“And?” Triel prompted.
“And,” Gromph broke in, finishing on Andzrel’s behalf, “they could bite off Donigarten.”
“Our food supply,” Andzrel added.
Gromph smiled when Triel’s face turned almost gray. “Yes, well,” the archmage said, “all things in their turn. Barrison Del’Armgo will answer for their ambitions only after I’ve cleaned up a more open insurrection.”
“Dyrr?” Triel didn’t have to ask.
“It’s time for our old friend the lichdrow to die again,” Gromph replied. “This time, permanently.”
chapter
seven
Danifae counted the warriors in front of her—eight armed with spears, and a row of a dozen crossbowmen behind them—and waited.
“Welcome to the City of Portals,” one of the spearmen said, his blood-red eyes darting quickly, alertly, between Danifae and Valas. “If you reach for a weapon or begin to cast a spell, we’ll kill you before you get a single breath out.”
Danifae flashed the male a smile and was gratified to see his gaze linger on her. If Valas were going to attack, he would have at that moment. He didn’t, so Danifae found herself in the position of having to trust him again.
“Who are you, where are you from,” the guard asked, “and what is your business in Sschindylryn?”
“I am Valas Hune,” the scout answered. He paused and reached up slowly to the neck of his piwafwi. When he drew
his cloak aside, the guard’s eyes fixed on something. Danifae was sure it had to be the insignia of the mercenary company to which Valas was attached. “My business here is to resupply. Give us a day or so to gather what we need, and we’ll be on our way.”
The guard nodded and looked at Danifae.
“And you?” he asked. “You don’t look Bregan D’aerthe.” Danifae chuckled playfully and replied, “I am Danifae
Yauntyrr. And you?”
The guard was puzzled by the question.
“She is a battle-captive in the service of the First Daughter of House Melarn,” Valas answered for her.
Danifae felt her skin tingle with suppressed rage. What kind of scout volunteered such information? Or did he mean to put her in her place by reminding her that while he was free, she was not?
The guard smiled—leered almost—and looked Danifae briefly up and down.
“Melarn?” he said. “Never heard of it.”
“A lesser House,” Valas answered again before Danifae could speak up. “It was destroyed with the others in the fall of Ched Nasad.”
The guard looked at her again and said, “That means you’re free, eh?”
Danifae shrugged, saying nothing. She, unlike Valas, wasn’t about to give away information. The last thing she needed was for anyone to know that she’d come to Sschindylryn to address that very question once and for all.
“We want no trouble with Bregan D’aerthe,” the guard said to Valas. “Get your supplies, then get out. Menzoberranyr are less than popular here.”
“Why would that be?” asked Valas.
The guards visibly relaxed, and half the crossbowmen slipped the bolts off their weapons and stepped back from the firing line. The spearmen put their weapons up but still stood ready. “It’s your fault,” the guard replied, “or so they say.” “What is our fault?” Danifae asked, not certain why she identified herself as Menzoberranyr, having never even been there.
“They say,” the guard said, “that it was a Menzoberranyr who killed Lolth.”
Valas laughed, letting a generous portion of contempt coat the sound.
“Yes, well . . .” the guard finished. “That’s what they say.”
“This way,” Valas said over his shoulder to Danifae.
The battle-captive nodded, took stock of her belongings, and followed the scout past the guards and toward the wide, open gate into the city proper. As she passed him, Danifae gave the guard captain a playful wink. The male’s jaw opened, but he managed to catch it before it dropped.
When she was certain they were out of earshot of the guards, Danifae drew closer to the Bregan D’aerthe scout. Valas flinched away from her touch then seemed to force himself to relax. Danifae, making careful note of his reaction to her, leaned in very close. With a greater than necessary exhalation of hot air from her husky, hushed voice, Danifae whispered into his ear.
“I’m not going with you,” she told Valas.
“Why not?” he answered, matching her discreet volume but not her flirtatiousness.
“I never enjoyed shopping,” Danifae replied, “and I have errands of my own.”
For a moment it looked to Danifae as if Valas were actually going to argue or at least press her for more information.
“Very well,” he said after a few seconds. “I have a way of calling you when it’s time to go.”
“I have a way of ignoring you if I’m not ready,” she replied.
Valas didn’t respond, though that time Danifae was sure she’d broken through his impenetrable armor. She turned away and stepped into the crowd that was flowing past the columned, temple-like structure that surrounded the gate. Within seconds she had effectively lost herself in the strange city, leaving the scout behind.
The city of Sschindylryn was contained in a single pyramidshaped void in the solid rock some unfathomable distance below the surface of Faerûn. The pyramid had three sides, each more than two miles long, and the apex was two miles above. Bioluminescent fungus grew in patches all around the smooth outer walls, giving the whole city an eerie, dim yellow ambient light. The drow who called the city home lived in houses constructed of stone and brick—unusual in a dark elf city—that were built on stepped tiers. The outer edges of the city were actually trenches carved into the stone floor of the pyramid. In the center, a sort of huge ziggurat rose up into the cool, still air. There was no physical way in or out of the city. No tunnel connected the cavern to the rest of the Underdark. Sschindylryn was sealed. Locked away.
Except for the gates, and there were thousands of those.
They were everywhere. In only the first few blocks Danifae saw a dozen of them. They led to every corner of the Underdark, onto the World Above, perhaps beyond to the planes and elsewhere. Some were open to the public, left there by no one remembered whom. Others were commercial ventures, offering transport to some other drow city or trade site of the lesser races for a fee. Still others were kept secret, used only by a chosen few. Gangs controlled some, merchant costers controlled more, while the clergy maintained hundreds.
On the narrow streets Danifae passed mostly other dark elves, and all of them seemed, like her, concerned entirely with their own business. They ignored her, and she did likewise. As she walked, she became increasingly aware that she was in a strange city, alone, looking for a single drow who was very likely still making every effort to hide.
House Agrach Dyrr had been part of the political landscape of Menzoberranzan for more than five thousand years. Only House Baenre was older.
For most of that time, Houses Baenre and Agrach Dyrr had maintained a close relationship. Of course there was never trust, that wasn’t something that existed in any but the must tenuous and rudimentary form in the City of Spiders, but they had had certain arrangements. They shared common interests and common goals. Agrach Dyrr had fulfilled its role in the city’s hierarchy. It went to war with the city, defended itself against rival Houses, destroyed a few from time to time as necessity dictated, and in all things followed the teachings and the whims of the Queen of the Demonweb Pits.
Matron Mother Yasraena Dyrr enjoyed pain. She enjoyed chaos, and she enjoyed the blessings of Lolth. When that last bit went away, things changed.
From their palace on the wide shelf of Qu’ellarz’orl, the Lichdrow Dyrr had stood with his much younger granddaughter and watched the city turn against them. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate, the lichdrow knew. He had turned against the city, and he had done it with precise and careful timing. He had made the final deci
sion, as he always had in times of greatest peril and greatest opportunity. Yasraena did what she was told, occasionally being made to feel as if it was her idea in the first place, sometimes merely given an order.
Most days, the youthful matron mother was as much in command of the House as any of the city’s matrons. When it truly counted, though, the lichdrow stepped in.
The palace of House Agrach Dyrr was a ring of nine giant stalagmites that rose from the rocky floor of Qu’ellarz’orl, surrounded by a dry moat crossed at only one point by a wide, defensible bridge. In the center of the ring of stalagmites, behind a square wall of spell-crafted stone, was the House temple. That massive cathedral was more than a symbol to the drow of House Agrach Dyrr—it was a sincere and passionate proclamation of their faith in the Spider Queen.
In the past months, though, the temple had grown as quiet as the goddess it was built to honor.
“Lolth has abandoned us,” the lichdrow said.
He stood at the entrance to the temple. A hundred yards in front of him, his granddaughter kneeled before the black altar and stared silently up at an enormous, stylized representation of the goddess. The idol weighed several tons and had been shaped by divine magic out of a thousand of the most precious materials the Underdark had to offer.
“We have abandoned her,” Yasraena replied.
Their voices carried through the huge chamber.
The lichdrow floated toward her, his toes almost touching the marble floor. She didn’t turn around.
“Well,” he said, “what could she expect?”
The matron mother let the joke hang there without comment.
“The bridge holds,” Dyrr reported, sounding almost bored. “Word from agents within Sorcere is that Vorion was captured but was later killed. I’m still finding out if he broke.”
“Vorion . . .” the matron mother breathed.
She had taken Vorion as her consort only a few years before.
“My condolences,” the lichdrow said.
“He had a few admirable qualities,” the matron mother replied. “Ah well, at least he died in defense of the House.”
Dyrr tired of the subject, so he changed it.
“Gromph has regained his sight.”
Yasraena nodded and said, “He’ll be coming for us.”
“He’ll be coming for me,” the lichdrow corrected.
The matron mother sighed. She must have known he was right. The priestess, bereft of her connection to Lolth, was still a force to be reckoned with. She was experienced, cruel, strong, and she had access to the House’s stores of magical items, artifacts, and scrolls, but against the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, she would be little more than a nuisance. If Gromph was coming, he was coming for the lichdrow, and if Agrach Dyrr was to survive, it would be the lichdrow who would have to save it.
“I don’t suppose you can count on your new friends,” the matron mother said.
“My ‘new friends’ have problems of their own,” Dyrr replied. “They lay siege to the city, but Baenre and the others Houses have done a surprisingly good job of holding the entrances to the Dark Dominion.”
“They have us bottled in our palace like rats in a trap,” said the matron mother.
Dyrr laughed, the sound muffled and strained from under his mask. The lichdrow almost never allowed anyone to see his face. Yasraena was one of the few to whom he would reveal himself, but even then, not often. Though she wasn’t looking at him, he maintained the affectation of leaning on his staff. The outward illusion of advanced age and physical weakness had become second nature to him, and he’d begun to maintain that attitude even when no one was looking. His body, free of the demands of life for a millennia, was as responsive as it had been the day he died and was resurrected.
“Don’t begin to believe our own ruse, granddaughter,” Dyrr said. “Not everything has gone strictly to plan, but all is far from lost, and we are far from trapped. We were meant to be in the city, and here we are. The two of us are in our own temple, unmolested. We have lost troops and the odd consort and cousin, but we live, and our assets are largely intact. Our ‘new friends’ as you call them, have the city hard under siege, and many of the Houses refuse to join the fight—join it in any real way, at least. All we have to do is keep pressing, keep pressing, keep pressing, and we will win the day. I grant you that it is an inconvenience that Gromph escaped my little snare. I do wonder how he managed it. But I assure you it will be the last time I underestimate the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.”
“Did you underestimate him,” she asked, “or did he beat you?”
There was a moment of silence between them as Yasraena stared up at the idol of Lolth, and Dyrr waited in mute protest.
“This assassin . . .” she said at last.
“Nimor,” Dyrr provided.
“I know you don’t trust him,” she said.
“Of course not,” the lichdrow replied with a dry chuckle. “He is committed to his cause, though.”
“And that cause?” asked the matron mother. “The downfall of Menzoberranzan? The destruction of the matriarchy? The wholesale abandonment of the worship of Lolth?”
“Lolth is gone, Yasraena,” Dyrr said. “The matriarchy has functioned, but as with all things past it too may not survive the Spider Queen’s demise. The city, of course, will endure. It will endure under my steady, immortal hand.”
“Yours,” she asked, “or Nimor’s?”
“Mine,” the lichdrow replied with perfect finality.
“He should be in the city,” Yasraena added before there could be too significant a pause. “Nimor and his duergar friends should be here. Every day that goes by, Baenre and Xorlarrin wear us down. Little by little, granted, but little by little for long enough and . . .”
She let the thought hang there, and Dyrr only shrugged in response.
“If you expected to do this without Gromph on their side,” Yasraena asked, “what now that he’s back?”
“As I said,” the lichdrow replied, “I will kill him. He will come for me, and I will be ready. When the time comes, I will meet him.”
“Alone?” she asked, concern plain in her voice.
The lichdrow didn’t answer. Neither of them moved, and the temple was silent for a long time.
He had come for a little food and a few minor incidentals. They could drink the water from the Lake of Shadows but could use a few more skins to carry it in. Under normal circumstances nothing could be easier for someone as well traveled as Valas Hune.
Normal circumstances.
The words had lost all meaning.
“Hey,” the gnoll grumbled, hefting its heavy war-axe so
Valas could see it. “You wait line, drow.”
Valas looked the gnoll in the eyes, but it didn’t back down. “Everybody wait line,” the guard growled.
Valas took a deep breath, left his hands at his side, and said,
“Is Firritz here?”
The gnoll blinked at him, surprised.
Valas could feel other eyes on him. Drow, duergar, and representatives of a few more lesser races looked his way. Though they would be angry, impatient at having to wait in line while Valas presumed to bypass it, none of them spoke.
“Firritz,” Valas repeated. “Is he here?”
“How you . . . ?” the gnoll muttered, eyes like slits. “How you know Firritz?”
Valas waited for the gnoll to understand that he wasn’t going to say any more. It took seven heartbeats.
With a glance at the increasingly restless line, the gnoll said, “Follow.”
Valas didn’t smile, speak, or look at the others. He followed the gnoll in silence the full length of the line then through a mildewed curtain into a very large room with an uncomfortably low ceiling. The space was so crowded with sacks and crates and barrels that in the first few seconds after entering, Valas saw at least one of everything he’d come for.
A single, stooped old drow sat at a table in the center of the storehouse. A dozen d
ifferent types of coins were arranged in neat stacks on the table in front of him. The gnoll nodded toward him, and Valas stepped closer to the merchant.
“Firritz,” the scout said, his voice echoing.
The old drow didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, he slowly counted a stack of gold coins then wrote the total on a piece of parchment on the table in front of him. Valas waited.
Perhaps ten minutes went by, and in that time the gnoll left the room and came back three times. Each time he came back, he seemed a bit more perplexed. Valas hadn’t moved a muscle.
Finally, when the gnoll had left the room again, Firritz looked up from his counting and glanced at Valas.
“That’s about how long you would have waited in line,” the old drow said, his voice reedy and forced. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“Remember that you kept Bregan D’aerthe waiting,” Valas said.
“Don’t threaten me, Valas Hune,” Firritz said. “Menzo’s reputation has become a bit less impressive of late. Gray dwarves, I heard. Why aren’t you there to defend the motherland?”
“I go where the coin leads me,” said the scout. “Just like you.”
“The coin doesn’t lead to Menzoberranzan anymore, does it?”
“Bregan D’aerthe’s credit is still good here,” Valas said. “I need supplies.”
“Credit?” said Firritz. “That word implies that your master at some point intends to pay his debt. I run up a tab, more and more, year after year, and see nothing for it. Maybe things have changed enough that that isn’t necessary anymore, eh?”
“Take a deep breath,” Valas said.
The old drow looked up at him. They stayed like that for a bit, but finally Firritz drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly.
“That’s what you see for it,” Valas finished, “and it’s necessary I get a few supplies.”
Firritz frowned and said, “Nothing magical. Everyone’s been buying up the magic bits—and for twice, even thrice the market value.”
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 41
