Realm Of The Underdark Part 6

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 hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed. You are absolved of your crimes."

A wave of relief coursed through Zak. He had feared that his sentence ofdriderhood 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 d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sage 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 G.o.ddess-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 pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage, 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 ma.s.sive swing chain are still strong. The many-spiked boulder hangs in the pa.s.sage 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 "l.u.s.ty 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage 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 watchedcritically 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sages 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 pa.s.sages 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 n.o.ble lady in need: Nythyx Thunderstaff, the daughter of Durnan's old friend Anadul, who was brother to Baerom, head of the n.o.ble 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 cra.s.s 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, b.l.o.o.d.y hands on battlefields, or carried off as prizes from spectre-haunted tombs and dragon h.o.a.rds. 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 la.s.s 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bles 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 la.s.s, 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 n.o.ble 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 partic.i.p.ants 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- G.o.ds, 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.ds d.a.m.n you, or I'll-"