Realm Of The Underdark Part 3

Chapter Five.

Invitation to Glory.

With white-knuckled hands, Matron Malice gripped the adamant.i.te 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 pa.s.sed through her then at the thought of the judgment she had pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bles 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 wouldbe 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 ma.s.s 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gla.s.s 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 bloodl.u.s.t 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 stalact.i.tes hanging from the cavern ceiling. The dagger bounced off the stone without effect. Zak dodged a spider leg, weighed his one remaining dagger, andthrew. 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 stalact.i.tes. 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 stalact.i.tes. 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 pa.s.sage. Levitating, so as not to leave any telltale warm footprints, he pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sageways. 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, gla.s.s 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.

m.u.f.fled 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 ma.s.s 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 n.o.ble creatures once, beings of enlightenment and compa.s.sion. That was before they were driven into the Underdark and became tangled in Lloth's web of deceit, depravity, and l.u.s.t. 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 afighter. 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 pa.s.sed 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."