There was only one answer, only one possible solution: the only one who remained unaccounted for.
He knew who had left the bloody Asson doll for Taslin. He knew who had attacked Twilight—the only one who could have opened that locked door.
He thought Gestal had spared her in their confrontation, but he had been wrong. He knew now why, when they had first met, she had seemed to recognize “Liet,” if only for an instant, before pretending they had never met.
And he knew then his greatest, final mistake.
He heard a little squishing sound, as of a frog hopping on stone. Davoren looked down and saw a pair of severed hands rocking next to his feet. Their slender fingers and golden skin left no question as to their origin. His eyes widened and his fingers blazed.
Then he felt something cold in his side and a growing wetness soaking his tunic. Irritated that perhaps he had brushed something damp, he moved reflexively to touch the spot but found that his hands would not obey. They shuddered, deprived of strength. Then they froze, as the locklimb venom seized his muscles.
“Master?” the demon-troll asked again. “Master, me hungry.”
Davoren Hellsheart could reply only with the blood that leaked down his chin. Then his balance was gone and he pitched forward, only to tumble down the shaft into darkness and the gullet of a regenerating troll.
Through the darkness, he heard words. “Thank Master,” Tlork murmured.
“Welcome,” said a soft, high-pitched voice.
Tlork started to eat.
Paralyzed, Davoren could not even scream.
“Thank Master.”
“Welcome,” she said.
It wasn’t true, after all. She wasn’t the creature’s master, or rather, she was, now that her master—the lord of Divergence, first servant of the Prince of Demons—was dead.
She had betrayed him, of course, but well did it serve, for he had taken her eyes—eyes he had used so many times, just as he had used her body. And now, with the mad sharn out of the way, she ruled the Depths alone, and she’d make some changes.
Soon, she would root out all the allies of the sharn—enslave the golems that had served him, and poison and burn the abeil colony that protected his temple.
She would not limit the purification to Negarath: the grimlocks, deprived of their god, neared the end of their usefulness. If they would not convert to the worship of the Fanged Lord, she would have them destroyed, to make way for greater, stronger servants.
It was she who had been meant to rule all, she who had led countless adventurers to their deaths. Now she alone survived—always survived. She could make it alone.
Alone, alone, alone.
She might have kept the warlock at least. He’d have been fun, but ultimately unfulfilling. Too self-absorbed, always thinking about his parents, and the children laughing, and the blood. She’d read him easily, just like the fox before she’d recovered the shrouding pendant.
That time had been brief, but she’d been able to unlock the elf’s mind and all her secrets had opened to the mistress, even some Gestal had never known.
Ah, Ilira. Barking like a dog, begging for attention, terrified unto death of her own insignificance. What lovely things she could have …
Well, can’t have all the dolls you want, she supposed.
She’d get lonely, but she’d get over it. Plenty of playmates remained to lure here, more lives to collect, and now that she had the blood pool and the portals …
It was she who had fled the wrath of her people, she who had shifted the blame for her actions onto that innocent gnome’s shoulders, she who had fled Crimel as the guards’ arrows had pierced his body and their skiprocks shattered his bones.
She had never felt whole. There had always been something missing, something that one of the naïve priests of the Halfling Bitch-Mother might have called justice, if such a vain and outdated concept could be formulated. Perhaps now, though, listening to those crunching, slurping sounds from below, she understood justice, or better—rightness.
Then she turned the bloody holes in her face toward the lip of the shaft, down to where the troll—loyal and strong, if dim and slow-witted—feasted upon the torn, shuddering carcass of the hateful disciple of the Devil King. She could not see, but by the blessings of the master, she could read minds without eyes. She felt Davoren, and Tlork, and loved it.
A smile curled onto her acid-burned features—a slight satisfaction, really.
For the first time in her life, Daltyrex Blacksoul—Mistress of the Depths of Madness and favored thrall of the Demon Prince, sometimes called Slip—had done something right.
About the Author
After climbing up from the Depths, Erik Scott de Bie has lived a comparatively normal life of writing fantasy, perfecting his serve, fencing his mortal foes, and feeding his kitties (which may or may not be possessed).
He manages these beasties along with a full-time day job, a full-time night job, and the occasional sleeping episode with the aid of his lovely angel Shelley, his groaning bookshelves, and his trusty saber.
Erik maintains a regular writer’s blog at http://eriksdb.livejournal.com.
The Dungeons
DEPTHS OF MADNESS
©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC
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