrous, fascinating place full of
unexpected turns and twists. There was danger and adventure and excitement in
the very air and stone. Unlike Menzoberranzan, where every bit of rock had been
shaped and carved into a monument to the pride and might of the drow, out here
everything was new, mysterious, and full of delightful possibilities. Here she
could carve out her own place. Liriel fell suddenly, deeply, and utterly in
love with this vast and untamed world. "A
grand adventure," she said softly, repeating without a trace of irony the
words of her own discarded dream. A sudden smile brightened her face, and as
she bestowed an affectionate pat upon an enormous, down-thrust spire of rock,
she added, "The first of many!" Without
warning, a bright ball of force rounded the sharp corner of the tunnel ahead
and hurtled toward her. The
battle had begun. Training
and instinct took over at once: Liriel snapped both hands up, wrists crossed
and palms out. A field of resistance sprung up before her an instant before the
fireball would have struck. The girl squeezed her eyes shut and tossed her head
to one side as the brilliant light exploded into a sheet of magical flame. Liriel
dropped flat and rolled aside, as she'd been taught to do in such attacks. The
magical shield could not withstand more than one or two impacts of such power,
and it was prudent to get out of the line of fire. To her astonishment, the
second blast came in low and hard-and directly toward her. Liriel leapt to her
feet and dived for the far side of the tunnel. She managed to put the large
stalagmite between herself and the coming blast. The
explosion rocked the tunnel and sent a shower of rock fragments cascading down
upon the young drow. She coughed and spat dust, but her fingers darted
undeterred through the gestures of a spell. In
response to her magic, the dust and the sulfurous smoke swirled to a central
spot of the tunnel and gathered into a large globe. Liriel pointed grimly in
the direction of the unseen wizard, and the floating globe obediently rounded
the corner toward its prey. She
waited, hardly daring to breathe, for the next attack to come. When it did not,
she began to creep slowly and cautiously around the bend. There was no sound in
the tunnel ahead, other than the distant drip of water. This was promising: the
globe of hot, smoky vapor had been enspelled to seek out and surround its
source of origin. If all had gone well, the human wizard would have been
smothered by the sulfurous by-products of his own fireball. Liriel picked up
her pace. If this were so, she would have a limited amount of time to find and
revive him. The
tunnel grew ever brighter as she made her way down its twisting length.
Suddenly the path dipped dramatically, and Liriel saw laid out before her a
cavern that was stranger than any she had ever seen or imagined. Luminous
fungi covered much of the stone and filled the entire cave with a faint, eerie
blue glow. Stalagmites and stalactites met in long, irregular pillars of stone,
and large crystals embedded in them tossed off glittering shards of light that
stabbed at her eyes like tiny daggers. At
once, a brilliant ball of light flashed into being in the center of the cavern.
Liriel reeled back, clutching at her blinded eyes. Her keen ears caught the
whine and hiss of an approaching missile; she dropped flat as yet another
fireball blazed toward her. The
fireball missed her, but barely. Heat assailed Liriel with searing pain as it
passed over her, and the smoke and stench of her own scorched hair assaulted
her like a blow to the gut. Coughing and gagging, she rolled aside. She blinked
rapidly as she went, trying to dispel the lingering sparks and flashes that
obscured her vision. Think,
think! she admonished herself. So far she had only reacted: along that path lay
certain defeat. To give
herself a bit of time, Liriel called upon her innate drow magic and dropped a
globe of darkness over the magic light ahead of her. That leveled the field of
battle, but it did not steal the human wizard's visual advantages: there was
still plenty of light in the cavern to allow him to see. She had not yet seen
him, however. A
suspicion that had taken root in Liriel's mind with the wizard's first attack
suddenly blossomed into certainty. He had anticipated her responses; he seemed
to know precisely how she would react. Perhaps he had been trained to know.
Setting her jaw in grim determination, Liriel set out to learn just how well
he'd been prepared. Her
hands flashed through the gestures of a spell that Gromph had taught her-a rare
and difficult spell that few drow knew of and fewer still could master. It had
taken her the better part of a day to learn it, and now the effort was repaid
in full. Standing
in the center of the cavern, ringed and partially shielded by a circle of stone
pillars, stood the human. A stunned expression crossed his bearded face as he
regarded his own outstretched hands. The reason for this was all too apparent:
apiwafwi, which should have granted him magical invisibility, appeared suddenly
on him and hung in glittering folds over his red-robed shoulders. He had not
only been prepared, but equipped! The
human wizard recovered quickly from his surprise. He drew in a deep breath and
spat in Liriel's direction. A dark bolt shot from his mouth, and then another.
The drow's eyes widened as she beheld the two live vipers wriggling toward her
with preternatural speed. Liriel
pulled two small knives from her belt and flicked them toward the nearest
snake. Her blades REALMS
OF THE UNDERDARK tumbled
end-over-end, crossing the viper's neck from either side and neatly slicing the
head from its body. The
beheaded length of snake writhed and looped for several moments, blocking the
second viper's path long enough for Liriel to get off a second volley. This
time she threw only one knife. The blade plunged into the viper's open mouth
and exploded out the back of its head with a bright burst of gore. Liriel
allowed herself a small, grim smile, and she resolved to properly thank the
mercenary who'd taught her to throw! It was
a moment's delay, but even that much was too long. Already the human wizard's
hands were moving through the gestures of a spell-a familiar spell. Liriel
tore a tiny dart from her weapons belt and spat upon it. In response to her
unspoken command, the other needed spell component-a tiny vial of acid- rose
from her open spell bag. She seized it and tossed both items into the air. Her
fingers flashed through the casting, and at once a luminous streak flew to
answer the one flashing toward her. The acid bolts collided midway between the
combatants, sending a spray of deadly green droplets sizzling off into the
cavern. The
human flung out one hand. Magic darted from each of his fingertips, spinning
out into a giant web as it flew. The weird blue light of the cavern glimmered
along the strands and turned the sticky droplets that clung to them into
gemlike things that rivaled moonstones and pearls. Liriel marveled at the web's
deadly beauty, even as it descended upon her. A word
from the drow conjured a score of giant spiders, each as large as a rothe calf.
On eldritch threads, the arachnid army rose as one toward the cavern's ceiling,
capturing the web and taking it with them. Liriel
planted her feet wide and sent a barrage of fireballs toward the persistent
human. As she expected, he cast the spell that would raise a field of
resistance around himself. She recognized the gestures and the words of power
as drow. This wizard had indeed been trained for this battle, and trained well! Unfortunately
for Liriel, the human had been schooled too well. The drow had hoped that her
fireball storm would weaken the stone pillars surrounding the wizard, so that
they might crumble and fall upon him after the magic shield's power was spent.
But it soon became apparent that he had placed the magical barrier in front of
the stone formation, thereby undoing her strategy! His shield did not give way
before her magic missiles: rather, it seemed to absorb their energy, and it
grew ever brighter with each fireball that struck. This was a drow
counterspell, Liriel acknowledged, but it was one that she herself had never
been taught! Finally
Liriel lowered her hands, drained by the sheer power of the fireballs she had
tossed into Xandra's magical web. At that
moment, the drow girl understood the full extent of the Shobalar wizard's
treachery. This
human had been trained in the magic and tactics of Underdark warfare, and
moreover, he knew enough about his drow opponent to anticipate and counter her
every spell. He had been carefully chosen and prepared - not to test her, but
to kill her! Xandra Shobalar did not content herself with wishing for her
student's failure: she had planned for it! Liriel
knew that she had been well and thoroughly betrayed. Her only hope of defeating
the human - and Xandra Shobalar - lay not in her battle magic, but in her wits. Liriel's
nimble mind flashed through the possibilities. She knew nothing of human magic,
but she found it highly suspicious that this wizard cast only drow spells. He
had to have had prior training in order to master such powerful magic; surely
he possessed spells of his own. Why did he not use them? As she studied the
human, the reason for this suddenly became apparent to the drow girl. Her
fingers closed around the key that Xandra had given her, and with one sharp tug
she tore it from the thin golden chain she'd tied to her belt. Wrath
burned bright in Liriel's golden eyes as she reached for the green vial that
her father had given her. Trapping the wizard would not be easy, but she would
find a way. Liriel
pulled off the stopper and dropped the key inside. But before she put the cap
back into place, she snapped off the mithril needle and tossed it aside. Kill or
be killed, Mistress Xandra had said. So be
it. Chapter
Six Recurring
Nightmares Tresk
Mulander squinted through his glowing shield toward the shimmering image of his
young drow opponent. So far, all had gone as anticipated. The girl was good,
just as Mistress Shobalar had claimed. She even had a few unanticipated skills,
such as her deadly aim with a tossed knife. Well
enough. Mulander had a few surprises of his own. It was
true that Xandra Shobalar had raped his mind, plundered his vast mental store
of necromantic spells. There was one spell, however, that the drow wizard could
not touch: it was stored not in his mind, but in his flesh. Mulander
was a Researcher, always seeking new magic where lesser men saw only death.
Moldering corpses, even the offal of the slaughterhouse, could be used to
create wondrous and fearsome creatures utterly under his control. But his
strangest and most secret creation was waiting to be unleased. In a
bit of unliving flesh-a tiny dark mole that clung to his body by the thinnest
tendril of skin, he had stored a creature of great power. To bring it into
existence, he had only to make that final separation from his living body. The
wizard worked his thumb and forefinger beneath the golden collar. Ironically,
the enspelled mole was hidden beneath the magical fetter! Mulander
twisted off the bit of flesh, reveling in the sharp stab of pain-for such was a
miniature death, and death was the ultimate source of his power. He tossed the
tiny mole to the cavern floor and watched with sharp anticipation as the
contained monster took shape. Many of
the Red Wizards could create darkenbeasts: fearsome flying creatures made by
twisting the bodies of living animals into magical atrocities. Mulander had
gone one better. The creature that rose up before him had been fashioned from
his own flesh and his own nightmares. Mulander
had begun with the most dreadful thing he knew-a replica of his long-dead
wizard mother-and added to it enormous size and the deadliest features of every
predator that ever had haunted his dreams. The tattered, batlike wings of an
abyssal denizen sprouted from the creature's shoulders, and a raptor's talons
curved from its human hands. The thing had vampiric fangs, the haunches and
hind legs of a dire wolf, and a wyvern's poisoned tail. Plates of dragonlike
armor-in Red Wizard crimson, of course-covered its feminine torso. Only the
eyes, the same hard green as his own, had been left untouched. Those eyes
settled upon the drow girl-the hunter who had suddenly become prey-and they
filled with a brand of malice that was only too familiar to Mulander. An
involuntary shiver ran through the powerful wizard who had summoned the
monster, a response engraved upon his soul by his own wretched, long-gone
childhood. The
monster crouched. Its wolflike feet tamped down, and the muscles of its
powerful haunch bunched in preparation for the spring. Mulander did not bother
to dispel the magical shield. The monster retained enough of a resemblance to
his mother for him to enjoy its roar of pain as the force field shattered upon
impact. Enjoyable,
too, was the wide-eyed shock on the face of the young drow. She regained her
composure with admirable speed and sent a pair of knives spinning into the monster's
face. Mulander knew a moment's supreme elation when the blades sank into those
too-familiar green eyes. The
monster shrieked with rage and anguish, raking its face with owl-like talons in
an effort to dislodge the knives. Long bloody furrows crisscrossed its face
before the drow's knives finally clattered to the cave's floor. Blinded and
enraged, the creature advanced toward the dark-elven girl, its dripping hands
wildly groping the air. The
drow snatched a bola from her belt, whirled it briefly and let fly. The weapon
spun toward the blinded creature, wrapped tightly around its neck. Gurgling,
the monster tore at the leather thongs. A sharp snap resounded through the
cavern, quickly followed by a grating roar. Sniffing audibly as it sought its prey,
Mulander's monster dived with outstretched talons toward the drow girl. But the
drow rose into the air, swift and graceful as a dark hummingbird, and the
monster fell facedown upon the cavern floor. It quickly rolled onto its back
and leapt up onto its feet. A thunderous thumping rush filled the cavern as its
batlike wings began to beat. It rose slowly, awkwardly, and began to pursue the
drow. The
young wizard tossed a giant web at the monster; the creature tore through it
with ease. She bombarded it with a barrage of death darts, but the weapons
bounced harmlessly off the creature's plated body. The
drow summoned a bolt of glistening black lightning and hurled it like a
javelin. To Mulander's dismay, the bolt slashed downward through one leathery
wing. Shrieking
with rage, the monster traced a tight spiral to the cavern floor and landed
with a stone-shaking crash. No
matter: the magical battle had taken its toll on the young elfmaid. She sank
slowly toward the cavern floor, and toward the jaws of the wounded but waiting
monster. Her
gqlden eyes grew frantic and darted toward Mulander's gloating face. "Enough!"
she shrieked. "I know what you need-dispel the creature, and I will give
you what you want without further battle. This I swear, by all that is dark and
holy!" A smile
of malevolent satisfaction crossed the Red Wizard's face. He trusted no oath
from any drow, but he knew that this one's battle spells were nearly exhausted.
Nor was he was surprised that she had lost heart for the battle. The girl was
pathetically young- she looked to be about twelve or thirteen by the measure of
humankind. Despite her fell heritage and magical prowess, she was still a
callow lass and thus no match for such as he! "Toss
the key to me," he told her. "The
monster," she pleaded. Mulander
hesitated, then shrugged. Even without the magical construct, he was more than
the equal of this elven child. With a flick of one hand, he sent the monster
back into whatever nightmares had spawned it. But with the other, he summoned a
fireball large enough to hurl the drow against the far wall of the cavern and
leave nothing of her but a grease spot. He saw by the fear in her eyes that she
understood her position. "Here-it's
in here," the girl said frantically, reaching into a pouch at her waist
and fumbling about. Her efforts were hampered by her own fear: her breath came
in exhausted little gasps and sobs; her thin shoulders shook with terrified
weeping. Finally
she took out a tiny silken bag and held it high. "The key is in here. Take
it, please, and let me go!" The Red
Wizard deftly caught the bag she tossed him, then shook a small glistening
sphere into his palm. It was a protective bubble-a bit of magic easily cast and
easily dispelled-which contained a delicate vial of translucent green glass.
And within that was the tiny golden key that promised freedom and power. Had he
glanced at the drow child, Mulander might have wondered why her eyes were dry
despite her weeping, why she no longer seemed to have any difficulty maintaining
her ability to levitate. Had he taken his gaze from that longed-for key, he
might have recognized the look of cold triumph in her golden eyes. He had seen
that expression once before, briefly, on the face of his own apprentice. But
pride had blinded him to treachery once before, and had lured him into a
mistake that had condemned him to a sentence of death, a sentence that had been
commuted into lifelong slavery. When
the understanding of this finally came, Mulander knew that this mistake would
truly be his last. Chapter
Seven Ritual Liriel
Baenre returned to Menzoberranzan after a mere two days, battered and bereft of
a bit of her abundant white hair, but grimly triumphant. Or so everyone
assumed. Not until the ceremony was she required to give formal proof of her
kill. All of
House Shobalar gathered in the throne room of Matron Hinkutes'nat for the
coming-of-age ceremony. It was required, but most came anyway for the vicarious
pleasure to be had in witnessing the grisly relics, and to relive the pride and
pleasure of their own first kills. Such moments reminded all present of what it
meant to be drow. At
Narbondel, the darkest hour, Liriel stepped forward to claim her place among
her people. To Xandra Shobalar, her Mistress and mentor, she was required to
present the ritual proof. For a
long moment, Liriel held the older wizard's gaze, staring into Xandra's crimson
orbs with eyes that were cold and fathomless-full of unspoken power and deadly
promise. This, too, was something she had learned from her dreaded father. When at
last the older wizard's gaze faltered uncertainly, Liriel bowed deeply and
reached into the bag at her waist. She took from it a small green object and
held it high for all to see. There were murmurs as some of the Shobalar wizards
recognized the artifact for what it was. "You
surprise me, child," Xandra said coldly. "You who were anticipating a
'gallant hunt,' to trap and slay your prey with such a device!" "A
child no more," Liriel corrected her. A strange smile crossed her face,
and with a quick, vicious movement, she threw the vial to the floor. The
crystal shattered, a delicate, tinkling sound that echoed long in the stunned
silence that followed-for standing before the Mistress of Magic, his green eyes
glowing with malevolence, was the human wizard. He was very much alive, and in
one hand he held the golden collar that had imprisoned him to Xandra's will. With a
speed that belied his years, the human conjured a crimson sphere of light and
hurled it, not at Xandra, but at the dark-elven male who stood guard at the
rear door. The hapless drow shattered into bloody shards. Before anyone could
draw breath, the bits of elven flesh whirled into the air and began to take on
new and dreadful shapes. For
many moments, everyone in the throne room was busy indeed. The Shobalar wizards
and priestesses hurled spells, and, with arrows and swords, the fighters
battled the winged creatures that had been given birth by their drow comrade's
death. At
last, there was only Xandra and the wizard, standing nearly toe to toe and
blazing with eldritch light as their spells attacked and riposted with the
speed and verve of a swordmasters' dual. Every eye in the throne room, drow and
slave alike, was fixed upon the deadly battle, and all were lit with vicious
excitement as they awaited the outcome. Finally,
one of the Red Wizard's spells slipped past Xandra's defenses: a daggerlike
stab of light sliced the drow's face from cheekbone to jaw. The flesh parted in
a gaping wound, deep enough to reveal the bones beneath. Xandra
let out a wail that would have shamed a banshee, and with a speed that rivaled
that of a weapon master's deathblow, she lashed back. Pain, desperation, and
wrath combined to fuel a blast of magic powerful enough to send a thunderous,
shuddering roar through the stohe chamber. The
human caught the full force of the attack. Like a loosed arrow, his smoking
body hurtled up and back. He hit the far wall near the ceiling and slid down,
leaving a rapidly-cooling streak on the stone. There was a hole the size of a
dinner plate where his chest had been, and his sodden robes were a slightly
brighter shade of crimson. Xandra,
too, crumpled, utterly exhausted by the momentous spell battle, and further
weakened by the copious flow of blood that spilled from her torn face. Drow
servants rushed to attend her, and her sister clerics gathered around to murmur
spells of healing. Through it all, Liriel stood before the matron's throne, her
face set in a mask of faint, cynical amusement, and her eyes utterly cold. When at
last the Mistress of Magic had recovered enough breath for speech, she hauled
herself into a sitting position and leveled a shaking finger at the young
wizard. "How do you dare commit such an outrage!" she sputtered.
"The rite has been profaned!" "Not
so," Liriel said coolly. "You stipulated that the wizard could be
slain with any weapon of my choice. The weapon I chose was you." A
second stunned silence descended upon the chamber. It was broken by a strange
sound, one that no one there had ever heard before or had ever expected to
hear: The
Matron Mother Hinkutes'nat Alar Shobalar was laughing. It was
a rusty sound, to be sure, but there was genuine amusement in the matron's
voice and in her crimson eyes. "This
defies all the laws and customs," Xandra began angrily. The
matron cut her off with an imperious gesture. "The rite of blooding has
been fulfilled," Hinkutes'nat proclaimed, "for its purpose is to make
a true drow of a youngling dark elf. Evidence of a devious mind serves this
purpose as well as bloody hands." Ignoring
her glowering daughter, the matron turned to Liriel. "Well done! By all
the power of this throne and this house, I proclaim you a true drow, a worthy
daughter of Lloth! Leave your childhood behind, and rejoice in the dark powers
that are our heritage and our delight!" Liriel
accepted the ritual welcome-not with a deep bow this time, but with a slight
incline of her head. She was a child no longer, and as a noble female of House
Baenre, she was never to bow to a drow of lesser rank. Gromph had schooled her
in such matters, drilling her until she understood every shade and nuance of
this complicated protocol. He had impressed upon her that this ceremony marked
not only her departure from childhood, but her full acceptance into the Baenre
clan. All that stood between her and both these honors were the ritual words of
acceptance that she must speak. But
Liriel was not quite finished. Following an impulse that she only dimly
understood, she crossed the dais to the place where a defeated Xandra sat
slumped, submitting glumly to the continued ministrations of the House Shobalar
priestesses. Liriel
stooped so that she was at eye level with her former mentor. Slowly she
extended her hand and gently cupped the older drow's chin-a rare gesture that
was occasionally used to comfort or caress a child, or, more often, to capture
the child's attention before dictating terms. It was unlikely that Xandra, in
her pain-ridden state, would have consciously attached this meaning to her
former student's gesture, but it was clear that she instinctively grasped the
nuance. She flinched away from Liriel's touch, and her eyes were pure
malevolence. The
girl merely smiled. Then, suddenly, she slid her palm up along the jawline of
Xandra's wounded cheek, gathering in her cupped hand some of the blood that
stained the wizard's face. With a
single quick movement, Liriel rose to her feet and turned to face the watchful
matron. Deliberately she smeared Xandra's blood over both hands, front and
back, and then she presented them to Matron Hinkutes'nat. "The
ritual is complete; I am a child no more, but a drow," Liriel proclaimed. The
silence that followed her words was long and impending, for the implications of
her action went far beyond the limits of propriety and precedence. At last
Matron Hinkutes'nat inclined her head-but not in the expected gesture of
completion. The Shobalar matriarch added the subtle nuance that transformed the
regal gesture into the salute exchanged between equals. It was a rare tribute,
and rarer still was the amused understanding-and the genuine respect-in the
spidery female's eyes. All of
which struck the young drow as highly ironic. Although it was clear that
Hinkutes'nat applauded Liriel's gesture, she herself was not entirely certain
why she had done what she did. This
question plagued Liriel throughout the celebration that traditionally followed
the rite of passage ceremony. The spectacle provided by her Blooding had been
unusually satisfying to the attending drow, and the revelry that it inspired
was raucous and long. For once Liriel entered into festivities with less than
her usual gusto, and she was not at all sorry when the last bell signaled the
end of the night. Chapter
Eight Her
Father's Daughter The
summons from the Narbondellyn district came early the next day. This time,
Gromph Baenre sent word that Liriel's belongings were to be packed up and sent
after her. The
young drow received this information stoically. In truth, Liriel did not regret
her removal from House Shobalar. Perhaps she did not understand the full
meaning of her own Blooding ceremony, but she knew with certainly that she
could no longer remain in the same complex as Xandra Shobalar. Liriel's
reception at the archmage's mansion was about what she had expected. Servants
met her and showed her to her apartment-a small but lavish suite that boasted a
well-equipped library of spellbooks and scrolls. Apparently her father intended
for her to continue her wizardly education. But there was no sign of Gromph,
and the best the servants could do for Liriel was to assure her that the
archmage would send for her when she was wanted. And so
it was that the newly initiated drow spent her first darkcycle alone, the first
of what she suspected would be many such days and nights. Liriel found that the
solitude was painfully difficult, and that the silent hours crept by. After
several futile attempts at study, the weary girl at last took to her bed. For
hours she stared at the ceiling and longed for the oblivion of slumber. But her
mind was too full, and her thoughts too confused, for sleep to find her. Oddly
enough, Liriel felt less triumphant than she should have. She was alive, she
had passed the test of the Blooding, she had repaid Xandra's treachery with
public humiliation, she had even devised a way to keep from slaying the human
wizard. Why was
it, then, that she felt his blood on her hands as surely as if she'd torn out
his heart with her own fingernails? And what was this soul-deep sadness, this
dark resignation? Though she had no name to give this emotion, Liriel suspected
that it would ever after cast a shadow upon her blithe spirit. The
hours passed, and the distant tolling of Narbondel signaled that the darkest
hour was once again upon Menzoberranzan. It was then that the summons finally
came; a servant bid Liriel to dress and await the archmage in his study. Suddenly
Liriel was less than anxious to face her drow sire. What would Gromph have to
say about her unorthodox approach to the Blooding hunt and ceremony? During her
three days of preparation, the archmage had repeatedly expressed concern about
her judgment and ambition, pronouncing her too trusting and carefree, and he
had wondered at the strange bias of her character. It seemed likely to her that
he would not approve. Liriel
did as she was bid and hastened to her father's sanctum. She had not long to
wait before Gromph appeared, still wearing the wondrous, glittering piwafwi
that held an arsenal of magical weapons, and that proclaimed his power and his
high office. The archmage acknowledged her presence with a curt nod and then
sat down behind his table. "I
have heard what transpired at your ceremony," he began. "The
ritual was fulfilled," Liriel said earnestly-and a trifle defensively.
"I might not have shed blood, but Matron Hinkutes'nat accepted my
efforts!" "More
than accepted," the archmage said dryly. "The Shobalar matron is
quite impressed with you. And more importantly, so am I." Liriel
absorbed this in silence. Then, suddenly, she blurted out, "Oh, but I wish
I understood why!" Gromph
lifted one brow. "You really must learn to speak with less than complete
candor," he advised her. "But in this case, no harm is done. Indeed,
your words only confirm what I had suspected; you acted partly by design, but
partly by instinct. This is indeed gratifying." "Then
you're not angry?" Liriel ventured. When the archmage sent her an
inquiring look, she added, "I thought that you would be furious upon
hearing that I did not actually kill the human." Gromph
was silent a long moment. "You did something far more important: you
fulfilled both the spirit and the letter of the Blooding ritual, in layers of
subtle complexity that did credit to you and to your house. The human wizard is
dead-that much was a needed formality. Using Xandra Shobalar as a tool was a
clever twist. But washing your hands in her blood was brilliant!" "Thank
you," Liriel said, in a tone so incongruously glum that it surprised a
chuckle from the archmage. "You
still do not understand. Very well, I will speak plainly. The human wizard was
never your enemy; Xandra Shobalar was your enemy! You recognized that, you
turned her plot against her, and you proclaimed a blood victory. And in doing
so, you demonstrated that you have learned what it is to be a true drow." "But
I did not kill," Liriel said thoughtfully. "And why is it that,
although I did not kill, I feel as if I had?" '^fou
might not have actually shed blood, but the ritual of the Blooding has done its
intended work all the same," the archmage asserted. Liriel
considered this, and suddenly she knew her father's words as truth. Her
innocence was gone, but pride and power, treachery, intrigue, survival,
victory- all of these things she knew intimately and well. "A
true drow," she repeated in a tone that was nine parts triumph and one
portion regret. She took a deep breath and looked up into Gromph's eyes-and
into a mirror. For the
briefest of moments, Liriel glimpsed a flicker of poignant sorrow in the archmage's
eyes, like the glint of gold shining through a deep layer of ice. It came and
departed so quickly Liriel doubted that Gromph was even aware of it; after all,
several centuries of cold and calculating evil lay between him and his own rite
of passage. If he remembered that emotion at all, he was no longer able to
reach into his soul and bring it forth. Liriel understood, and at last she had
a name to give the final, missing element that defined a true drow: Despair. "Congratulations,"
the archmage said in a voice laced with unconscious irony. "Thank
you," his daughter responded in kind. SEA OF
GHOSTS Roger
E. Moore The
disaster went unrecognized that evening by all who dwelt on the plains of the
Eastern Shaar, who heard only the rattling of pottery on wooden shelves or
soothed only the skittishness of tethered horses. A hunter lowered his bow,
head cocked to catch a rumbling that frightened off his prey. A sorceress in a
stone tower frowned, distracted from a mildewed tome by a vibration that caused
the candle flames in the room to dance. An old shepherd sitting cross-legged on
a rock looked up from the flute he had carved, surprised by distant thunder
from an empty red sky. The sun flowed beneath the horizon. An hour
later, all was forgotten. Far
beneath the lazy grass of the Eastern Shaar, unseen by the rising moon, was a
measureless maze of dripping caverns and dusty halls. Through this stupendous
realm, a subterranean river hurled along a passage it had carved through a
thousand miles of cold rock. Called the River Raurogh by dwarves who, over long
centuries, had mapped its dark twists and turns, the channel descended through
layer after layer of stone at a steady pace toward an unknown end. Cautious
dwarves slowly charted the river's course, probing for whirlpools, low
ceilings, rapids, flesh-eating emerald slime, and unwholesome beasts that
welcomed a change in their diet of blind, transparent fish. Foolish dwarves
cast off in heavy rafts with magical lights fore and aft, determined to learn
the river's secrets in a fraction of the time. Four out of five cautious
dwarves came home to make their reports; only one in three foolish dwarves did
the same. The cautious dwarves drew reliable maps. The foolish dwarves gave
birth to legends. It was
a foolish dwarf, battered and wet, who returned to tell of the Deepfall at the
Raurogh's end, which had claimed his eight companions and their raft. It had
undoubtedly claimed many rafts before theirs. Other dwarves soon dug out a
passage from a nearby cavern to the Deepfall, where they put down their tools
and marveled at the sight. The long tunnel carved by the River Raurogh here
opened into a titanic domed chamber splashed in scarlet and ocher hues. A
thousand long stalactites and glittering mineral curtains hung from the dome
like diamond chandeliers in an emperor's palace. The ancient silo, well over
two hundred feet across, dropped away into nothingness. No sounds arose from
the black depths to indicate that the cascade had found its bottom. Seeing
a natural ledge leading into the silo by the chiseled opening, a foolish dwarf
soon edged out on hands and knees, bearing a short staff upon which a
light-bearing spell had been cast. He looked up first, noting that between the
brilliant formations on the ceiling was a dense network of narrow cracks
looking a bit like a crude giant spider's web. Most of the cracks were filled
in with mineral draperies, but their cause was still apparent. The entire
ceiling, to an unknown height, had begun to separate from the rock above it. The
dwarf judged after a minute that the roof was still centuries away from
yielding to gravity, and he worried about it no more. The
dwarf then looked over the ledge, his illuminated stick held aloft, and stared
down into the abyss. His wisdom overcome by curiosity, he cast the enchanted
staff over the edge and watched it fall until it was a spray-dimmed twinkle
that was gone from view between one eye blink and the next. He lost track of
the time over which the light fell; the depth into which he peered was beyond
imagining. When the dwarf returned to his companions, it was deemed best to
depart from the region in haste, in case an unwelcome being far down the shaft
made its way up to investigate the source of the falling light. Nothing ever
did, for which all were thankful, but the legend of the Deepfall spread and
bewitched many a dwarf who heard of it. In a
short time, a hundred dwarves migrated from the crowded caverns of
Glitterdelve, discontent with local taxes, and chiseled out new homes near the
great shaft's dome. Coarsely woven nets strung across the river caught blind
fish and crustaceans for the dwarves' food. Wastes and offal were cast into
side passages where edible fungi and molds for potions were cultivated. Magical
lights of golden hue soon filled the colony of Raurogh's Hall, as the cave
village came to be known, though all light was carefully shielded from the
silo's top to avoid alerting anything living far down the falls. The
surrounding rock was solid, local predators were quickly dispatched, and the
river's bounty was endless. Life was good for seventeen years and a hundred
twelve days. The
derro waited for Wykar where they had agreed, toying silently with a long knife
among the blue glow-fan fungi. Wykar
stopped and did not move a muscle after he eased around the entrance to the
blue-lit cavern chamber and saw the derro. The hunched gnome warily embraced
the chamber with his senses to discover if Geppo had unwisely brought friends
along to the hidden garden of luminescent fungi, but he sensed nothing amiss.
He nonetheless kept his gray hands free, ready to seize from his vest, belt, or
boots whatever weapon was called for. Geppo
noticed the deep gnome after a few moments but did not seem startled. Head
bowed in concentration on his knife, he peered up at the little intruder
through his thick, pale eyebrows. A smile tugged at his thin lips. With skin as
white and dirty as a toadstool cap, Geppo could easily pass for a true dwarfs
corpse in his sleep. The orbs of his large, milky eyes each showed only a black
dot for a pupil, little holes in moist white stones. His emaciated face was
framed by long, matted hair of a filthy sulfur hue. An unkempt beard and
mustache hid his sunken cheeks and narrow lower jaw. Though
Geppo was a head taller than the three-foot gnome, he seemed much the weaker of
the two. The derro's skeletal frame had not fleshed out after his long,
hard-lived enslavement by the drow. Except for a change of clothing and a few
obviously scavenged tools and weapons now strapped to his person, he looked
exactly the same as when Wykar had known him as a fellow prisoner. The faint
blue light from the glowfan fungi added an air of unreality to the derro's
presence, as if he had recently left his own grave. Geppo
wore a dark, muddy tunic of rough fabric, under which a darker outfit showed at
the collar. Wykar guessed that leather or hide armor lay beneath. A finely
tooled black belt bearing many small pockets and pouches was pulled tight at
his thin waist. It looked like a drow's belt, but it was unlikely the derro had
taken it from the bodies of their former masters. The Underdark held the
remains of many failed plans and dreams, and one could get anything if one knew
where to look. After a
long moment, Geppo's gaze dropped. He resumed scraping the edge of his long
knife across the scar-crossed back of his right hand. "Late," he
grunted, his voice as rough as a broken rock. Wykar
saw the butt of a weapon lying within reach of Geppo's left hand, almost hidden
by the curled edge of a glowfan fungus. The bent gnome stepped closer, his
movements relaxed and slow. The weapon looked like a crossbow, a little
two-shot repeater type favored by the drow-a lucky find. When he was ten feet
from Geppo, Wykar crouched on the balls of his boots and rested his elbows on
his thighs, letting his thick hands dangle. "Long walk home," he
replied. Geppo
snorted faintly, as if he recognized the lie. He lifted the knife blade, eyed
its bright edge, then carefully slid it home in a crude sheath strapped to his
belt. His thin arms then rested on his knees, hands limp. After a short glance
around Wykar, he nodded. "Alone," he rasped approvingly. "Alone,"
agreed Wykar. He detected no heat-glow but Geppo's, heard no sound but Geppo's
breathing, smelled nothing other than the earthy scent of the glowing fungus
and a sour, unwashed body odor that had to be the derro's. Didn't they ever
bathe? It must be easy for Underdark predators to track them; little wonder
most derro were so insanely paranoid. Geppo
nodded and seemed to relax. He reached over and gently broke a piece from a
nearby glowfan. He popped the luminescent tidbit into his mouth and chewed. Wykar
saw disease-blackened teeth through the forest of filthy whiskers. The gnome
swallowed and covered up his disgust. He never touched glowing fungus, much
less ate it; many species of it were poisonous. Geppo seemed to enjoy fungus of
any sort, though. The drow had fed him nothing else. Wykar
let it go. He inhaled slowly as he looked the derro over. "I was surprised
to see you here," he said at last. "I didn't know if you would make
it very far after..." The
derro smiled with the look of a wicked boy who is proud of something.
"S'prise you, s'prise Geppo," he said. "You run much, walk much?
You strong, hey. Geppo . . . mmm, no. Not strong." He held out his thin
arms and turned them over, shaking his head and frowning in disapproval.
"Not strong, hey? Sick much, sick much." He dropped his arms and
shrugged, then leaned forward and stared into Wykar's cool gray eyes, a smirk
on his ravaged face. "Hey," he whispered, his white eyes narrow.
"Geppo sick much but"-his voice dropped further, as if telling a
little secret-"laughing ones sick more now, hey?" He
pulled back before Wykar could reply. "Laughing ones sick more," he
repeated with a quick nod. "Sick more than Geppo." The derro thumped
his chest with a bony fist when he spoke his name. Wykar's
cheek twitched as he nodded in response, remembering. "Very sick," he
said softly. He shivered, though he was not cold in the slightest. Geppo's
smirk faded. After a moment, he nodded and made a gesture of dismissal.
"Laughing ones no laughing, all good. You say, see me here, then you run.
You here now." He stopped, waiting. The
deep gnome looked into the derro's white eyes. This could work, he thought.
He's still the same, or looks it. If he's the same old Geppo, this could really
work. Wykar
swallowed. He sensed that he should speak only the truth at this point. Being
caught in an important lie would lead straight to serious trouble, especially
with a derro-even this one. "When
we ... escaped, we left some unfinished business behind us," he said,
making no pretense of talking down to the derro. Despite the derro's
pidgin-talk, Geppo was intelligent and caught on to whatever was said to him.
Some kind of innate derro trait, Wykar guessed. "I came here because I
want to finish it. I need your help with things." Wykar swallowed, risking
a small untruth. "I will ensure that you are well rewarded for whatever
assistance you can give me." The
derro smiled again but did not look Wykar in the eye. "Ah," he said
casually. He seemed to have anticipated the topic. He inhaled deeply as his
left hand drifted up to his throat and gently rubbed the skin there. "Need
Geppo's hel-" he began, but his voice suddenly broke before he could say
more. He coughed and tried to clear his throat, then began coughing again,
grimacing with pain. Wykar
could not see Geppo's neck through his rat's nest of a beard, but he doubted
the derro's old wounds had healed yet. A fun-loving young drow had tried to
strangle him as a joke, using a long, thin metal wire. The gnome waited for
Geppo to recover his voice, wondering if the wounds had become infected from
the filth that was encrusted over the derro's faded hair and skin. It would not
be surprising. The
derro made a hand gesture of apology-something he had learned from Wykar during
their captivity-then pointed at the gnome. "You," he wheezed faintly.
Wykar's large ears could barely catch his tortured words. "You tell me
what you do, hey?" "Yes,"
said Wykar. It was time to face the issue and see what came next. He thought
about the crystal-nosed darts just inside his vest, and the speed at which he
would have to get to them if things went badly-if Geppo reverted to the derro
norm, that is, and tried to threaten or kill him. "I came back because of
that egg," he said. "I want to destroy it. I need someone to go along
with me for protection. You can have whatever gold and gems they brought with
them, but I want to see the egg destroyed. That's all I want." That and
the death of every drow alive, but I can be reasonable, he thought. The
derro straightened and looked at Wykar in surprise. "Egg?" he said,
his large eyes wider now. "You want big egg in chest, not-?" He shook
his head with disbelief and stared at the gnome without further comment. Then
he shrugged acceptance, and his eyes slowly narrowed, another topic obviously
on his mind. He actually seemed to be considering the proposition then and
there, with barely an argument. Several minutes passed. Wykar was patient but
alert. Geppo
leaned forward again, absently running thin fingers through his beard. He
regarded Wykar with a murky smile. "Golds and gems," he said, his
voice stronger than before. "Golds and gems good for Geppo, hey, always
good. But egg . . ." He frowned, then pulled at his tattered beard and
nodded solemnly, a ragged king accepting the plan of an underling. "Egg
not for Geppo. Egg, you wreck it. You wreck egg, yes. But-" The
derro held up a bone-thin finger. "You think good plan for us get golds
and gems, wreck egg, hey? You not see Geppo if you think no plan, think bad
plan. You think much, hey? Good, good think much. Geppo take golds, gems-help
you wreck egg." The finger lowered, pointing at Wykar's head. "You
tell Geppo good plan first, then all go, you wreck egg." Wykar
swallowed and took a deep breath. "I have a plan, but I need to keep it
secret for now. You will have to go with me and trust me that I know what I am
doing." His voice almost failed for a moment-I must not be weak, he
thought-but he recovered and went on. "We must go back to the place where
the golds-where the gold and the egg are, if they are still there, and I will
tell you there how we are going to get the treasure out of there and destroy
the egg. All that I ask of you otherwise is that we look out for each other on
the way there and back." Geppo
grunted in skepticism, obviously unhappy. "Not tell Geppo plan? You keep
plan secret?" He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Not
good," he murmured, eyeing the gnome. Then, to Wykar's surprise, he
shrugged as if the matter were of no consequence. "Geppo go. Geppo get
golds, you get egg-if golds and egg not gone, you say. We . . . look out for each
other, hey." He gave his twisted smile again and clapped his hands softly
together as if sealing the agreement. "We do." Wykar
blinked. He hadn't expected the derro to capitulate so quickly and with so
little trouble. Wykar had been prepared to argue, plead, bluff, threaten, swear
oaths, and even offer Geppo a little treasure up front, giving up a few tiny
rubies he had hidden within his vest and belt. Geppo's agreeability was almost
breathtaking. Derro were so befouled with greed and ambition that no one
expected anything good from them. Then
again, Wykar had been imprisoned with Geppo for over two hundred sleepings, not
long in a deep gnome's life but long enough to become familiar with most of the
derro's personal quirks. Geppo's quirks hinted that he was not a normal derro. For one
thing, Geppo never lied. He exaggerated a bit at times, but he never lied.
Geppo was also rather talkative, even after the drow youth tried to garrote
him, going on about how hungry he was, what his father would have done with
these drow, or his beliefs about the personal habits of the drow priestess who
owned both Wykar and Geppo. Most strangely for a derro, Geppo had never
threatened Wykar with anything more than words when they grabbed at the rotting
scraps tossed into their cramped stone prison by their priestess-owner. Geppo
had reserved violence only until the moment their escape was within reach; even
then, it was directed only at his captors. Wykar
had become puzzled by Geppo's basically mild behavior, given that every other
derro displayed far worse. The only reason he had impulsively asked the derro
to meet with him and join him on this mission was that the gnome had a gut
feeling Geppo would be pliable enough to go along with the strangest demands.
Maybe Geppo was stringing Wykar along, pretending to be a partner while
plotting betrayal, but Wykar didn't think so. Every
hero needs a fool, went a saving in the Underdark. How very true. Wykar
took a deep breath. There was only one thing more to do. It guaranteed nothing,
but Wykar had always been a firm believer in having a contract. Sometimes you
even found someone who would actually stick to it. Wykar
reached down and pulled his long blade free of its sheath. He did it slowly,
noting Geppo's startled movement for his own blade. The polished metal of the
gnome's weapon was stained red with protective oils and gleamed even in
fungi-light. The blade had been forged by the gold dwarves, many sleepings ago
and far away. Its handle was a yellow foot bone from a minotaur lizard, set on
either side with a small but flawless ruby. Wykar took the long, heavy dagger
by the tip of its blade, fingers away from its edge, and set it on the ground,
its handle pointing toward the derro. Geppo looked down as he gripped the hilt
of his own blade. "We
must trade weapons," Wykar said. "So long as we have each other's
blade, we are sworn not to kill or harm each other. You and I both must swear
to this by all the gods. Then we will go together and do our work." Geppo
stared at Wykar's weapon, lips parted in mild surprise. He looked up at the
deep gnome several times, bit his upper lip, then slowly made a decision. He
pulled his long dagger free of its poor sheath and gently tossed the blade so
that it landed on the stony ground next to Wykar's dagger, its hilt aimed in
the gnome's direction. In the glowfans' light, Wykar saw that the derro's
weapon was old and had been much used-recently scavenged from a body in the
Underdark, no doubt. Dark flakes clung to the steel blade, which showed signs
of rust and corrosion. The handle once had had an elaborate inlay, now fallen
out, and the very tip of the blade was broken off. But the notched edge was
keen and bright-sharper, likely, than Wykar's own blade. The derro knew his way
around a whetstone. The
derro waited in anxious uncertainty. Wykar noticed that the pale dwarf kept one
hand close to the crossbow butt at his side. Well, that was to be expected.
This was new for them both. The deep gnome touched his forehead, nose, right
ear, and heart, then carefully named a host of five deities and their spheres
of interest in gnomish life. Not a one of them was real, but a derro wouldn't
know that. It was then his turn to wait. Licking
his lips, Geppo mumbled his way through a short litany in a deep, guttural
tongue. All the while, he stared down at the blades. Wykar knew a smattering of
Underdark tongues, the derro tongue among them, but he recognized only a few
words: bapda for father, gorin for oath. The derro stopped when he was through,
uncertainty still crossing his face, and looked up at Wykar. The gnome nodded
as if well satisfied, concealing his real thoughts on the matter. For all he
knew, the derro had just taken a blood oath to kill the gnome like a rat. It
was irrelevant. The act bought a little time of peace between them, and that
was the real heart of the issue. At a
nod from Wykar, the derro and the gnome reached down and took each other's
weapon. As they did, Wykar conjured up a complete mental picture of how he
could snatch his own knife first and cut through the muscles of the derro's
white arm in less than an eye blink; then he would thrust the weapon forward
into his opponent's face and end the life of this miserable creature. The
picture was perfect and clear, and Wykar instinctively believed the derro was
thinking the very same thing. But
this was Geppo, the odd one, Geppo, who never lied-not a real derro foe. Wykar
easily thrust all thought of treachery aside. There was still much left to do,
and he desperately needed the derro. If there was to be treachery, he was
content to let the derro make the first move-at least for now. A thin
white hand and a small but thick gray one quietly lifted each other's weapon
from the ground. Each creature looked over his partner's blade, then carefully
sheathed it and checked the fit. The deed was done, for whatever it was worth. "We
must leave now," said Wykar. Seventeen
years and a hundred twelve days passed under the golden lights of Raurogh's
Hall, far above the gnome and derro, and peace was at an end. A fisher dwarf
mending a net by the riverside heard the first crack of rock shifting and
splitting. She
froze in her work, startled, then dropped her net and lay flat, placing her ear
to the ground as she held her breath. Even through the roaring of the falls and
the tremor the cascade sent through the earth, random clicks and pops could be
heard in the stone. And the air above the rock had a new smell, a broken-stone
and lightning odor that the fisher dwarf had never before sensed but had often
heard tell of in old legends of horror. She clumsily got to her feet and ran to
seize an iron-headed gaff beside a metal pot. The
other dwarves of Raurogh's Hall had ceased their work to look about uncertainly
for the source of the sharp crack they heard come from all directions around
them. A moment later, a high, rhythmic clanging of metal against metal was
heard. Some dwarves recognized the ancient signal and shouted the alarm. The
others heard and as one flung down their tools in rising panic, quickly
awakening those who were still abed. Without delay, the hundred dwarves packed
themselves into sheltered corners or beneath narrow doorways, their backs
pressed tight to the stone and teeth clenched in preparation. The broken-rock
odor was everywhere now; disaster was certain. The dwarves' lips moved in
prayer to their ancient gods. Mere seconds later, the earthquake struck. The
garden of glowing fungi had come to Wykar's mind when he had asked Geppo to
meet with him later, after their unexpected escape from the drow. The fungus
garden was reasonably close to the Sea of Ghosts, where the gold, the egg, and
their former masters now lay, and the garden could be reached only through a
high narrow tunnel that could not be seen from the main cavern passage known as
the Old River Path. Wykar grimaced as he remembered that he had been captured
only a mile down the great corridor while on his way to see the garden again,
which he had discovered in his youth. The silent dark elves had then taken him
to a small drow enclave about three sleepings away by fast march. It was
unlikely the drow had known of the garden; they had never mentioned it. Wykar
now descended the rough cave wall down from the tunnel to the garden, rappeling
quickly by rope. When he again set foot on the sandy floor of the Old River
Path, Wykar stepped back and scanned his surroundings for danger. No new
smells, sounds, or sights-excellent. Luminescent fungi on the ceiling cast a
faint green light over all. The wide hall had held a river many thousands of
sleepings ago, but some race had rechanneled the water miles back to form the
Sea of Ghosts. Many kingdoms, wars, and slaughters later, someone else had
channeled the water away from the great sea, and the sea had slowly drained
ever since then through cracks in its bed or walls. At some point many
sleepings in the future, the Sea of Ghosts would itself be a ghost, a monstrous
dry chamber miles and miles across, where albino fish and uglier things had
stirred its black surface. It would be interesting then to see how many
bones-and whose- the sea had hidden over the long years. Once
the derro had descended from the fungus garden and the rope was flipped loose
and put away, Wykar took the lead toward their destination. Geppo agreeably
followed a dozen paces behind, saying nothing and studiously ignoring the
lethal advantage his position gave him over the gnome. Instead, he tested the
heft of the gnome's blade and practiced a few shallow swings with it, then slid
it back in his ragged sheath and prepared his crossbow instead. That done, he
watched the walls and ceiling for possible targets as he walked. The gnome
noticed this and gave himself a mental pat on the back. Maybe Geppo would
adhere to the contract after all. He was certainly an odd fellow. Wykar
walked on with confidence, not particularly worried about being shot or stabbed
in the back. He had long ago prepared for that in other circumstances, and he
did not question his current defenses. Still, he would be disappointed if Geppo
turned traitor just now. He would hate having to kill Geppo, even if he was
just a derro. The
gnome's mind wandered as they walked. In the time they had been slaves, Geppo
had said nothing about his past or how he had come to be held by the drow for
what was likely many thousands of sleepings. He sometimes mentioned his father,
but always as a powerful figure, always in the past tense, and always in a way
that rang a little oddly to Wykar. Wykar had eventually asked about Geppo's
father, but his questions were met with sudden silence, a cryptic shrug, or a
change of subject. It was
getting dark again; no glowing fungi clung to the walls in this part of the
tunnel. The deep gnome opened his vest wider to have a clear grab at the
crystal-nosed darts stuck through loops on the outside of his leather armor. As
soon as the weak light from the high fungi had faded, he carefully pulled a
flexible left-hand glove from his belt, put it on, and plucked a hotstone from
inside a thick side pouch. He held the hotstone aloft, testing it. The heat
radiation from the magical stone reflected brightly from the surrounding rocks,
well past the distance that Wykar could throw a war dart. The gnome's
ultrasensitive eyes easily caught the infrared light; it was as good as a
torch, but any creature lacking heat-sensitive vision would see only darkness. Wykar
glanced back and saw Geppo squinting around but making good headway over the
sand and stones nonetheless. The eyes of derros, Wykar had heard, were poorly
adapted to seeing heat; their visual range for that was as far as a child could
pitch a pebble. Hardly tragic, considering their other flaws. Wykar's
mind spun on as they made their trek to the Sea of Ghosts. If Geppo had been a
true person, another svirfneblin, Wykar thought, we would have grasped each
other and wept for joy in that glowing garden. He shook his head. No, that's
wrong. We would never have parted after our escape. We would have been
inseparable. It's as if I were cheated by the gods. If it weren't for having to
get rid of that egg . . . The
deep gnome shook himself. What he had to get rid of were dark thoughts like
these. They weren't doing the situation any good. His thoughts did not
encourage talk between the two as they walked, but too much talk would have
been unwise anyway. They were in a large, open area, and the more quietly they
moved, the longer they would live. Silent hours passed. They rested and ate
only briefly, not stopping for long at any point. Wykar
was meditating on the negative aspects of his plan to get the egg and destroy
it when he heard the derro cough and whisper, "You close here to home,
hey?" The
gnome slowed and waited for Geppo to catch up while swiftly signaling for him
to speak more softly. They then walked on, side by side, with only a couple of
yards between them. Wykar decided he could put up with a little conversation
with a weird derro; they were still two hours from the side tunnel to the sea. "No,"
said Wykar truthfully, then thought and added, "I had to run to get there
and back in time. Didn't mean to be late." Geppo
said nothing in return. Wykar
glanced up at the derro and took a chance. "Is your home around
here?" he asked. Geppo
looked at him blankly, then away again. He shrugged. Wykar had seen that shrug
a hundred times. "Well,
you asked me," said Wykar. "What did you do when I left? Did you find
your people?" Geppo
shrugged again. "Stayed here, blue food cave. Sharp up sword, eat, sleep,
wait you." Wykar
looked up in surprise at the ragged white ex-slave. "You didn't just stay
here, did you?" he said. The
derro waved at the air as if brushing away a fly, but he didn't respond. Wykar
sniffed and rubbed at his large nose. "I thought you would go home and see
your family, your father. Maybe lead a war party back and kill some drow. Have
a little fun." The
derro frowned and shook his head. He took a breath to say something that seemed
to be difficult to get out, then exhaled and shrugged. "Not anything ...
nothing to do," he finally said. Wykar
gave a humorless laugh. "You say you stayed here for ten sleepings and did
nothing but wait for me?" he asked. "No, don't shrug it off. Tell me.
Where did you get the crossbow and your clothes?" Geppo
shot Wykar a brief look and licked his lips. "Dead ones," he said
quietly. "Dead from fight long time ago, close to blue food cave. Geppo
find them, get things." Wykar
nodded. There was nothing wrong with looting a forgotten body. It was standard
practice if you were out on your own and needed every advantage. It was proper
to give a prayer for the spirits of the dead, of course, and sometimes even
thanks for their "gifts," but that was up to the taker. "Two
drow dead," Geppo continued. "One dwarf. Two . . . two gnomes." The
deep gnome blinked and stared at the derro in a new way. "Two gnomes-like
me?" he asked. His voice was cold and flat. The
derro actually appeared frightened, though it was hard to tell. He nodded once,
not looking at Wykar. Then he slowed down, trying to drop back behind Wykar
again, crossbow aimed at the ground as if in shame. Wykar
let him go, but only after sending him a look that should have killed the
derro. The ugly white bastard was looting svirfneblin dead? Wykar stalked on
ahead, enraged and heedless of what Geppo might be doing. He looked back once
in time to see the derro turn his head to the side, as if he'd ilmost been
caught looking at the gnome. It was
half an hour before Wykar gained control of himself again. He should have let
it go. He himself had looted dead svirfneblin, so what did it matter that a
derro did? Well, it did seem to matter in a way, but there was no point in
dwelling on it. Wykar forced himself to stick to watching his surroundings. Few
interesting formations were about. Legions of past visitors to this region had
chiseled away anything of value, and the natural oils from their hands and feet
had ruined further mineral growth. The wide, oval-shaped tunnel was rather
drab, though quite serviceable as an underground road, but it was little used
now. The creation of the Sea of Ghosts had brought the wicked kuo-toa, the
two-legged fish-folk, and their presence had discouraged traffic along the Old
River Path and its surrounding region. Wykar counted on meeting more than a few
fat kuo-toa shortly, but his infrared-vision was better than theirs-he'd see
them long before they saw him. He didn't doubt that his combat skills would be
better than theirs, too. They were mediocre warriors, though big enough to be
hard to kill. Old
kuo-toa were often covered with battle scars, as ugly alive as they were after
a week dead. Wykar
looked down at his wiry, muscular arms, lean but growing strong once more. Even
with his heat-vision, the gnome could see that his hairless gray skin was
crisscrossed with healed-over scars. His back and legs were worse, and lash
marks itched all the time under his armor, especially beneath the thin iron
plate that protected his back and neck. Physically, he would heal completely;
he had no broken limbs or deformities from his captivity, so he counted himself
lucky. At least no damned drow kid had tried to strangle him. But healing was
not so quick for his mind and spirit. Even seeing the death of his former
masters firsthand did not quench his rage at his captivity, nor did knowing
those deaths had been hideously painful for the screaming drow. There was no
forgetting or forgiving. A thousand deaths like theirs would not be enough for
Wykar. Destroying
their precious egg would be a welcome if minor revenge. They had cared for that
egg for many sleepings; whatever it was, if it was precious to a drow, it
deserved to be smashed before it hatched. Their
march went on for four more hours, unbroken by talk, until Wykar recognized
landmarks that indicated they were close to the Sea of Ghosts. He signaled
another break in the walk, just below the stumps of three stalactites that had
formed in a perfect equilateral triangle. Sand crunched softly under their
boots as they shuffled to a halt. Wykar
sighed. He had gotten over the derro's admission of body-robbing, and he hoped
nothing would further strain things between them. "We
have about two hundred feet to go," he whispered, making sure the echo
would not carry to unwelcome ears. "The side tunnel is ahead, around the
corner to the right side of the hall. There are likely to be kuo-toa around,
and we'll have to hit them as hard and quickly as we can unless we're too
outnumbered. We've been lucky so far, but we'll have to-" A loud
crackling noise shot around them, echoing throughout the broad corridor. They
both jumped, taken completely by surprise, and instinctively looked up at the
ceiling. Wykar curled his gloved fingers down around the hotstone and cut off
the heat-glow. They stood in the blackness and listened. "I
heard it," came Geppo's hoarse whisper. "Dragon. Big dragon sound. My
father-" "Shhh."
Wykar shivered. "No, it's not-" A
broken-rock and lightning smell entered Wykar's nostrils. He knew about
lightning from the spells that a few deep-gnome wizards and kuo-toan priests
were able to cast. But if no lightning was around, and the rocks smelled
broken, then- He
suddenly knew. He gasped and sprinted forward, hard and fast. His gloved
fingers opened around the hotstone and held it up as his feet pounded the sandy
ground. The corridor again leapt into bright monochromatic view, infrared
shadows jerking wildly. "Hey
there!" Geppo called behind him. Wykar heard the derro start to run, too. "Earthquake!"
Wykar shouted back at the top of his lungs. It didn't matter now if anyone or
anything heard him. He jumped over a large rock in his path and almost lost his
footing when he came down on loose debris, hurtling on. "Run!" There
was a second cracking sound, much louder than the first. Not yet! Not yet!
begged Wykar in prayer. Dust and rock bits rattled down from the cavern ceiling.
Shadows shifted and jerked in the deep gnome's hurried vision. Perhaps it was a
trick of the poor light, a trick of the dancing shadows as he ran, but Wykar
didn't think so. Heartbeats, heartbeats left, he thought. The tunnel to the
underground sea was narrow enough for shelter, well supported at its entrance. He saw
the final bend in the cavern ahead before the tunnel came to the Sea of Ghosts.
The air was thick with the frightening broken-rock smell, the ceiling dust
drifting slowly about now like Ghost Sea mist. There were new smells,
too-moisture, dead fish, rich fields of fungus. The Sea of Ghosts. He might
make it. The fishy odor was particularly strong. The
narrow tunnel to the sea appeared around the corner. Something
tall and warm was in front of the tunnel already, half visible and obviously
waiting for him. That something stepped out and made a windmilling motion with
its arm in Wykar's direction. It had seen his infrared-bright hotstone and
heard his shouts. Wykar
threw himself forward into a roll. Bits of sharp floor debris stabbed into his
back and neck. He lost the hotstone. An object whispered through the air over
him, clattering hard against the far wall. Harpoon, Wykar thought. Wykar
came up on his knees from the roll, snatching two darts from inside his vest.
He hurled them, right hand and left. The hotstone, on the floor three yards
away, revealed a tall, fat figure less than thirty feet ahead as it hurriedly
raised another spear. The darts struck it first and burst into sprays of
crystal fragments, releasing a pale gas. The
tall creature hissed like a steam vent, staggering back as it coughed sharply
on the gas. The kuo-toan waved its long arms in an effort to clear its vision
and throw its next harpoon. Wykar reached for his blade, but hesitated when he
realized he was grabbing the weapon belonging to Geppo. It didn't matter; he
pulled it out, got to his feet, and charged. If he could just close before- There
was a whiz to Wykar's left, and a soft thump from the tall creature's stomach.
It stepped back with a long wheezing sigh, a crossbow bolt protruding from its
midsection. A second thump put a bolt right between the creature's goggle eyes.
The kuo-toan shook violently, mouth open impossibly wide, then fell forward
with a heavy crash to quiver softly on the ground. Wykar
halted and looked back. He saw Geppo lower his short crossbow and hurry toward
him. The derro's broad, black-toothed grin was visible even at a distance. "All-damn
kuo-toa!" the derro roared gleefully as Wykar quickly seized his hotstone
again. "Eat that, all-damn k-" The derro was seized with a spasm of
deep, racking coughs, and his run slowed into a halting gait. Wykar reached out
to seize the derro's arm and propel him toward the cavern to the Ghost Sea. A
rumbling sound, louder and deeper and longer than a thunderclap, shook the cave
floor like a drum. It crescendoed and did not stop. Geppo and Wykar staggered
and almost fell. "It's
the-" began Wykar. With a
cracking groan so loud it filled the world, the cave walls rippled and shifted
and rocked back and forth. Stony layers split open, clouds of dust sprayed,
boulders tore free of ceilings and walls. Wykar clearly saw it all in the
heat-glow, though he was deafened and momentarily paralyzed with a terror that
surpassed anything in his worst nightmares. He caught the derro's arm in his
right hand and ran for the two-yard-wide side tunnel. He almost reached it. A sheet
of ceiling rock slammed flat against the ground to Wykar's left, the impact
blowing him over like a leaf. Sand and dust fell through the semidarkness.
Wykar got up and staggered forward over shattered rock, falling twice more.
Geppo was gone. Wykar no longer cared. The
battered gnome was on the verge of entering the tunnel mouth when he fumbled
and dropped the hot-stone again. Near darkness enveloped him. He staggered on,
shielding his eyes from flying debris. His outstretched fingers touched a cold
cavern wall; he turned right. Something warm was close to him, he saw that, but
dust got in his eyes and pain stabbed his corneas, blinding him. A heartbeat
later, he smelled the unmistakable odor of rancid fish-and ran nose-first into
the wet, slimy stomach of an enormous live creature-another kuo-toan. Wykar
stabbed at the creature blindly. He wasn't even aware that he had pulled a
dagger out of his boot. A moment later, the kuo-toan was gone. He lurched
forward on the trembling ground and tripped once more, falling flat and banging
his large nose hard on sharp, broken rocks. The pain caused him to scream; his
stinging eyes ran anew with tears. The dagger fell and was gone. Then Wykar
took a deep whiff of something that filled his lungs like smoking magma. He
hunched up on the ground, coughing and gasping as each breath stabbed his lungs
with fire. A crystal-nosed dart on his armor had broken open when he had
fallen, choking him with its gas. Deep
gnomes are a pragmatic people. That does not keep them from cursing the
unfairness of death, and Wykar gasped out a string of curses himself as he waited
for a crushing blow from a quake-loosened stone to strike the life from him in
the bleak hell of the earthquake. He hoped death would be quick. The gas from
the broken dart was the pits. * *
* The
short, violent shock rocked every floor, wall, and ceiling of Raurogh's Hall,
as if the earth had come to life and breathed in for the first time. Ragged
cracks burst open in walls facing the direction of the shock, then closed as
the earth swayed back and split the opposite walls wide with deafening roars.
Carved ceilings crumbled; walls of bas-relief broke. Rock fragments fell over
all, and the air was a cloud of choking dust that clogged noses, mouths, and
lungs. The
fisher dwarf slipped and fell on damp rock when the shock hit, dropping the
gaff with which she had banged out the alert. Scrambling fingers seized the
fishing net she had flung aside as she slid on her stomach toward the river;
the net snagged itself on a foot-long iron bolt driven into the cave floor.
This saved her life. In the
next instant, the River Raurogh sloshed over the fisher dwarf's head and
carried her off with it, flooding the riverside tunnels as the shock flung it
sideways out of its ancient bed. Clinging to the net, the dwarf collided
painfully with a stone bench in the hall. Then, as the earth jerked in the
opposite direction, she was washed back out again onto the stone bank of the
river, and the water rushed back into its channel. It was
then that the fisher dwarf heard a monstrous roar tear through the river tunnel
from the direction of the falls, a sound as great as if the cavern were the
throat of a wild beast. She turned her head to look. It was the moment when the
Eastern Shaar hunter far above lowered his bow, when the sorceress in her tower
glared, when the old shepherd looked up from his knife and flute. A
magical lantern had been washed out into the river from the dwarves' hall, and
in its light the fisher dwarf saw the entire ceiling of the silo break free, a
monstrous plate of rock twenty yards thick. It dropped swiftly past the top of
the falls and out of sight. The dwarf looked on in amazement. She remembered
the legend of the foolish dwarf. Her lips moved. "One," she
whispered. "Two-" An
enormous, screaming wind awoke around her. It hurled water, tools, buckets,
lanterns, and nets toward the falls, everything it could seize in its shrieking
teeth. The wind savaged the dwarf as she gripped the fishing net with gnarled
fingers; she felt the net's worn strands give and break apart. Freezing rain
whipped at her face. The river danced and shook in the fury. Four, she thought,
head down, eyes shut. Five. Six. The
hurricane blast eased and faded as swiftly as it had come. The partial vacuum
created by the ceiling collapse was filled. Chilled to the bone, the fisher
dwarf shivered and clung to the ruined net, unable to pull herself up. The
wind's last howls echoed in her ears, following the great rock plate down into
the light-lost abyss of the Deepfall. The
fisher dwarf was oblivious to all but her numbers, waiting for the great stone
to reach the end of its endless fall. She had been cautious every day of her
life. She would not lose her place in the legends now. Eleven.
Twelve. Thirteen . . . The
thunder dwindled slowly from every direction. Wykar heard himself shouting
hysterical pleas and prayers to Garl, chief god of the gnomes. His pleas turned
into sobs and coughs, then ended as he got control of himself again. He lay
exhausted on his stomach, arms covering his head, and did nothing but cough on
the thick dust and the overpowering stench of rotting fish. A
distant boom rolled down the great cavern corridor as part of a wall or ceiling
split off and collapsed far away. The deep rattling of a rockslide could be
heard afterward as the ground trembled slightly. Then the noise died into real
silence. A few seconds after that, Wykar realized that the earthquake was over. The
gnome reached up with his right hand and gingerly felt his injured nose.
Touching a particularly sore spot brought more sudden tears to his eyes, but a
careful examination revealed that his nose was only bleeding and dirty, not
broken. Thank you, Garl, he thought. He couldn't imagine life with a broken
nose. It was too awful to conceive; better to be crippled. He sighed with
relief and began brushing bits of rock off his nose and face. Something
groaned and stirred in the debris, very close to him. Wykar wiped his eyes on
his right arm a sat up. Loose debris fell from his head and back.
"Geppo?" he called. He
smelled rancid fish. Damn, he thought, fumbling fo" his blade hilt. The
heat-glow of a huge, pudgy creature arose from the thick dust and debris,
barely two yards away. Wykar scrambled back, ignoring the pain. Though its skin
was lukewarm, the creature was bleeding profusely, and its warm blood
illuminated it clearly in Wykar's heat-sensitive vision. The being rose up on
its hands and knees to survey the ruins of the great corridor. It hissed as it
did. It was
the kuo-toan Wykar had stabbed only a few moments before. The creature sucked in
a great lungful of air, its gills slapping wetly against the sides of its
goggle-eyed head. One of the huge eyes rolled in Wykar's direction and fixed on
him. The kuo-toan hissed again, louder and sharper. Its mouth opened as it
turned; it was so close that Wykar could see the individual needle teeth in its
lower jaw. The
kuo-toan lurched at the gnome, mouth opened to bite. Wykar threw himself to the
side at the last moment and swung his right fist at the kuo-toan's head in a
roundhouse punch. He hit it squarely in its huge left eye. With a
loud gasp, the fish-creature jumped back, one long webbed hand clutching at its
injured eye. It lunged forward to grab the gnome, but by then Wykar had seized
the handle of the derro's long blade and pulled it free. He swung for the
monster's thin-boned arm and connected with a solid thump. With
another gasping scream, the kuo-toan jerked back, waving the stump of its
severed right arm. Wykar swiftly got to his feet. The derro's knife was
incredibly sharp. He knew he would have to kill the stupid fish-man now,
though. He bit his lower lip and steeled himself, then moved in to finish the
job. Fast as
the gnome was, he had not even touched the kuo-toan when the creature shuddered
violently, its back arched in a spasm and its head reared back to give the
ceiling a pop-eyed stare. It wheezed out a long, final sigh as it fell
backward. As it did, Geppo adroitly stepped out of its way. His left fist was
clenched around the hilt of Wykar's blood-covered blade. Geppo
was panting and bleeding profusely from a scalp wound, but seemed unharmed
otherwise. His blood was warmer than the kuo-toan's, so he was much brighter;
his face shone like a lantern. Wykar lowered his weapon and looked around. A
rumbling ran through the great corridor in the distance; the cave floor
vibrated slightly through the sand. Aftershock, thought Wykar. It would be best
to leave the open cave quickly. The
deep gnome produced a second hotstone from his belt pouch and held it aloft. He
and Geppo paused to survey the damage to the main passageway. The floor was
littered with split rocks and boulders torn from the cave walls. The dust had
settled; the air smelled of shattered stone and stirred earth. Going back the
way they'd come would be hard, indeed. Wykar hoped the trip hadn't now become
one-way. He then looked down and saw only an arm and a foot were left of the
first kuo-toan they had fought, the rest of the creature messily flattened to
the thickness of a mica flake beneath a thick stone slab. Wykar
checked the narrow passage toward the Sea of Ghosts. It seemed solid even now,
though the floor was a foot deep in debris and most of the tiny ceiling
formations were broken off. He could see only a half-dozen yards into the
narrow passage before it curved around a bend. Surprises were certain to lie
beyond. He
muttered a dark curse. The only other tunnel to the Sea of Ghosts was two
sleepings away by foot, and time was against them. He considered calling off
the whole thing and fleeing for his life. How did he know the earthquake hadn't
buried or broken the egg now? And the sea would be in violent turmoil after the
shock. If the
vast, arched roof over the sea had held-and there was good reason to think it
had, since the sound of its falling would have been quite noticeable through
the tunnel-the kuo-toa there would be more active than ever. Wykar and Geppo
had just fought two gogglers who had walked out of the tunnel; a thousand more
might await them on the shoreline on the other end. The whole plan was ruined. He
tapped the derro's battered weapon against his bare leg, then thought better of
it and stopped before he cut himself badly. Everything was quiet now. Perhaps
it wouldn't hurt to just take a peek and see what was going on, for curiosity's
sake. He motioned to the derro, who had finished cleaning his blade, and with
great care and many looks at the ceiling, they stepped into the side tunnel. The
tunnel had survived in good condition. It curved back and forth for two hundred
feet, once an outflowing stream from a formerly higher Sea of Ghosts. Inch-wide
cracks showed all the way through the tunnel, legacies of the quake. At one
point, the gnome and derro were forced to climb over the crushed remains of
another three kuo-toa, half-buried when the ceiling gave way over a three-yard
section. Wykar nearly gave up at that point, but he steeled himself and moved
on, steadily avoiding a close look at the smashed skull of an unlucky kuo-toan.
The fishy stench was incredible, and he swallowed several times to keep from
vomiting. A few
yards past that point, only a bend away from the opening to the great chamber
of the sea, Wykar felt a cool breeze against his face. He stopped short, taken
aback. No wind had ever stirred the Sea of Ghosts, as far as he knew, but now
he was certain he could feel one. A rumbling noise in the distance that Wykar
had ignored was now louder, too. It might be a short aftershock, but the ground
was not trembling. Something else was going on. Wykar suspected he was in great
danger. He felt it by instinct rather than by reason, but the sense was too
powerful to shake off. He looked back at the derro, who merely frowned and
stared back in puzzlement. Wykar
couldn't think of anything to say that would make sense. He turned again and
took a few steps toward the tunnel opening. The
sharp crack of breaking rock sounded through the entire tunnel. It came from
directly above the gnome's head. Wykar's nerve broke. He threw himself into a
dead run for the open sea cave. Cold mist settled on his nose, cheeks, and the
exposed skin on his arms and legs. It was Ghost Sea fog, stirred by a rising
breeze. Wykar
saw a kuo-toan with a harpoon at the tunnel mouth. It had turned to look back
at the Ghost Sea, surprised by the loud rumbling throughout the great cavern.
Its body was clearly outlined by green light falling on it from above. The
kuo-toan had only enough time to turn back and see Wykar before the gnome's
sword chopped into the goggler's right leg. The creature gasped and twisted as
it fell facedown, thigh muscles cut down to the bone. The inhuman cries ended
with its next breath as the derro jammed a blade into the creature's back,
through its lung and heart. Thunder
and gusts of wind now flew all across the sea from every direction. A chorus of
goggler cries arose downslope at the water's edge, barely fifteen yards from
the tunnel exit that Wykar had fled. Wykar heard them but ignored everything
that didn't contribute to his immediate escape. He ran to the left and went
upslope the instant after he attacked the kuo-toan, weaving his way around
numerous large boulders. His boots pounded uphill at a rapid pace beneath his
short, stocky legs. Geppo would have to keep up or defend himself alone. Wykar
recalled that the tunnel opened about two-thirds of the way down a great slope
that ended at the edge of the dark sea. Thirty yards up the slope at its top
was a narrow path through the many rocks that had fallen over the ages from the
cavern ceiling. The path
had probably been created by deep gnomes many thousands of sleepings ago. If
the earthquake had not damaged the area severely, Wykar and Geppo could use the
path to escape the area by running around its perimeter, and thus reach their
final destination. The ceiling was low along the pathway, too, and would slow
pursuit by the tall fish-folk. The
gnome ran low to the ground, so hunched over he seemed bent in half. Hurrying
up the slope and almost panting now, he saw a familiar rock that marked part of
the high trail. He looked back just long enough to see Geppo stamping up
rapidly behind him, only four yards back. The gnome then fled off along the
path. Visibility
was only fair. The ever-present fog on the Sea of Ghosts usually clung to the
surface of the black underground lake, rarely traveling inland. However, green
tendrils of the mist now whirled in the fungus-lit air ahead of the gnome.
Wykar had heard tales that the thick mist came from a broad silo in the ceiling
over the center of the sea, perhaps a mile away. A river or lake far above
apparently drained into the silo, perhaps as far up as the world's true
surface. The vast quantities of water turned into a heavy spray over the long
fall. The kuo-toa were said to enjoy the cool fog there, and sometimes things
from above fell into the sea and were swiftly taken as treasure or food. "Wait!"
The desperate voice barely carried to Wykar's ears as he ran. He dared to stop
and look back. Geppo had fallen farther behind him and appeared to be tiring.
The derro suddenly banged his head on a low place in the overhanging ceiling
and fell to his knees, grabbing at his injured forehead with a whimpering cry. Wykar
swore aloud. He ran back, grabbed one of the pale dwarf's arms, and dragged him
to his feet. "Run!" he shouted in Geppo's ear. Fresh streaks of hot
blood streaming down his face, the derro wheezed and stumbled forward. It was
harder now to negotiate the path. Wykar banged his left knee and shin
repeatedly into rocks. He fought down the pain and struggled to keep the derro
on his feet. A gust of wind then blew a thick curtain of fog over the pathway
and the two runners. Wykar slowed too quickly, got his right leg entangled in
the derro's left leg, and the two fell in a heap among the rock chips and dirt
on the pathway. Cursing
angrily, the deep gnome forced himself back to his feet. His hands reached down
and snatched at the groaning derro's prone body. A
sudden crackling of thunder swept rapidly over the two; then an explosion of
noise burst against Wykar's eardrums, a stupendous sound different from all
others and many orders of magnitude louder. Wykar's head jerked toward the
source of the almighty racket, somewhere across the Sea of Ghosts. Then he
slapped his hands to the sides of his head and ducked, ears ringing with pain.
His teeth were clenched as tight as the jaws of a vice. Echoes of the explosion
crashed and rolled everywhere. He could see nothing now but a churning riot of
cold green mist, whipped by howling winds. What
was happening? What was going on? Wykar
suddenly knew for sure that he had made a fatal mistake. He should have
abandoned the trip at its start, fled to his real home instead of trying to
play hero or get revenge. It was too late now. It was probably going to be very
unpleasant to die, he knew, and he probably wouldn't have to wait long for it
to happen. Blinking
stupidly, Wykar let go of his aching ears and shuffled forward, squinting
through the mists. He had the oddest sensation of being completely carefree.
Geppo called for help from the ground, but Wykar ignored him and strained his
senses to their limits, searching for any clue of what was to come. He did
not have long to wait. Even with the blast ringing on in his ears, he could
hear death approaching. It was a sound he had never heard in all his years of
traveling the Underdark around the Sea of Ghosts. It was like thunder but lower
in register. It made his bones tremble. "Wave's
coming," said Wykar. He tried to remember how high the slope was here, how
far it was down to the shore. The blowing green fog, high winds, and lack of
landmarks made him give up. He looked down at Geppo, who was slowly getting to
his hands and knees. Wind whipped at their clothes, moaning like an army of
ghosts. Wykar
took Geppo by an arm again, gently this time. "We have to hurry," he said
aloud, above the wind's blast. Geppo muttered something into the stray hairs of
his beard. One of the words sounded like hooret. Wykar had heard the word years
ago during his long explorations of the Underdark. Hooret was the derro word
for poison. With
the gnome's assistance, the two walked on at a quick pace. The path ran upward
in a shallow grade from here, which the gnome was glad to see: the higher, the
better. The low rumbling was very loud now. Wykar could feel a steady vibration
through the packed soil of the path. Cold droplets ran down his face and arms
from the thick mist settling on his skin. Higher,
the gnome prayed. Higher. Higher. Now to
the sound of the low rumbling was added a new noise, that of water crashing on
water. The wave was almost at the shore. Wykar stopped and released Geppo; the
derro fell to the ground again. Snatching at the tools hanging from his belt,
Wykar swiftly drove a steel T-headed spike into the largest rock he could find
within reach. Throwing the mallet aside, he pulled his climbing rope free from
his belt and looped the small noose at one end around the T-head of the spike,
pulling it tight. He reached down and grabbed the woozy derro by his black belt
just as the water-on-water crashing sound turned into water-on-rock. With
hardly any time following that, a foaming wall of cold, black water burst up
through the green-lit fog and slammed into both of them. Wykar
was thrown wildly by the churning, stinking flood. His left arm was nearly
pulled from its socket when the wave hit, and the rope tore at his numb
fingers. The derro was a dead weight that stretched his other arm almost to
breaking. The freezing water stank abominably of dead things and goggler slime.
Some of it got into the deep gnome's mouth and nose; he choked violently,
almost letting go of the rope and Geppo both. Then
the churning water rushed back over the rocks, cascading downslope again to the
sea. Wykar's right arm was pressed so hard against a rocky edge that he was
forced to let go of Geppo. He let go of the rope next, unable to grip anything
through the sea slime. Instead of being washed away, he merely thumped down
against the top of a flat rock. Coughing, he tried to roll over on his back but
fell off the rock instead, dropping several feet to the ground. There he choked
and vomited up foul water until he had the dry heaves and could barely breathe
at all. The sea
thundered in his ears, waves crashing into rocks and each other. The echoes
rang from every direction, even from above. He could barely hear his own gasps
for air. Enough,
he thought, enough throwing up already. Panting
and on his last reserves of energy, the gnome managed to get up on his wobbly
hands and knees. He then sat upright to get a look around at his immediate
vicinity. It came to his mind to call for Geppo, and he opened his mouth to
form the word. It
never happened. The blood ran from his head. His eyes rolled up; he fell over
backward and knew nothing more. Something
slapped Wykar's face. He was so numb that he hardly felt the blow. Clumsy hands
tugged on his leather clothing and pulled at his belt and tools. He lifted a
hand feebly, and the tugging ceased. He
lurched into partial consciousness and almost immediately threw up again. He
started to choke, but turned on his side, just in time. When he finished
coughing and sputtering, he looked around, taking short, shallow breaths. He
was shivering from cold. A thin,
dwarflike figure stood out in his heat-vision. Wykar saw a relieved grin on the
figure's thin, bearded face. "Not
dead yet, hey?" said Geppo shakily, voice rising above the roaring of the
sea. His rotting teeth were clenched together as he spoke. The derro looked
down briefly at an object in his trembling left hand, then tossed it to the
rocky ground in front of Wykar's face. It was one of the gnome's combat darts,
its glass head broken away. "Water broke gnome throw-toy," he
finished, the grin a bit broader. "Broke Geppo crossbow, lost arrows. But
Geppo have gnome sword!" He patted the hilt of Wykar's weapon, still safe
in its sheath. Wykar
managed to sit up, leaning back against a rock with his back facing downslope.
He left the useless dart where it had fallen. No doubt all of his stun-gas
darts were broken by now. He resisted the urge to check over all his
possessions to see if the derro had stolen anything. "Good for you,"
he said hoarsely. He tried to stop shivering. Geppo
jerked his head in the direction from which they had been fleeing. His ugly
grin disappeared. "Geppo not hear fish-heads talk. Water push them away,
kill them, maybe. We go red place and run home fast, hey?" His colorless
eyes flicked toward the noisy sea, over Wykar's shoulder. Wykar
absorbed the news and half turned to peek at the sea. His view was blocked by
other rocks, and he sat back against the stone, hugging himself. "We
should get out of here," he agreed. "We'll dry out if we keep moving
and build up more body heat." With an
effort, he pushed himself up on unsteady feet, still careful to keep his head
low in case some kuo-toa were around. He carefully checked his gear, though he
was unsure if it really made any difference now. "You know," he said
conversationally, "you could at least thank me for saving your life." Geppo
stopped checking his own gear and stiffened. He eyed the gnome in puzzlement,
then anger. "You say Geppo give you golds now, hey?" he snarled,
voice rising. He suddenly spat on the sea-washed ground. "There are golds
for you. Take and spend them. Geppo not owe you golds for save life. Have no
golds, not for you." The derro stood back, legs and arms trembling
curiously. His left hand strayed near the hilt of Wykar's blade, sheathed at
his side. Wykar
stared back in confusion and his own rising anger. He realized the derro had
completely misunderstood him. Maybe derro regarded gratitude as some kind of
monetary debt that they extorted from others of their kind. He snorted in
disgust, his own self-control slipping. So the derro wanted to threaten Wykar
because he didn't know what "thank you" meant? Fine. Barbarism was
all that could be expected from brainless derro scum. "Forget it," he
muttered, looking down again at his belt equipment. He threw away two other
darts with smashed crystal noses. He had one good one left. "I don't want
any damn gold from you. That's not what giving thanks means, you stupid .
.." He
suddenly seized the last good dart, jerked it free from his armor, and threw it
out toward the sea as hard as he could. "All the gods damn your kind! Damn
them all!" he shouted as he did. He fought down the urge to add another
dozen pithy comments, very personal ones. He drew a ragged breath instead, and
wiped his face and nose with a cold, wet hand. "Just forget it," he
said tiredly, turning away. "Forget everything. Just come on." He
walked off, face burning with buried rage. He marched about fifty paces before
he looked back in anger, hearing nothing behind him. Geppo stood in place with
an astonished expression, hands now limp at his sides. The tremor in his thin
limbs seemed more pronounced. "Let's
move!" Wykar hissed, sweeping a hand toward their goal. "I want no
thanks from you! Just move!" Geppo's
hands twitched. His head suddenly bowed, and he began walking in Wykar's
direction as if he had suddenly aged by a century. Wykar turned and set off on
the path again himself, the steam cooling on his anger. It took many long
minutes for Wykar to regain control of his temper and think clearly again. He
then became angry with himself. What if some kuo-toan or sea monster had
overheard him? He would have regretted his outburst then. And he couldn't
afford to lose the derro for anything if he hoped to get to that egg. He could
not afford to throw a fit at every quirk in the derro's behavior. It was hard
not to take things personally, as badly as the impulsive journey had turned
out, but only a clear head had a chance to win anything good from this. Wykar
rubbed his face until he thought he would take the skin off. He eventually
relaxed and let most of the tension go by breathing deeply and focusing on listening
for enemies in the landscape ahead. He looked back and saw the derro marching
on behind him, not looking up. That
derro has to be the most stupid one alive, he thought. But I guess that was
what I needed, wasn't it? This plan had better work. They walked
on over rough terrain for about six miles until it was long past sleeping
again, but Wykar was too wound up for rest. The
remainder of the journey had not been uneventful. The great wave had washed the
bodies of many creatures onto the rocky shoreline, once-living things of the
sort that should have remained hidden from view. Some of the creatures were
still in the process of dying when Wykar and Geppo carefully and quietly
skirted their quivering, obscene bulks. Several monsters slapped at the rocky
shore with weakened fins, straining uselessly to drag themselves back into the
sea, or exposed huge mouths of dagger teeth as they gasped out their lives with
water only yards away. Wykar noted as well, a few mangled body parts from
unfortunate kuo-toa, who had probably been ground against rocks or even the
cavern ceiling by the great wave when it started out. He bit his lips and
turned his head away, feeling no sympathy for them. A
second, smaller wave, quickly followed by a third, soon roared up the bleak
shoreline, but neither wave had the power or reach of the first. After that,
the sea cavern was filled with the rumbling of rough water, which went on
without end. Worse, the violent sea had stirred up its two-legged inhabitants.
Twice, the pair was forced to charge and fight through small groups of live
kuo-toa that blocked their way. The fish-folk were confused and often injured,
but there was always the danger that a lucky throw with a harpoon or random
slash with a long knife would leave the gnome or derro as badly off as the
writhing monsters they had passed on the shore. In the
pair's favor, the thick, drifting mist from the sea enabled the gnome and derro
to make an escape without fear of being followed. The kuo-toa, still stunned
from the earthquake and sea wave, were also not inclined to pursue, hurling
only two or three badly aimed harpoons before subsiding in confusion. In
time, Wykar saw a faint reddish-purple glow far ahead as he rounded a bend in
the wall to his left. He knew immediately that the journey was almost over. The
glow illuminated a region where the rocky shore swung inland away from the sea,
perhaps two hundred yards or more, to end in a high wall marked by several
vertical rifts from floor to ceiling. The Red Shore, the drow had called it. Wykar
stopped, signaled Geppo to take cover behind a fallen rock, and began scouting
the area before them. Nothing registered as important-but that was exactly what
the drow slave masters had thought as well, eleven sleepings ago. They had missed
a critical thing and had died for their omission, The
red-purple glow came from a large colony of wall fungus, many yards square,
that coated both sides of a broad, wet fissure large enough for a group of drow
to gather inside. An underground stream leaking down from above kept the area
moist. Memories
came to Wykar at once. Eleven sleepings ago, a group of drow had chosen a spot
deep within the vertical fissure to bury the large chest that they and their
two slaves had brought with them. They had handed Wykar and Geppo each a small
pick and told them to dig. The smirking drow then stood around the ragged pair
and prodded them with boot tips and sword points, urging them on with their
work while describing their individual ideas on how each slave should die when
the job was finished. The drow had been perfectly serious; they intended for no
one to reveal the hiding place later on. After time-consuming tortures and a
slow execution, the derro and gnome would be animated by magic as undead
guardians, to be buried with the chest and its egg for eternity-or until the
drow elected to move the chest to another spot. Wykar
rubbed his eyes and pushed the memory aside. After a few moments, he
reconsidered and deliberately brought the memory of those last moments back to
the surface, focusing on its details with all the detachment he could summon.
He had to think his way through what had happened next, break it down and study
every piece, if he was to finish the task he had set for himself. Silently,
Geppo crouched down a short distance from the deep gnome and also surveyed the
land ahead. The two had not spoken for many hours, but the earlier argument was
already pushed aside. It was not the time and place for quarreling now. "I
was trying to remember what happened before the moaning sound started,"
murmured Wykar, frowning. "They were making jokes about opening the chest
and spitting on the egg and locking us inside with it, and I didn't understand
why that was so funny to them-the spitting part." He glanced at Geppo, who
said nothing. Wykar
shrugged and looked back at the reddish-purple glow. "Then that sound
started, that loud, piercing groan that went on and on and on, and it dug right
down into my gut. I saw the drow clap their hands over their ears and shout at
each other, and one or two drew swords, but they dropped them. I couldn't see
what was making the noise. I was sick to my stomach to be listening to it. My
hands shook so much that I dropped the pick, and I was terrified the drow would
kill me for dropping it. But I couldn't help it. My stomach was cramped up like
I was going to vomit. I covered my ears, but that didn't help me, either." He
paused and swallowed before continuing. "A male drow, I think it was
Deriander the wizard, fell down over me, screaming like a banshee. We were all
screaming by then. I got up again and saw that Deriander had gone rigid and was
shaking. His muscles were like iron ropes, hard as rocks. They all looked like
that, all six of the drow. But I could still move. I couldn't figure it
out." Wykar turned to his companion. "That was when you hit Sarlaena
with your pick. You hit her in the legs several times before she fell down, and
I had this strange thought that she couldn't feel a thing you were doing. I
thought she was screaming from something else." He looked back at the
unearthly glow. "I fell over the lesser priestess and was getting up to
escape when the cloakers got us." The
gnome's hands trembled at the memory. "I saw one of the cloakers fall from
somewhere up on the ceiling. It looked like a white square. I knew what it was
from stories that my people used to tell, but I had never seen one before. I
knew then that cloakers were making the moaning noise that we heard, paralyzing
and trapping the drow. Then I saw a large mouth open in the middle of the
cloaker where nothing had been, a mouth with teeth, and two glassy eyes opened
above it. It landed on Xerzanein's back and wrapped around him while he was
still standing up, screaming and holding his ears. It was like a living cape,
black as jet, squeezing Xerzanein so tightly I could see each of his fingers
trying to claw through. Xerzanein had his mouth open, but I couldn't hear him
through the cloaker cries all around." The
gnome swallowed again, his voice even quieter. "I could see the cloaker's
mouth on Xerzanein's back, biting into his shoulders and neck. Every drow had a
cloaker then. Sarlaena had one wrapped around her that was biting through her
gut, chewing at her as she kicked and kicked, trying to scream. She flopped and
twisted on the ground like a fish. Then something touched me on the back-"
Wykar shivered violently and rubbed his shoulders, looking down at the ground. Distant
thunder rolled over the Sea of Ghosts. "It's
strange," he said, "but I don't really remember running away. I
remember talking with you afterward, a bit of it anyway. I had it in mind even
then that we had to go back and destroy the egg. If the drow thought it was so
valuable and wanted to hide it, then it was too important to leave alone. They
would have broken any egg that would hatch something good. I knew we had to
destroy it, but I had no idea how we were going to go about it. I didn't want
it to sit there for some other drow to find. But I didn't want to talk about
things then; I just wanted you to meet me later when we could talk about it. I
just wanted to get away and run and run." "You
ran to your people," said Geppo after a pause. Wykar
slowly shook his head, mildly surprised he would admit to this. "No. I
didn't go back. I lied about that. I stayed away and hid by myself. My people
are miles and miles off. I hid by myself and raided some caches of weapons,
armor, food, and clothes I'd made for myself long ago. I just hid. I don't know
what I was thinking for a while." He flashed an empty smile. "I just
wanted to be by myself, to get myself back together again. I was never very
close to anyone. I'm an orphan. I always kept to myself and did what I wanted
to do. I explored places, and that was enough for me. Exploring and being alone." He
looked back at the red-purple glow. "That was how the drow caught me, you
know. I was exploring, and they ambushed me with nets and clubs. Beat me until
I was almost broken, dragged me back like a food lizard to their commune. You
probably remember what I looked like then. You were already there." He
chewed on his lower lip, squinting at the glow, then suddenly turned to Geppo.
"How did they ever catch you?" he asked. The
derro blinked, then looked away. He covered his mouth with one hand, stroking
his scraggly mustache. Wykar looked away at the glow again. "My
f-my people sold me," Geppo said suddenly. He started to say more, but
stopped. He didn't look at Wykar. "Sold
you?" Wykar said, stunned. "Sold you to the drow?" Geppo
stroked his mustache and nodded. The heat from his face increased visibly. He
made an odd brush-away gesture with his hand, then kept toying with his
mustache. "Why?"
Wykar asked. Geppo's
face seemed to sag like melting wax. He bowed his head and blew out heavily. He
smiled as if the news were of no consequence and spoke slowly. "Geppo not.
. . Geppo have no ... no magic like True-Masters-what you say derro. No magic
in Geppo, all empty. Lose magic when born, maybe. Geppo, True-Masters not know
why. Geppo not know how make magic go from hands, go from head. True-Masters,
they have magic, magic for conquer, kill, but . . ." He shrugged and
spread his hands. "Empty," he said. Wykar
swallowed. "Your clan sold you for that? Didn't your father stop-"
The truth dawned. He bit off his words, too late. Geppo
coughed, then held his thin hands up to his eyes, surveying his fingers and
palms as if they were keepsakes of no value. "Father," he said,
smiling again. "Father very angry. He say, Geppo shame upon all clan for
have no magic. Father say, Geppo slave now. Geppo talk like slave. Geppo tell
truth like slave. Geppo work, be slave, then Father angry more and say, out! He
sell Geppo. Drow slave." He shrugged, his voice a monotone. His eyes
glistened as he looked at the ground. "True-Masters, drow, all gone now.
Geppo have no magic, but Geppo here, all good, hey." He sighed, all the
wind going out of him. "Get golds now," he said, his voice tired.
"Tell me now how we get golds and egg. Tell secret plan now. Talk too
much." Wykar
looked away, the sound of the Sea of Ghosts in his ears. "Well," he
said at last, "I thought we would just walk into that crack in the wall
there and take them." The
derro stared at Wykar and snorted in disbelief, his face heating with anger
once more. Before Geppo could say a word, however, Wykar reached back and dug
his fingers into a slit on the inside of the back of his belt. The rings were
still there, the rings he had taken from the body of a long-dead svirfneblin.
He fished them out. The derro was a terrible looter, if that was what he had
been doing earlier. Wykar
handed one ring to the derro. As he did, a sudden heat arose in Wykar's face
and stung his eyes. He fought against it, refusing to acknowledge it at all. He
almost took back the ring. His fingers trembled as if they knew what they were
about to do. "Don't
put this on yet," said Wykar, struggling to keep his voice as steady as
before. He did not dare look Geppo in the face. "These rings will make us
invisible. The cloakers won't see us at all. Whatever we pick up will
disappear, too, so we can carry things off, right out from under them. If the
cloakers come after us, just run back here. They won't be able to see you, but
you have to move carefully over loose stones, or they can find you that way.
They can still hear you even if you are invisible. Do you understand?" He
dared to look at the derro's face. White eyes huge, Geppo stared down at the
plain golden band in his thin fingers. Something was going on in his mind,
though. Wykar could see that clearly. Even
through the fires of his shame. Geppo's
hand closed over the ring. He looked up, eyes avoiding Wykar's, then he looked
down at his fist again. "Yes,"
whispered Geppo. Then: "Thank you." No,
don't say that, Wykar thought in horror. No. Think of the egg. This is the only
way. It is the only way. Wykar
held out his right hand, fingers spread. His hand shook as if it were cold, but
he pretended not to see it. "I'm going to put my ring on," he said
hoarsely. "Your people are like mine, a little, because we are resistant
to magic more than other folk. Sometimes these rings work for us, sometimes
they don't. We have to keep trying until they do." With that, Wykar slid
his ring on the middle finger of his left hand. And he
vanished. Invisible. He shivered when it happened. He would never get used to
that. Geppo flinched and, with what looked like open fear, watched the spot
where Wykar had been. It was fear of abandonment, Wykar instinctively knew, not
fear of magic. "It's
okay," said Wykar softly. "I'm still here. I'm invisible. You must
have seen magic like this before somewhere. This is our magic now. Okay, now,
you put your ring on." Geppo
looked around for the source of the bodiless voice, as if he thought Wykar were
going to reappear. When that didn't happen, he looked down at his own ring,
then carefully put it on. Wykar
continued watching the derro, who examined his still-visible hand in confusion.
"Try it again," said Wykar, gaining his nerve by talking.
"That's your natural magic resistance. Take the ring off, put it down on
the ground, then pick it up and try again." Geppo
did as he was told. As he put the ring on the second time, he gasped aloud in
amazement, mouth open wide. He turned his hands over in front of his face,
marveling at the sight of them, then looked at the rest of his body and
possessions. His face radiated purest awe. Wykar
watched invisibly, face burning and chest tight. The derro was just as clearly
visible to Wykar now as he had been before the ring was put on. But
that was not surprising, given the sort of magical ring that Geppo wore, a
wondrous ring that fulfilled the wearer's most secret and desired wish. A
cursed ring of mental delusions. "Excellent,"
said Wykar shakily. "It worked that time. Don't wander off. I ... I can't
see you, and we have to go. Stay within hearing of my voice, though. When we
get close enough, just move in on your own. Get whatever gold you want, then
come back here. Don't take your ring off until then. The cloakers will never see
us." Geppo
nodded. A new expression filled his ravaged face. It was beatific joy. Wykar
knew he had done something terribly wrong. He was no fool when it came to the
gods. They saw everything, even this. Maybe they would forgive all of this
because of the egg. The egg was the evil thing, not Wykar. He told himself this
over and over, but somehow he did not believe it anymore. He
shook it off. He was tricking a derro, not a child or a god's holy avatar. If I am
to be damned, then let us get on with it, Wykar thought angrily. "Let's
go," he said, getting to his feet. Keeping
the derro in the corner of his vision, Wykar began to walk toward the
red-violet glow from the distant wall, still shrouded by blowing fog from the
rumbling Sea of Ghosts. Geppo walked along carefully beside him, grinning like
a big fool who could not get enough out of trying to see his hands. Wykar
looked away from that black-toothed grin. The
deep gnome felt inside his open vest for his final weapon and his final
defense. Both were safely there, strapped into a deep, crude pocket. He removed
them and gritted his teeth. He had thought long and hard about what was coming
next. It would hurt terribly, but sometimes there was no other way out but
through, the svirfneblin often said. No way out but through. The two
had marched to within two hundred feet of the glowing rift when Wykar
whispered, "Stop." Geppo halted, looking around in mild confusion.
Wykar leaned closer, but was careful to be out of the way in case Geppo drew
his weapon. "Listen to me," he said. "We're going in there
together. Move very slowly. If you pick something up, do it slowly and make no
sound. These rings don't hide the noise you make, so be careful." Why am I
saying this? Why am I saying this? "Thank
you," whispered Geppo, nodding. He set off for the glowing rift, walking
in silence. Wykar
stood for a moment, staring after the derro with an empty expression. Then he
took a deep breath and put a corner of his vest between his teeth, filling his
mouth with the vile, fishy-tasting fur. He ground his jaws together tightly,
readying himself for what came next. He
carefully lifted his final defense, unable to see it but feeling it roll
between his fingers. It was a long, bronze needle. He put
the needle in his left ear, then pushed it in. Boiling pain exploded deep in
his ear, pain a thousand times worse than anything the drow had given him. His
head felt as if it would burst. Quickly, before he could think better of it, he
transferred the needle to his other hand and jammed it into his right eardrum,
destroying it as well. He dropped the needle after that and doubled over in
mindless agony. He felt his teeth almost close together through the thick fur
in his mouth. Hot blood ran from his ears and down the sides of his bare
cheeks. He
lifted his head, eyes streaming tears. Geppo was halfway to the rift. Wykar had
to go after him, to destroy the egg. It was all for that egg. He heard nothing
but an endless scream from his ruined ears. But his eardrums would heal in
time. There had been no other way to block the cloakers' moaning, no way to
keep them from claiming him. His ears would heal, and he would be a hero and
have his revenge on the drow. Wykar
saw Geppo stop and look back in puzzlement. The gnome realized he was running
and probably making a lot of noise. He forced himself to stop and concentrate
through his pain, then walk more carefully and quietly. Geppo relaxed at that,
then went on toward the glowing rift. The air
turned bad. Wykar now smelled dead things, rotting things. The ground was
covered with bits of stinking algae, like everywhere else, but a dark lump that
looked like a body was just ahead. It was a drow, most of its flesh and muscle
eaten away; one leg was missing. It lay in a peculiar, loose-limbed position,
untouchably foul. Its filthy bones were draped with algae and ripped, soaked
clothing. The
face and long hair were still recognizable. It was Sarlaena, who had once owned
him. Wykar
averted his streaming eyes. He tried not to inhale the air. He was close to
throwing up again; he bit down harder on the fur. More long, thin, dark bodies
lay ahead, scattered around like forgotten dolls. The wave, Wykar remembered.
The first wave must have come up all the way to flood the split in the wall.
Something about that bothered him, something bad. He shook off the feeling and
trudged on. The pain burned bright as a lighthouse beacon in his head, sending
its agony out to the world. Geppo,
now only twenty paces ahead, was cautiously peering into the rift. The sight
and stench from the wet, rotting bodies did not seem to affect him. Geppo
looked over the bodies carefully, then looked up, saw no threat, and continued
on into the rift. The
final weapon was in Wykar's hands. The black wand would have to work the first
time. There would be no chance for a second time. He spit out the corner of his
vest and some loose fur fibers with it. He had control of himself now, in these
final moments. Geppo
was in the rift. He kicked aside a severed limb, perhaps a drow's arm. He
looked down at the ground now. He toed something, a sack or piece of clothing.
He bent down to pick it up. Then he
straightened up fast, and his bony hands clamped tight over his ears. He seemed
to be screaming, his eyes shut. It was the moaning attack of the cloakers. Something
white fell from the cavern ceiling high above the derro. Wykar
raised the black wand and said the three words that would make it work. He
never heard the words he spoke. He only felt them vibrate his chest. Moving his
jaw tore the wounds in his ears open again, and he almost forgot the words. The
pain was horrific. White
light burst out, filled the world in a flash. Wykar saw afterimages of the
entire cave imprinted on his retinas like a gigantic, detail-perfect painting.
A white arm of sunlight, over a hundred feet long, perfectly connected his wand
tip to the falling cloaker. The cloaker was in flames, dying the instant the
burning light struck it. The wand of sunfire, taken from an ambushed drow
wizard and hidden away among the deep gnome's caches long ago, worked
perfectly. Wykar ran forward. There would be more, at least five more. But he
was half blind, and his feet caught something, and he fell. He
dropped the black wand of sunfire. He kicked at the thing holding his legs,
looking back and blinking at the afterimages. A dead
drow lay at Wykar's feet, his boots entangled in its blood-darkened arm bones
and clothing. Wykar
kicked and screamed. Each scream renewed the bolts of agony in his deafened
ears. The limp arms lost their grip on him and fell away, unmoving and dead.
Wykar crawled away from the drow, limbs shaking with fear. He saw the wand,
grabbed for it, looked up again. Another
white thing was falling from the ceiling. Geppo was below it, clutching his
head. The cloakers were singing to him as they had sung to the drow. Wykar
raised the wand and shouted out the three words. Nothing
happened. Your
people are like mine, a little, because we are resistant to magic more than
other folk. "NO!"
Wykar screamed. He threw down the wand, then snatched it up and aimed. The
cloaker had Geppo in its folds. "NO!"
Wykar got up and ran, waving the invisible wand like a sword. "NO!
NO!" Geppo
was trying to get out. Wykar could see his thin fingers pushing out against the
black folds. The derro's narrow mouth was open and screaming and making
absolutely no sound. Wykar screamed as he ran. He pulled off his ring, his
invisibility ring, and threw it at the cloaker entrapping Geppo. "Look at
me," he screamed. "Look at me." Something
white fell from the ceiling. He saw it just before it got him. The
wand went up, aimed, the three words said. A
staggering white spear of light set the cloaker ablaze; it curled up and fell
to the side. Wykar saw in the great flash that a dozen dark things hung from
the ceiling above him. A nest of monsters. They pulled loose when he saw them,
a dozen white sheets falling at him with huge mouths and glassy eyes and fangs.
Wykar screamed three words, wand out, and shut his eyes. He screamed them again
and again and again, over and over, white flames roaring now from the wand and
heat searing his hands, a litany of fire in the darkness. Something
caught him by the foot and pulled. Wykar lost his balance and fell, unable to
see anything through the maze of afterimages and agony in his head. He struck
blindly with the wand at the thing that had grabbed him, but the thing only
tightened its grip. It didn't feel like a hand. Wykar
swiftly rubbed his eyes on his short sleeve. In the red-violet light of the
rift, he then saw what gripped his foot, even through the afterimages in his
eyes and the fire in his ears and the bodies of flaming cloakers scattered
across the rift floor. He saw it clearly. The egg
in the chest had hatched. It held his foot in one of its thick, dark tentacles. Wykar
screamed and heard himself scream even with no eardrums. The sea wave had
hatched it, of course. Wykar realized that even in his madness, as he screamed
out the three words and pointed the wand at the three liquid-black eyes only a
yard away. He knew why the drow thought it was so funny, the idea of spitting
on the egg, which they did not dare do. Water would hatch the egg and set the
baby free. Not even a drow would want that. The
scaled newborn raised itself up as Wykar said the last word. He could not shut
his eyes to block out the sight of it. Hot, so
very hot, and so blind after, though he saw everything. In the
flash of pure light that filled the rift, he saw the tentacled creature with
three eyes impaled on the white-hot lance in his hands. Smoke flew from it in
that instant, smoke black as a nightmare, and the creature and the wand blew
up. Almost
half the population of Raurogh's Hall fell victim to the earthquake, injured or
killed. When the surviving dwarves reached the shivering fisher dwarf, her eyes
were closed but her blue lips were still moving. "One
hundred sixty-five," she whispered aloud, hearing their approach.
"One hundred sixty-five." The
rescuing dwarves heard the fading thunder from the Deepfall's silo and
understood. One hundred sixty-five seconds from top to bottom. They pulled her
to safety. Her place in the legends was assured. Wykar's
hands were blistered and burning. He held them up and wept, pushed beyond his
limits. His mangled hands glowed like fires in his heat-vision. He was on his
feet, staggering around on the body-strewn shore outside the rift with the
red-purple glow. He remembered nothing after the explosion, neither what
happened nor how he got there. He went
back inside the rift. "Geppo!" he cried. He heard nothing, not even
the tortured whine from the remains of his eardrums. "Geppo! Geppo!" He
found Geppo pulling himself from the folds of a limp white sheet. The
red-splattered mouth on the sheet was slack and open, and its yellow gaze saw
nothing. Geppo reached out to Wykar, bathed in the heat of his own blood. The
derro spoke words the gnome could not hear. Wykar caught his hand and leaned
close. "Ring
not work very long," Geppo's lips said. "Not very long, but cloaker
not kill Geppo, hey?" The derro managed a black-toothed grin. "Geppo
think good plan. Eat blue-glow plant in cave. Hooret, poison in blood, but not
kill Geppo. True-Masters eat blue-glow plants always. Plants make all very sick
when they try eat True-Masters, even Geppo." The derro gripped Wykar's
hand tightly. "Geppo smart, hey? Cloaker very sick, hey?" "I
used you," Wykar said. He clutched the derro to him. "I used you to
get the cloakers out. I betrayed you. Gods forgive me, Geppo, I did you evil. I
did you evil." The
derro merely smiled. "You lie," he said. "You give Geppo magic.
You give Geppo real magic. Not work very long, but was real . . . magi - "
He stiffened. "Thank . . ." The
light went out in the colorless eyes. "No,"
cried the gnome. He clutched the derro to him. "Geppo. Gods above hear me.
No. No." Only
silence heard him. On the
starlit plains of the Eastern Shaar, the hunter stirred the dying embers of his
campfire, thinking of his dead wife. The sorceress in the tower closed the
mildewed tome and rubbed her eyes, unsettled by the book's implications. The
old shepherd, warm in his cottage and his flock in its pen, played a soft tune
on his flute, then began a bedtime tale to his grandson about ghosts. VOLO
DOES MENZO Brian
M. Thomsen In a
Dive in Skullport "Where's
my Skullport Special?" roared the foul-mouthed dwarf. "I ordered it
over an aeon ago!" "You
ordered it less than five swipes of a dragon's tail ago," answered
Percival Gallard Woodehous, the efficient and supercilious maitre
d'/waiter/cook of Traitor Pick's, one of Skullport's grimier and grimmer
grog-and-grub spots, ". . . and here it is." The
dwarf, whose name was Knytro, dived in with both hands, filling his cheeks with
the aromatic mush while commenting, "Better than last time. Best slop in
all Skullport." Then, looking up, stew dripping from his beard, he added,
"You ain't much to look at, Pig, but you know how to cook." "I
live to serve," Woodehous answered with a touch of sarcasm he knew was
lost on the dwarf, who was busy delighting in his dinner du jour. Knytro
began to lick the bowl of any of the stew's residue that had managed to escape
his mouth, beard, and shirt front during the scant seconds it had taken for him
to empty the vessel of its contents. The foul-mouthed dwarf then belched a
further message to the long-suffering Woodehous. "I
beg your pardon?" Woodehous inquired. "Whatsa
matter?" the dwarf replied, getting a little hot under the collar. "I
said it in Common, Pig. You deaf?" "I
must have been distracted by the bovine exuberance you manifested in the
inhalation of your meal," he replied, confident of the limited vocabulary
of his customer. "I
said 'Good slop,' " the dwarf repeated, this time without the benefit of
the gaseous accent. "I
live for your praise," Woodehous replied, turning to head back to the bar. The
dwarf, having sated his appetite for food, had obviously not yet reached his
fill of conversation. He left the table and followed the waiter, taking a place
on the stool in front of the bar and motioning that he was ready for a
post-dinner nightcap of grog. Ever
efficient, Woodehous accommodated him immediately. The customer is always
right, he thought to himself, no matter how uncouth, foul-smelling, or
barbaric. Dignity must be maintained in service at all times. "You
know, Pig?" the dwarf continued. "What,
good sir?" he replied, grimacing as he once again heard the unfortunate
moniker that had become his common hail of recent. "In
all the years I've spent excavating around these here parts, I've never come
across a better slop jockey than you. I have a mind to put a good word in for
you with the management around here." "Why,
thank you, good sir," Woodehous replied, hoping that enough of these
endorsements would return him to managerial favor and convince the powers that
be to return him to his previous assignment back at Shipmaster's Hall in
Waterdeep or some other equally prestigious establishment. He refilled the
dwarfs mug one last time. "No
problem, Pig," the dwarf replied, draining the draught immediately.
"Wouldn't want to lose you. You're the best cook Traitor Pick's has ever
had-well, at least in the close to fifty years I've been coming here. You can
certainly work up an appetite opening up and closing down tunnels all day. I
know the manager, and he knows me-me being a steady customer and all." The
dwarf got off his stool and headed for the door, adding, "I'm sure one
word from me, and you'll never have to look for another job again. Your
position here will be secure forever." "What
a depressing thought," Woodehous muttered, mostly for his own benefit, as
none of the customers seem to be paying him much attention. Percival
Gallard Woodehous had been on the Waterdhavian taverns managerial fast track
when an unfortunate incident had derailed him. Having been trained in hostelry
and cuisine at some of the best taverns in Suzail, the then young
majordomo-in-training had set his sights westward, and traveled to Waterdeep in
search of a position befitting his abilities. Once there, he contracted his
services to a catering consortium, which arranged for him assignments at
various affairs in Waterdhavian society. As his expertise increased with the
demands, he soon found himself in a position to control his own destiny. He
resigned from the consortium and landed a position at the Shipmaster's Hall, a
private inn and supper club that catered to the upper crust of the sailing
community. In no time at all, he was running the place with more than twenty
different employees under his supervision. Woodehous felt it was the perfect
time to take a break from his fast-paced climb up the social ladder and settle
back for a few months of treading water among the nautical set. The next
opportunity for advancement would surely present itself soon enough. Then,
one day, he had the misfortune of being on duty when a very important person
checked in with his entourage. It was none other than the master traveler in
all Faerun, and the best-selling guidebook author Volothamp Geddarm himself.
Quickly seizing the opportunity to add yet another feather to his cap,
Woodehous offered Volo and his party accommodations "on the house,"
fully expecting a rave review for the establishment in the next edition of
Volo's Guide to Waterdeep. Unfortunately,
the traveler and his entourage skipped town during the night, leaving neither a
rave endorsement nor a monetary settlement for services rendered. When
Woodehous informed his superiors of the situation, they were enraged. Their
rationale was twofold, each reason equally damning. First, if the traveler
wasn't really the legendary Volo, Woodehous had been taken advantage of by a
con man (perhaps the renowned rogue and imposter Marcus Wands, aka "Marco
Volo") and, therefore, was ill suited for the responsibilities of his
managerial position. Second, if the
traveler was really the legendary gazetteer, Woodehous had either done
something to offend him or Volo had found his accommodations inadequate for
even a full night's stay, thus assuring the establishment an abominable review
in the guidebook's next edition. Either way, his superiors saw dismissal as the
only appropriate action, and Woodehous was fired. Woodehous
returned to the catering consortium in hopes of restarting his societal upward
climb, only to find himself blacklisted. The restauranting powers that be were
more than a little indignant over his striking out on his own, and hoped to
teach him a lesson. As a result, the only position he was able to obtain was in
the employ of a nouveau entrepreneur whose acquaintance he had made back at the
Shipmaster's Hall. Denver
Gilliam-a former seaman and, by his own reckoning, a veteran of one shipwreck
too many-had recently struck it rich and bought out a block of taverns in the
dock district of the City of Splendors. After the buyout, the taverns each
maintained a distinctive ambience; even the Lords of Waterdeep couldn't tell
they had a single owner, despite the fact that the establishments stood side by
side on both sides of the street. (The
few patrons who were in the know had nicknamed the block "Gilliam's
Aisle.") Gilliam
offered Woodehous a position, which he quickly accepted, signing a contract for
no fewer than three years of exclusive hostelry services. Upon starting work,
however, Woodehous discovered that the tavern to which he had accepted
assignment was far from the newly fashionable, newly renovated Waterdhavian
dock district. Its location wasn't even in Waterdeep, and thus the gentleman
hostler found himself maitre d'/cook/waiter at Traitor Pick's in Skullport,
where walking upright immediately designated one a member of the intellectual
upper crust. Woodehous
had lost track of the time since he had last ventured out into daylight, and
was quickly approaching despair as he realized he had not even reached the
halfway point in his contract. When
the dinner trade reached its close, Woodehous locked the front door behind him
and set out to the Gentleman's Groggery for his evening repast, leaving a sign
on the door that simply said, "Out to Sup." At the Gentleman's
Groggery Though
it was true that the cuisine and service at the Gentleman's Groggery did not
even come close to the level expected at Traitor Pick's, let alone one of the
more fashionable Waterdhavian establishments, when it was Woodehous's turn to
dine, he considered one thing requisite: he would be served and enjoy the
amenities of any other paying customer. The niceties at the Double G (as the
locals called it) were scant, true, but the food was at least digestible, the
service less than threatening, and the locale relatively convenient. By
default, the Double G had become Woodehous's regular dining spot. "Hey,
Pig," Wurlitzer, the orcish bartender, called as Woodehous
entered the establishment, "how's the trade at Traitor's?" 'Typical,"
Woodehous replied, taking a place at the bar to avoid a rather raucous group
gathered at the tables. He requested, "The usual, please, my good
fellow." The
bartender snorted in agreement and poured the fallen-from-grace society caterer
a glass of wine. "Have you heard about the new place opening down the
street? I think it's called the Cup and Lizard, or something." "You
mean the Flagon and the Dragon," Woodehous corrected. "That's
right," Wurlitzer agreed, setting a plate in front of the recently arrived
customer. "I believe they're looking for experienced help. You want me to
put in a good word for you?" "You're
the second person today who has offered to 'put in a good word for me,' and
though your kindness is appreciated, I prefer to decline at this time. My next
position must certainly be as far away as possible from this hellhole we call
home," Woodehous replied. "Skullport's
not such a bad place," the ore responded defensively. "I've lived
here me whole life, and although it's a slight comedown for the upper-crust
likes of you, I have a feeling things are beginning to look up." "Oh,
really?" Woodehous replied sarcastically, immediately afterward hoping
that he hadn't hurt Wurlitzer's feelings. The ore was the closest thing he had
to a friend. "How so?" Wurlitzer
immediately began to brim with excitement. "I
was hoping you'd ask," the ore replied. "Guess who we have as a guest
tonight?" "I
have no idea," Woodehous replied, in no mood for guessing games. "It's
an old friend of yours," the ore prodded. "C'mon, guess." Realizing
the bartender wouldn't give up until he did, Woodehous swallowed the sustenance
that was in his mouth, wiped his lips with a napkin, and, with a shrug, named
the first person that came to mind. "I
really have no idea-" he said, then offered "-the legendary
gazetteer, Volothamp Geddarm?" A look
of puzzlement seized the ore visage. "Does
he also like to be called Volo?" Wurlitzer asked, obviously not familiar
with the great author's full name. Woodehous
was taken aback in shock. "You
mean Volothamp Geddarm is here . . . tonight?" he asked incredulously. Wurlitzer
scratched his head, trying to spur on his meager mental faculties. "If you
mean the guy who does those guidebooks and likes to be called Volo and was
supposed to give you a good review at the Shipmaster's Hall, well, yeah." "Where
is he?" Woodehous demanded. "Over
there," the ore replied, gesturing to the raucous group at the tables.
"He seems to be holding court or something. He started out telling a few
really neat stories about his travels and attracted a crowd." A cry
of "Yeehah!" was heard from the other side of the room, followed by
peals of laughter from various revelers. "And
the next one's even better," the same voice bellowed, an alcoholic slur
evident in his voice. "He
seems to be a bit in his cups already," Woodehous observed out loud. "Sure
does," Wurlitzer agreed. "I like it when a newcomer sees fit to enjoy
all of the Double G's empties." "You
mean amenities," Woodehous corrected, leaving his barstool to take a place
at one of the tables along the periphery of the VIP's audience. The ore
watched in puzzlement, unaware of his own propensity for malapropisms. Woodehous
quickly scanned the numerous empty chairs that surrounded the legendary gazetteer;
more than a few of the supper club's clientele had gotten their fill of the
entertainment provided by the jaunty and boisterous fellow who claimed to be
the greatest traveler in all Faerun. With
the exception of the expensive clothes and the drunken dishevelment of his
bearing, the travel writer looked just as Woodehous remembered him. A neatly
trimmed beard, a jaunty beret, and a prosperous paunch, all wrapped around a
gift for gab, a sly wink, and a smile. This was Volothamp Geddarm, the same
gentleman whose earlier unexpected departure from the Shipmaster's Hall had
cost Percival Gallard Woodehous his job, as well as several ranks on the
Waterdhavian society scales. This was the man directly responsible for his
current social banishment to Skullport. ".
.. And then there was the time I flew to the Horde-lands in a jerry-rigged
Halruaan skyship ..." the fellow rambled. Oh,
great, Woodehous thought, I guess I'm going to have to sit through a full set
of the amazing adventures of Volo. It might be worth it if I get the
opportunity to talk to him alone later on. If I play "the good
audience," he just might intercede on my behalf back at the Shipmaster's
Hall. "...
And then there was the time I was abducted by a group of dopplegangers off the
streets of Waterdeep...." I guess
I'll just have to bide my time, Woodehous thought. The
crowd further thinned as the self-absorbed storyteller rambled on. The
once-dense mob of fans and admirers had considerably dissipated itself. All
were gone save for a few star-struck ores; a pair of foul-smelling dwarves, who
freely helped themselves to massive quantities of the gazetteer's libations; an
inebriated ogre, who had nodded off in an upright position; and a pair of
thuggish drow, who listened to the storyteller like panthers listening to
approaching prey. ".
. . And my next book is going to be really different. ..." The
drow pair continued to stare unblinkingly. "...
Imagine a travel guide that is so exotic . . ." He
really loves the sound of his own voice, Woodehous observed silently. "...
so mysterious, why I bet it's safe to say that there are some who would stop at
nothing to prevent this manuscript from being published. . .." Yeah,
really, Woodehous thought sarcastically, nothing but hype. "...
And I think I'll call it Volo Does Memo. . . ." At the
mention of the title, the two drow quickly exchanged hushed words, rose from
their chairs, and hastened out of the tavern, flipping a guinea to Wurlitzer to
cover their tab. "...
It will be the first book with directions to and from the great city of
Menzoberranzan, a virtual travelers' guide to the Underdark." A
smattering of applause followed as the audience took advantage of the
traveler's pause to quaff the remainder of their brew and quickly dispersed
before the storyteller could begin to rant again. I guess
the crowd knows when it has had enough, Woodehous thought, watching them
disperse to the far corners of the supper club. When he turned back to the
place where the storyteller had been sitting Woodehous was shocked to see that
Volo had already gathered up his pack, flipped a salute and a guinea coin to
the bartender in thanks for his gracious hospitality, and was already out the
door, and on his way to Ao-knows-where. "Oh,
no," Woodehous cried out loud, hastening in fast pursuit of the key to his
possible redemption. He was almost out the door when an orcish arm grabbed him
by the collar. "Pig,
old boy," Wurlitzer said in a friendly tone that didn't mask an implied
threat, "aren't you forgetting something?" The
erstwhile maitre d'/waiter/cook of Traitor Pick's quickly took half a second to
fish from his pouch the first coin his fingers touched, flipped it to the
bartender, and continued on his way, in earshot long enough to hear the
bartender remark that three guineas in a row in tips wasn't bad for a midweek
evening without paid entertainment. Glancing
in both directions down the nocturnal alleys of Skullport-and seeing his quarry
neither way-Woodehous quickly chose a likely course and set off in search of
the traveler. He cursed his own haste and the misfortune that had just cost him
his dinner allowance for the whole week, and wholly disregarded the fact that
the allotted time for his dinner break had long since expired. After
more precious time had passed, Woodehous wondered aloud, "Which way did he
go?" The question was born more out of exasperation than practicality,
since Woodehous had long since given up noticing any of the other alley
wayfarers of the Skullport twilight scene. "Which
way did who go, Pig?" inquired a voice from behind. The
now-former maitre d'/cook/waiter of Traitor Pick's quickly turned around and
was confronted by the tentacled visage of one of his now-former patrons. "Oh,
it's you, Malix," Woodehous replied. "Correct,"
replied the mind flayer mage, who had taken a fancy to Woodehous's recipe for
duergar deep-dish. "I repeat the question. Which way did who go?" "Volothamp
Geddarm." "You
mean the loudmouthed storyteller from the Double G? He went thataway,"
Malix replied, one of his facial tentacles pointing down a dark alley.
"Just follow the path of glowing dust. He must have stepped in something
along the way. And beware! He was being followed by two unsavory-looking
drow." "Thanks,
Malix," Woodehous replied, taking off into the shadows in the indicated
direction. "Don't
thank me," Malix instructed, calling after him. "Just finish up your
business and get back to work. I have a hankering for some dessert, and the
faster you finish, the sooner my craving will be sated." Woodehous
raced down the narrow alley even though he couldn't see the path of glowing
dust Malix had indicated. His diligence was soon rewarded. The alley ahead made
a sharp turn to the right, narrowing down to a single body's width, and then
right again, and opened onto an apparent dead end shrouded in total darkness. He
barely heard someone cry out "No," before he felt a sharp blow to the
back of his head, upon which he was immediately drowned in the pitch-black
ocean of unconsciousness. Walking
in Darkness Woodehous
had no idea how long he had remained unconscious, and barely noticed coming
around. He was poked and prodded to his feet, and then partly led, partly
dragged through a narrow tunnel of darkness. The passage was lit occasionally
by four marbles of purplish glow that bounced in step with his apparent
captors. Soon he
felt the tunnel widen around him, and noted the absence of Skullport's telltale
sea breeze. They seemed to be following a steady incline downward. His wrists
had been tied together in front of him, and connected to a noose that had been
cinched tight around his neck. The noose was in turn connected to some sort of
leash, with which he was being led as he stumbled forward into the darkness. Woodehous
soon realized he was not the only unwilling member of the subterranean party. "C'mon,
you guys," implored a voice Woodehous recognized as Volo's, "can't
you give us a break? We've been walking for hours. Can't we rest a bit?" "All
right," replied a mouth located just below two of the dancing purple orbs.
"Skullport is now far behind us, and it would be foolish of you to imagine
you could find your way back, anyway. You may sit and rest a bit." "May
I reach into my traveling pouch?" the famous gazetteer requested. "I
have a gem that gives off a bit of illumination, which might make things a
little easier for those of us not gifted with such acute night vision." "All
right," the voice replied, "but no funny stuff. Though I have every
intention of taking you alive to Menzoberranzan, that does not preclude me from
certain nonlethal treatments of your person that I am sure you would find quite
unpleasant." "Funny
stuff? I wouldn't think of it," Volo replied. Woodehous
heard a rustling like fingers fishing in a purse, which was followed by a flash
that required him to quickly shut his eyes. Slowly he reopened them, squinting
toward the illumination. He turned away from the source of the light and took a
few seconds to gaze at the surroundings, which slowly came into view as his
eyes grew accustomed to the luminescence. The
group was in a cavern with walls formed of what appeared to be black glass,
smooth and flat. If the telltale shadows of their party of four hadn't been
cast upon the walls, there would have been an illusion of infinite darkness,
the void of starless space. "You
look kind of familiar," Volo said to his fellow captive. "Do I know
you?" Woodehous
returned his attention to the source of the illumination, realizing that the
question had been directed at him. The light showed that Volo's hands and neck
were similarly bound. "You probably don't remember me, but..." the
former maitre d'/cook/waiter started to answer. Volo
snapped his fingers and quickly interrupted. "You
used to work at the Shipmaster's Hall back in Waterdeep," said the
gazetteer. "I never forget a face. What in Ao's name were you doing in
Skullport?" Woodehous
was at a loss for words. He wanted to blame the writer for all of his woes: his
loss of social status, his banishment to that culinary pit in Skullport, the
besmirching of his reputation. . . . But such accusations would have all been
for naught, given their current situation. "I
worked there," Woodehous replied, "at Traitor Pick's ..." Volo
snapped his fingers, once again interrupting. "You must be Pig. I've heard
wonderful things about your cooking. I can't wait to try it. How did you wind
up working there?" "Thanks
for the compliment," the beleaguered gourmet replied, now resigned to the
fact that he would probably be known by that horrible moniker until his dying
day-whose possible proximity was beginning to cause him great
consternation."My full name is Percival Gallard Woodehous. I lost my job
at the Shipmaster's Hall through circumstances beyond my control, and I needed
a job." "Quit
your yammering!" one of the drow captors ordered, kicking Woodehous in the
side and cuffing Volo alongside the head. "Rest while you can, and you'd
best do it quietly. It's a long walk to Menzoberranzan." "Sorry,"
the gazetteer apologized. "I just figured that since it was going to be
such a long trip, we might want to get to know each other a bit. Now I assume
both you and your equally dark-skinned companion are probably two of Lloth's
famous warriors." "We
will be, once we bring you in," the captor boasted proudly. "Soon
everyone in Menzoberranzan will know the names of Courun and Haukun as the lone
protectors of the privacy of the Spider Queen. No surface dweller has ever
dared violate the sanctity of her domain, let alone document such visitations
in a travel guide." "You
caught me red-handed," Volo conceded. "I hadn't even had the chance
to turn the manuscript over to my publisher yet." "And
you never shall," said the drow known as Courun. "You are our ticket
out of exile." "And
what am I?" Woodehous inquired, quickly receiving another kick to the
ribs. "Just
another slave bound for the work pits," said the drow known as Haukun,
"and believe me, it's not a pleasant place." "That's
why we left," Courun inserted. "Had we stayed around, that would have
been the most favorable fate available to us." "Slavery
still beats being turned into a drider," Haukun added. "But all of
our past faults will be forgiven when the matron mother hears how we saved the
day." "Not
to mention preserved the Spider Queen's honor," added Courun. "What
exactly did you do to fall out of favor?" Volo inquired, with a tone of
such sincerity and caring that both drow warriors continued to let their guards
down. "They
thought we were inept," Haukun confessed. "And
not suitable for becoming warriors," Courun added. "We
returned from a surface raid without any captives. .. ." "And
worse still, there was a trace of broken spider-web on our boots...." Volo
nodded in understanding. Among the drow, to fail as a warrior was almost
unforgivable, but to be suspected of having caused harm to one of Lloth's
chosen children was a far greater crime. Still, even offenses of such magnitude
could be forgiven after a great act of fealty or heroism. "But
that's all in the past now," Haukun proclaimed proudly, then ordered,
"Back on your feet! The sooner we get to the beloved place of our birth,
the sooner we shall be vindicated." Quickly,
the two captives regained their feet and set off down the passageway, farther
into the bowels of Toril. The captors did not seem to notice that Volo had not
returned the stone of luminescence to his pouch, instead attaching it to a
thong that hung around his neck, thus providing a helpful torch for both
himself and Woodehous. The
Road to Menzoberranzan Much
later, after endless hours of walking, the party of four stopped to rest by an
underground pool. The two drow captors offered their captives some leathery
jerky made from a long-dead lizard of undetermined species. "Eat,"
Haukun instructed. "We have no intention of dragging your starving
carcasses the rest of the way. This should sustain you for a while." The
jerky tasted awful and was far from filling, but both captives realized that
eating it was better than going hungry. They tried their best to ingest the
leathery sustenance. Woodehous also noticed, with some consolation, that
neither of their captors seemed to enjoy the meal either. "Too
bad there aren't any fish in this pool," Volo said matter-of-factly. "Why
do you say that?" Courun inquired just as an eyeless trout broke the
surface with a flick and splash. "Well,"
Volo replied, "I've always heard that drow are excellent fishermen, and
given that my compadre in captivity is one of the best chefs in all
Waterdeep-let alone Skullport-I don't see why brave warriors such as yourselves
should have to make do with inferior field rations. ... I guess that sort of
self-denial is what makes you such great warriors. I, on the other hand, could
really go for some fish stew. Then again, I've never claimed to be a great
warrior, let alone the equal in fortitude of the noble and great drow." Courun
and Haukun looked at each other for a moment, and then said something in the
drow tongue. Haukun turned to Woodehous and said, "Are you really a good
cook?" "The
best," Volo answered in his stead, adding for agreement,
"right?" "Well,
I don't like to brag," Woodehous responded, seeing the opportunity for a
better meal than the rancid jerky, "but, well, let me put it this way, all
of Waterdeep can't be wrong." "Let
alone Wurlitzer of Skullport," added the gazetteer. "He's a noted
connoisseur." The two
drow looked at each other in puzzlement. "That
means he likes good cooking," Volo quickly explained. A quick
exchange of words between the two, and Haukun took to his feet, grabbed his
spear, and positioned himself on the pool's ledge, eyeing the water for a
trout. Courun meanwhile arranged some rocks in a pile and said a drow
incantation. In no
time at all, the rocks began to glow fiery hot, and a sizeable trout had been
freshly speared. Both Woodehous and Volo's hands were unbound, and instructions
were given. "Cook!" Volo
whispered to Woodehous surreptitiously. "Okay,
Percy," the gazetteer said, "do your stuff, and you better make it
good." "I
need a pan or a pot of some sort," Woodehous replied. "But
of course," Volo agreed. "Courun, can he borrow your
breastplate?" "Sure,"
Haukun replied. As
Courun undid the fastening from his tunic, the chef gazed around the
subterranean chamber as if looking for something in particular. "What
are you looking for?" Haukun demanded. "You have a pan now. Why
aren't you cooking?" Woodehous
prepared to place the trout on the breastplate. "It's just that
pan-roasted trout is so bland," the maitre d'/cook/waiter explained, still
looking around. "Would you do me a favor and fetch me some of the moss
from that half-submerged rock over there, and perhaps some of the hanging
fungus from that stalactite as well?" "Why?"
the drow demanded. "You'll
see," Volo assured. The two
drow once again exchanged gazes of puzzlement, and then, with a shrug, Courun
set off to fetch the requested ingredients. Expertly,
Woodehous the chef gutted the trout and removed its innards, replacing them
with some of the recently obtained hanging fungus. He then added a little water
to the breastplate pan and sprinkled some of the fungus into it. The water
began to simmer with a truly delicious odor of spice. While the water was
heating up, Woodehous rubbed the moss against the outside flesh of the fish
until little flecks of vegetation had permeated the meat. He then added the
thoroughly seasoned trout to the pan, carefully turning it every few moments so
that it cooked both completely and evenly. The
cavern was soon filled with the tempting and savory aroma of a gourmet's
delight, and in no time at all, the four travelers were enjoying a nourishing
and delicious meal. "See,"
Volo attested, "I told you." "No
complaints here," Haukun agreed. "If you can cook this well all the
time, my partner and I might be willing to let you continue the journey with
your wrists unbound, that is, provided you don't try to escape." "Where
would we go?" Volo reminded him. "We'd just get lost and die in the
dark without your expert guidance." "You'd
better believe it," Courun replied, his mouth half full of the gourmet's
delight. Once
the meal was over, the foursome rested while Courun allowed his breastplate to
cool. Once it was back in place, they recommenced their journey, following the
stream that evidently fed the pool that had been the source of their splendid
repast. In a little while, they decided to make camp to rest a bit, and get a
little sleep. Woodehous quickly realized that the concept of day and night no
longer really existed. He had quite lost track of the time that had passed
since he had first spotted Volo back in the Double G and raced after him
through the alleyways of Skullport. He had also not realized how tired he
really was, and quickly found himself fast asleep. "Percy,
wake up!" Volo urged in a hushed tone. Woodehous
stirred from his moments with Morpheus, and opened his eyes. Sometime
during their rest, their two drow captors had been confronted by a pair of
kuo-toa-tall, nasty, pot-bellied amphibians-and harsh words were being
exchanged. During the course of what had started as a cordial though wary
meeting, the conversation between representatives of the two dominant
subterranean species had quickly deteriorated into a heated argument. "The
tall kuo-toan," Volo explained, "claims he can smell the blood of his
people on Courun. No doubt he really smells the residue of our dinner on our
captor's breastplate." "One
would have thought that he would have washed it off before putting it back
on," Woodehous observed. "No
doubt," Volo replied, "but then again, neither of our captors have
shown much evidence of common sense or brainpower. If their superiors back in
Menzoberranzan thought they were incompetent, the odds are that they really
are. Drow matrons are usually keen judges of competence and potential." The
disagreement was quickly turning into a shoving match between the two pairs. "What
are they saying now?" Woodehous inquired. "He
just called Haukun a son of an illithid," Volo translated. "They
should come to blows any moment now." The
drow and the kuo-toa began to use their spears as quarterstaves in a battle
that had not yet escalated to lethality. "I
foresee a few bruises and contusions exchanged, but no death blows," Volo
observed. "We can go back to sleep." A
thought crossed the maitre d'/waiter/cook's mind. "Why
don't we take this opportunity to escape?" Woodehous asked with great
urgency. "Our captors are distracted, and we never know when another
opportunity will present itself." "Don't
worry about that," Volo replied, returning his head to the pillow of his
pack."You could never find your way back to the surface on your own, and
my mission is nowhere near completed yet." "What
mission?" Woodehous blurted, his voice a trifle too loud. "Hush!"
Volo demanded, quickly looking over to make sure that their captors had not
heard him. Luckily they were still beating each other with the shafts of their
spears. No
doubt, hair pulling and scale scratching would soon follow. "Just
trust me for now," the master traveler instructed. "I assure you I
have no intention of spending my remaining days as a slave or worse in some
Ao-forsaken city of the drow, nor do I intend to abandon you to that fate. Just
trust me. I have a plan. Now go back to sleep." Volo
turned over, closed his eyes, and was soon snoring, leaving a puzzled
Woodehous, wide-eyed and wide awake to contemplate this recent revelation of
facts. The
following morning, the drow captors were far from gentle in bringing their
captives to consciousness so they could resume the long trek beneath the
surface of Toril. There was no sight of the kuo-toa, and Courun and Haukun
looked the worse for it, their deep ebony skin mottled with bruises and
swelling. "What
happened?" Volo asked innocently. "You look as if you've been
attacked." "The
Underdark is laden with danger," Courun replied. "Haukun and I had to
fight off an entire army of fierce kuo-toa warriors to save your sorry
skins." "Thank
you," the gazetteer replied. "We
didn't save them for you," Courun replied churlishly. "Lloth prefers
to render her punishments and torture. It was our responsibility to save you
for her, rather than let you fall into the fishy hands of her enemies." "Or
fins, for that matter," Volo replied under his breath. "What
did you say?" the drow captor demanded. "I
said, 'Unto the finish, you are the master,' " the quick-thinking
gazetteer replied. "Well,
let us be off," the bruised drow ordered. "We still have many days'
journey ahead of us." "As
you wish, Master" Volo replied. He helped Woodehous to his feet as they
proceeded onward along the road to Menzoberranzan. The
words day and night lost all meaning to Volo and Woodehous as their journey
continued. Darkest night bled into darkest night as they traveled onward
between infrequent stops for rest and nourishment. No matter where they chose
to dine, the former maitre d'/cook/waiter always rose to the occasion, fixing
the foursome a meal fit for a lord of Waterdeep. Subterranean moss salad,
fermented fungus casserole, and even spiced filet of cloaker (courtesy of an
extremely luck Courun, who happened to accidentally run one through with his
spear before it had managed to attack the group) kept their bellies full and
spirits incongruously high for a party of captors leading their captives to
their doom. Volo
quickly became aware that the drow were actually beginning to feel sorry for
Woodehous and himself. What sorry dark elves these two had turned out to be. "You
know," Courun confided, "if it were solely up to us, we would
probably let you go, but you understand, of course.. . . You are the only means
we have of clearing our names and restoring our reputations to their rightful
grandeur." "Of
course," Volo replied, "a drow has to do what a drow has to do. I bet
you're looking forward to going home again. Menzoberranzan is probably filled
with pleasant memories for both of you." To
himself, Courun recalled his childhood and adolescence, the sense of
inadequacy, the beatings, the taunting by his sisters, and the third-class
existence of a lowborn male in a maliciously matriarchal society, then said out
loud, "Uh, sure. There's no place like home." Woodehous
could not fail to notice the lack of conviction in his captor's voice, and
quickly stole a look at Haukun, whose face exhibited a similar cast of
remembered oppression. "During
one of my travels, I met a drow in exile ... a fellow by the name of
Do'TJrden," Volo offered. "The
house name is familiar," Courun offered. "I believe it is one of the
minor ones." "He
was a very melancholy fellow, and probably also missed his home. How long have
you been away?" Volo asked. "I've
lost track," Courun replied absently. "Many years, maybe
longer." "Well,"
Volo noted, "a lot of things can happen in that long a time. I'm sure
things might have gotten better." "That's
right," Haukun replied righteously, "and we are returning as heroes,
and devoted champions of Lloth." "No,
we mustn't forget that," Volo agreed. "We mustn't forget that,
indeed." Hoping
to break the melancholy mood, the master traveler of the Realms began to regale
his companions with tales of his exploits, including the time he
circumnavigated the globe. Unfortunately the two drow captors showed little
interest. Their entire existence had been spent in the Underdark, and they had
little inclination toward places outside their own spheres of influence. "We
can sample the best you surface dwellers have to offer in Skullport,"
Haukun boasted. "Beyond that, I see little reason to expose myself to the
damned sun and daylight." Volo
tried a different tack to distract the captors. Drawing
on his research for his famous suppressed work, Volo's Guide to All Things
Magical-and fully aware that all drow were required to take part in some magic
training-the gazetteer tried to regale them with stories of different enchantments,
artifacts, and phenomena that he had come across. "Wait
a minute," Courun interrupted, "do you mean that you are a
wizard?" "Well,
no," Volo answered carefully, cautiously, and deceitfully, "I've just
done a lot of research on it. That's all." "It's
hard stuff," Courun admitted. "I never was much good at those
classes." "If
it hadn't been for our cheating on tests," Haukun added, "Courun and
I would have been drider bait, for sure." Not
wishing to further tip his hand on his innate abilities, Volo once again
changed the subject. "Well,
I bet you two are plenty expert on other things," the gazetteer observed. "Like
catching nosy writers," Courun said smugly. "Uh,
yes," Volo agreed. "But I was thinking more specifically of the
goings-on in the Underdark itself. I did a lot of research before my first trip
down here, and I am
telling you, nothing beats firsthand experience." "You
can say that again," Woodehous agreed, trying to reenter the conversation.
"It's like trying to learn how to cook without ever setting foot in a
kitchen." The
maitre d'/cook/waiter's simile was lost on the two drow captors, so Volo
continued his train of conversation. "When
I started studying the Underdark," Volo explained, "I had no idea
there was so much going on. I had never even heard of a duergar, or a
svirfneblin, or of thaalud, or of the great cities of Eryndlyn, Llurth Dreier,
or Sshamath, and, of course, Menzoberranzan. I just knew I had to go
there." "And
you did," Woodehous inserted. "Uh,
right," Volo continued with a quick glare at his fellow captive, signaling
him to hold his tongue, "and that's why I felt I just had to do the Guide
to the Underdark." "I
thought you were going to call it Volo Does Memo," Courun interrupted. "Well,
yes, and as I was . . ." Volo struggled to continue. "So
which is it?" Haukun demanded. "And
where is it?" Courun insisted. Quickly
regaining his composure, Volo calmly explained. "I don't get to pick the
title," he asserted, "the publisher does . . . and as to the
manuscript, don't worry about it." "Well,
give it to us," Haukun demanded. "I
don't have it with me," Volo continued, "but don't you worry. It's
well hidden. No one back in Skullport will ever find it." The two
drow would-be warriors once again looked at each other and conversed in their
native tongue. True, their entire retrieval of the interloping journalist would
be for naught if the manuscript ever fell into another surface dweller's hands,
thus undercutting the validity of their great deed and threatening their
chances of vindication. The two talked for a few minutes, and finally nodded in
agreement. "If
anyone asks," Haukun instructed boldly, "Courun and I destroyed your
only copy of the manuscript." "All
right," Volo replied. "And
if either of you contradicts us," Courun added, "it will go extremely
bad for you." "We
wouldn't think of it," Volo assured, "would we, Percy?" "Of
course not," Percy choked out, though he was quite unsure how his own fate
could be made any worse than it already was. "Fine,"
Courun said with a certain degree of finality. "Then let us proceed
onward. I believe we're almost there." "But
of course," Volo agreed, once again helping Woodehous to his feet. "Do
you know any stories about drow maidens?" Haukun inquired as they set off
down the tunnel. "I
do believe that back in Skullport I heard something about a young girl named
Liriel, but I'm afraid the details have escaped me for the moment. Perhaps you
would care to hear about a little intrigue that took place around Undermountain
not too long ago. It was a virtual comedy of errors, an escapade of adventure,
and involved two fellows by the names of Mirt and Durnan, and ..." Woodehous
discreetly tried to ignore the latest tale being told by the gazetteer, who so
loved the sound of his own voice. It was almost as if there were two Volos: the
gregarious fool who didn't mind being captured by drow buffoons, and the savvy
traveler whose exploits were legendary. Woodehous believed he had only observed
this more capable fellow on the night their captors fought with the equally
inept and juvenile fish-men, and he realized his only hope for escape lay with
the assurances that he had been offered on that night. If they had any hope of
escape, this more capable side would need to resurface .. . and really soon. But,
perhaps, it, too, was only some long-winded piece of fiction. At the
City's Edge As
Woodehous and Volo were roused from their sleep to begin another day's journey,
the master traveler of all Faerun noticed a difference in their captors'
demeanor. "We're
close to the city, aren't we?" Volo observed. "I'm
afraid so," Courun replied, a leather thong held in his outstretched
hands. "I'm going to have to retie your hands now." "We
understand," Volo assented, "but, please, not too tight." Dark
slender fingers did their work, and the two captives were returned to their
state of bound captivity in as painless a fashion as was possible. Volo
looked at the maitre d'/cook/waiter, and said out loud, "Now, that's not
too bad, considering the circumstances." Then, in a softer voice, he
added, "Whatever happens, stick with me, even if the alternative presented
to you seems more desirable." "What
do you mean?" Woodehous whispered back. "If
they ask you to choose between a life of slavery, and the chance of being
tortured right alongside me, choose the torture." "Why?" "I
can only assure you of your deliverance back to Skullport if you remain by my
side. By any means necessary, you must remain at my side," the master
traveler insisted, biting off his last word sharply as he heard one of their
drow captors once again approaching. "You
know, Pig, or Percy, or whatever you call yourself, I am really going to miss
your cooking," Haukun admitted. "Well,
I appreciate the compliment," Woodehous replied, trying to maintain some
dignity despite his current situation. "You
know," the drow continued, "once we turn Volo over to the matron
mother, we might be able to put in a good word for you with one of the ruling
households, and perhaps get you a kitchen position rather than farming duty or
worse." "Why,
thank you," the maitre d'/cook/waiter replied, quickly making eye contact
with his fellow captive, "but if it's all the same to you, I think I'd
rather stay with my friend Volo here. Companions to the end and all that rot,
if you know what I mean." "No,
not really," the drow replied, scratching his ebony forehead in
puzzlement, then running his delicate digits back through his flowing white
mane of hair. "But if that's what you really want, far be it from me to
stand in your way. Just seems like a damned shame waste of a good cook." "I'm
sure Menzoberranzan has plenty of good cooks," Volo offered. "Not
that I recall," Haukun answered, "but it has been a long time." The
party had no sooner resumed their journey to the city when they came into
contact with other travelers, the only time since the encounter with the pair
of kuo-toa. A detachment of drow warriors traveling in the opposite direction
waved them on, and a drow merchant with a lizard bearing his goods passed by,
hardly even noticing them, lost in a conversation with an illithid companion. "I
wonder if he knows Malix," Woodehous said out loud. "Not
likely," Volo answered. "Though mind flayers are fairly common around
here, not many of them maintain contact with others who have decided to make
their lives on the surface." "Oh,"
the former maitre d'/cook/waiter replied, wondering from which dull, boring
text his fellow companion in captivity was quoting this time. "Keep
your heads down as we enter the city," Courun instructed, "and try to
look oppressed and sullen." "No
problem," Woodehous replied in all sincerity. Glancing
back at the mind flayer and the merchant, Volo noticed that they seemed to be
pointing to the path from which the foursome had come. "I
almost forgot," Volo said to himself. Then, out loud, he said,
"Courun, I think Percy and I have to take our boots off before we get into
the city." "Why?"
the captor inquired. "Custom,
I think," the gazetteer explained, making it up as he went along, "at
least that's what I heard, and we wouldn't want to get things off on the wrong
foot, I mean, just when you and Haukun are on the verge of returning to
respectability." Courun
turned to Haukun, and asked, "Do you remember anything about captives
having to be brought into the city barefoot?" "No,"
Haukun answered, "but you and I have been away for a long time, and he
does seem to know a lot about these types of things." The two
drow helped their captives off with their boots while the puzzled Woodehous
looked at his companion for assurance. "Believe
me," the gazetteer asserted, "it's important." Woodehous
realized this last comment was strictly for his own reassurance. Luckily
for the two bound captives, the road ahead was smooth, posing little threat to
the delicate soles of their feet. The former maitre d'/cook/waiter noticed that
Volo took more than a passing interest in their surroundings, as if he were
trying to memorize everything in a matter of seconds. The
road opened out into a huge cavern, within which the city was situated. All
four travelers were momentarily speechless in awe of its magnificence. "Araurikaurak,"
Volo mouthed, his eyes wide in wonder. "No,"
Courun corrected, "Menzoberranzan." "I
was just using its dwarven name," Volo replied, adding absently, still in
awe of its splendor, "It's just as I pictured it." "You
mean, as you remembered it," Woodehous corrected, asking, "don't
you?" "Whatever,"
the master traveler replied absently, ". . . and I am here now." Menzoberranzan The
city itself filled the entire cavern. Volo had been slightly mistaken when he
called the city Araurikaurak. In reality that was the name of the cavern, quite
literally translated from dwarven as Great Pillar Cavern. Legend had it that
the entire open area was formerly the lair of a gigantic spider, but given the
proclivity of the drow for adoration of all things arachnoid, the validity of
this legend was more than open to discussion. From
their vantage point just outside and above the city, they were able to look
down on the wonders of the entire subterranean complex. Woodehous
noticed a lake at the lower end of the cavern, and whimsically asked, "I
wonder how the fishing is?" "If
you are lucky, you might find out," Courun replied. "That's
Donigarten, where the slave pens are maintained. In the nearby dung fields, I
am sure you would find ample fungi and mushrooms to season the nautical fare
you'd fish." From
this distance, the former maitre d'/cook/waiter could just make out some of the
slaves paddling around the lake on rafts, some leading beasts of burden, others
little better than beasts of burden themselves. This was not an existence to be
envied. At the
highest part of the city floor stood the Tier Breche, home of the Academy,
where drow received their training. The prospects of life in the slave pens for Woodehous
was every bit as abhorrent to him as the memories that flooded back to the two
drow warriors upon once again seeing the place of their education. To the
other side of the city floor was the Qu'ellarz'orl, a plateau separated from
the lower city by a grove of giant mushrooms. This was where the noble houses
were located, and where Courun and Haukun expected to regain their rightful
places. Numerous flashes of faerie fire in the houses indicated that there were
several parties going on, commemorating various celebrations of one sort and
another. "Soon,
they will be throwing parties for us," Courun replied with a haughtiness
that was quite unbecoming. Looming
above the entire city cavern was the pillar Narbondel, whose change in glow
indicated the passing time of the day. Its smooth yet rough surface gave an
appearance that could not have been fostered by means other than the pure
refining forces of nature itself. This was the only structure in the entire
city that had not been remade by the skillful digits and sure hands of drow
artisans. Volo
stood in awe of the exotic beauty of the place. Though he had traversed the
entire world of Toril, he had never looked upon a city to compare with this
one. True, he had never been to Netheril or Cormanthyr, whose beauty was the
stuff of legends, but both of those cities were long dead before he had been
born. Menzoberranzan was still very much alive and in its glory, even if that
glory was pervasively evil. The
four travelers lost track of how long they had been standing on the ledge, and
probably would have continued to stare off in awe had they not been interrupted
by two representatives of the Dark Dominion, who prided themselves on knowing
how to deal with unwanted interlopers. "What
are you.doing here?" the senior patrolman demanded in clipped Drowish,
which Volo was barely able to understand. "What are you doing with these
two surface dwellers?" "They
are our prisoners," Courun and Haukun replied in proud unison. "And
we have come to turn them over to the matron mother." Pointing
at Volo, Courun continued his spiel. "This one here," he stated with
pride, "is a blemish to the honor of our beloved Lloth. He has dared to
violate her domain and would have made it the object of mockery for all the
surface dwellers had we not stopped him." The two
patrolmen looked at each other and exchanged signals in the silent language of
the drow. Neither was amused, nor did they know what to do with the party at
hand. Finally, the senior one returned his attention to Courun and Haukun. "Of
what house do you belong?" the patrolman demanded. "House
Salato," the two proud drow warriors replied, once again in unison. [ The
guards laughed, and Woodehous distinctly heard Volo murmur, "Uh, oh,"
under his breath. ; "That
house hasn't been around in over a century," the senior patrolman advised.
"It was wiped out after an unsuccessful bid for power. You'd better come
along with us." A look
of panic raced across the two drow warriors' faces. "Salato
. . . gone?" they cried. In unison, they screamed, and then took off in
opposite directions. Woodehous
felt Volo's suddenly unbound hand grasp his tightly. "We'll
let the jade spiders track them down," the older patrolman decided.
"Let's bring in these two surface dweller prisoners and take any credit
that is due i for their capture for
ourselves." "But
where did they go?" the other patrolman inquired, for the two prisoners
were no longer there, as if they had both just vanished into thin air. Back to
the Double G "Pig,
where have you been?" Woodehous
immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Wurlitzer, the orcish
bartender. "What
are you doing here?" Woodehous asked in amazement. "Working,"
the ore replied, "just like you used to do before you were fired from
Traitor Pick's for not showing up for work after your dinner break." The
former maitre d'/waiter/cook quickly looked around, and to his astonishment
found himself back in the Gentleman's Groggery in Skullport, his companion, the
legendary Volothamp Geddarm, by his side. "How
. . . ?" Woodehous tried to sputter out a question. "...
long have you been away?" the ore completed. "A while. Long enough
for Traitor Pick's to get a new cook. He's not bad either, but I'm sure
everyone will agree that he's no Pig Woodehous." "No
... I ..." Woodehous continued to sputter, not fully understanding what
must have happened. "Why
don't you bring us two mugs of your finest, my good fellow," Volo
interrupted. "Of
course, good sir," Wurlitzer replied. Remembering the guinea tip that Volo
had left during his last visit to the Double G, he quickly set off to fetch the
requested refreshments. "What
happened?" Woodehous demanded, relieved to be back in civilization, but
confused, nonetheless. "We're
back in Skullport," the master traveler replied matter-of-factly. "I
know that," Woodehous said, ". . . but how?" "We
teleported," Volo explained. "I picked up a few tricks on my last
trip around Toril, and one of them involved the teleporting properties of
necromancer gems." "Necromancer
gems?" "Yes,
thank you," the master traveler replied, interrupting his explanation to
acknowledge Wurlitzer's drink service. "Necromancer gems are wonderful travelers'
aids. Large ones act as temporary portals, such as the one I left here when our
journey began, and the one I carried with me. Smaller ones, on the other
hand, ; can be ground into a dust
that will leave a luminescent I
trail that is only visible to the eye of a trained mage." "That's
why we had to take our boots off before entering the city," Woodehous
observed. : "Of
course," Volo concurred. "After all, it would have been absurd to
expect all drow to be as dense as Courun and Haukun." "But
why did you want to leave a trail?" "So
I could find my way there and back again." "But
what about your first time? The one you wrote your book about... the book that
got us into this mess?" ; "This
was my first trip to Menzoberranzan," the master traveler confessed.
"I'd never been there before. The book was just a hoax-bait to rile the
righteous demeanor of some drow and make him take me to the great city, to
satisfy Lloth's honor." "There
is no Volo Does Menzo?" "Well,
not just yet," the gazetteer replied, ". . . but soon there will be.
Let us finish our drinks, and I will
; fill you in on my plans." The two
travelers finished their drinks, and then followed them up with two bowls of
stew and another mug of grog, each. When they were both feeling reasonably
comfortable, Volo paid the bill, and directed Woodehous to accompany him for
the rest of the explanation. i "Now
we must retrace our steps from that memorable night not too long ago," the
traveler instructed. "Observe." Volo
removed the gem of luminescence from its place in the thong around his neck,
attached another multi-faceted gem to its base, and then returned it to its
resting place in the pocket on the thong. "Certain
trained mages can follow this trail with a naked eye," Volo lectured,
immediately reminding Woodehous of Malix's reference to a path of glowing dust,
"but I prefer to use this." Volo
focused the gem's luminescence on the path before him. What had once been bare
and unblemished rock was now adorned with a pair of glowing footsteps. "Now,
after a good night's rest, I can journey back to the city of the drow, in
disguise, of course, complete my research, and-poof!-VbZo's Guide to the
Underdark becomes a reality, complete with directions there and back again from
Skullport. Do you want to join me on this little trip? I assure you it will be
much easier than last time." "No,
thank you," Woodehous replied. "I've had my fill of adventure for a
lifetime." "Well,"
replied the master traveler, "the least I can do is give you a letter of
recommendation. If I recall correctly, you were a victim of circumstance back
at the Shipmaster's Hall in Waterdeep. I'm sure a letter from me could smooth
things over with the powers that be. Restauranting genius such as yours should
not go to waste. Though I am sure I've lost some weight these past few weeks,
I've never felt less than gastronomically satisfied, and I owe it all to
you." "Thank
you, good sir," the pale thin gentleman replied, realizing that what he
had sought at their journey's beginning, he had just obtained without even
asking for it, perhaps making the whole escapade worthwhile after all. Think
nothing of it, "the gazetteer replied. "Come, let us find ourselves a
room for tonight. Tomorrow, I will provide you with your letter, and I will be
on my way." The two
travelers fested like boon companions, and slept late the following morning.
True to his word, Volo gave Woodehous a letter addressed to the proprietor of
the Shipmaster's Hall, before he made his way back down the alley from whence
their adventure had started. The former soon-to-be maitre d'/cook/waiter
decided to accompany the greatest traveler of all Faerun to the outskirts of
Skullport to bid him one last farewell before he recommenced his journey
through the Underdark. With
gems in hand and disguise in his pack, Volo set off down the alleyways.
Woodehous followed close behind. Woodehous
remembered the narrowing passageway, and the sudden series of sharp right
turns, and was equally surprised as Volo when they found themselves facing a
dead end. "I
don't understand," the master traveler said. "The footprints just
stop here. There is no evidence of a portal, or a secret passageway, or
anything-just a blank wall." Just
then, a voice vaguely familiar to Woodehous piped in. "Looking for
something?" the voice asked. "Oh, it's you, Pig. Long time no
see." The voice belonged to Knytro the dwarf, Woodehous's former patron
from Traitor Pick's. "We're
looking for a passageway out of town," Volo replied. "I'm sure there
used to be one here." "Oh,
indeed there was," Knytro replied, "up until a few days ago when I
filled it in. A quake farther down the line made the whole tunnel unstable, so
I closed it down. I dug it, so it's my right to fill it in, and I did. But
don't worry, there are plenty of other subterranean roads leading out of town.
One is pretty much as good as another." Woodehous
felt sorry for his companion in captivity. True, other tunnel trails existed,
but none of them were marked with the glowing dust to lead the way. Volothamp
Geddarm was left back at Square One. "Oh,
well," the master traveler replied. "Maybe this volume was just not
meant to be. I still have Volo's Guide to the Moonsea to complete, and I'm a
little behind on that, so I feel a little guilty about leaving Justin-my
publisher-in the lurch after having promised him a surprise best-seller for his
next list." "Oh,
well," Woodehous concurred. "There doesn't seem to be much you can do
about it. Let's go back to the inn we stayed in last night. Maybe they'll let
me borrow the use of their kitchen so I can fix you a conciliatory
dinner." "Can
I tag along?" the dwarf requested. Tve really missed your slop. For my
guineas, there isn't a better cook in the entire Underdark." "Indeed,"
replied the master traveler, "that sounds like a cracker of a solution.
Who needs the Shipmaster's Hall. Certainly not you. You should return to
Waterdeep for a position more befitting your talents. Rip up that letter. I
will give you another one in its place, one that will be far more profitable
for everyone involved." "After
we eat, of course," Knytro clarified, having inserted himself into the
soon-to-be dining group. "Of
course," the master traveler replied. "Of course." Woodehous
was excited by the apparent zeal of the master traveler, and paused just for a
moment to reflect on their adventure together. "What do you think will
happen to Courun and Haukun?" "I
don't rightly know," the master traveler admitted. "As the sole
survivors of an overthrown house, both of them are marked by drow law for
extermination. Still, some say Ao does watch out for simpletons, and I have to
believe that applies to the drow as well as to surface dwellers. But enough
dwelling on the past. Great plans await, for me in Mulmaster, and for you in
Waterdeep. But, first, a meal!" "That's
what I've been waiting for," Knytro interjected. "No one makes slop
like Pig." "That's
Percy," Volo corrected. "Whatever,"
Woodehous added with a chuckle as they all set out for the inn. The End
(Almost). POSTSCRIPT Back at
the Publishing House Justin
Tym had every reason to be joyous. Volo's Guide to Shadowdale was outperforming
all of the previous books in the series, perhaps helped by an unexpected
introduction from the mage of Shadowdale himself, causing more than just the
publisher to wonder what his favorite gazetteer had on Elminster, to elicit a
favor of such magnitude. Cormyr: A Novel was also selling through at an
exceptionally nice rate, despite the efforts of rival publisher Delbert Reah to
cause confusion in the marketplace by releasing an inferior volume called
Cormyr: A History by Green Grubbwood (an alias if there ever was one), with a
cover treatment more than a bit similar to the one on Justin's volume. TWL's
sale were at an all-time high, and its position as the top publisher in all of
the City of Splendors-if not all of Faerun, for that matter-was safely assured
for yet another year. All was
rosy, Justin thought to himself as he looked out over the irregular rooftops
that stretched along the labyrinthine corridors of the city, a single floor
below his office's window. Still, there was no word from Volo. "Uh,
boss?" said Miss Elissa Silverstein, an exceptionally youthful flaxen
blonde who had recently replaced Miss Latour as Tym's right hand. "There
is someone here to see you." Justin
turned his chair away from the window to face his nubile assistant. "Send
whoever it is away," he ordered in a gruff yet disinterested tone. "I
have work to do, and I do not wish to be disturbed." "But,
boss," she insisted, "he claims to have a message from one of your
authors." "Who?" "A
Mr. Geddarm." Justin
chuckled to himself, thinking, it's about time! "All
right," the publisher assented, "send him in." Miss
Silverstein hastened out of the publisher's private office and returned in nary
a minute with a pale-skinned fellow who looked as if he hadn't seen the sun in
a long time. The man handed him a parchment pouch that had become the signature
of a Volo correspondence. Quickly
opening it, Justin read: Justin, Your
gracious indulgence has been appreciated. I am
off to Mulmaster to finish the Moonsea guide. Before
you stands your next "great find," with an idea for a surefire
best-seller. Work your traditional marketing magic on him, and success is
assured for all. Talk to
you soon. Keep the gelt coming, care of my friends at the Shipmaster's Hall. Best,
Volo Justin
chuckled in gentle amusement. Volo was okay, the book would soon be on the way,
and, therefore, all was right with the world. He quickly scanned the missive
again, and then turned his attention to the pale gentleman standing before him. "Volo's
usually a pretty good judge of the marketing potential for a new book
idea," Justin conceded out loud. "What's the hook?" Percival
Gallard Woodehous took a breath, as if to call upon all of his stores of
courage, and started his pitch. "It's a cookbook, you see, involving a
variety of subterranean fungi. Highly nutritious, tasty, and perfect for those
interested in losing a few pounds. I've tentatively titled it The Underdark
Diet." Justin
fought to hold back a smile and not give away any unnecessary enthusiasm that
might drive the pale fellow's price up. "I
see," said the publisher in as even a tone as he could muster.
"Continue," he instructed, leaning back and savoring the relief of
having found the savior for next year's list. The End
(Really). |
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