Daughter of the Drow (33 page)

“And where would you have gotten such a spell?” She did not wait for an answer. A simple mind-reading enchantment took the image of a spellbook from the naga’s thoughts, and she ordered the creature to turn it over. Sheepishly, the naga hacked again and yielded up the stolen book. Shakti did not open it, for she knew better than to read unlearned spells.

“Let’s see what you can do with it,” she told the naga.

The creature nosed open the book and began to read the arcane symbols. But the needed gate spell was beyond its power; the dark naga whimpered with pain and curled into a writhing mass of looping coils.

Shakti sighed and yielded to the inevitable: she would once again have to hire the expensive wizard. She hated parting with more gold, and she simply could not afford to involve an outsider in her current plans. But what else could she do?

The naga, once he recovered from his spell-inflicted agony, was only too glad to go off to summon the draw mage. In the meantime, Shakti sent a servant to bring around a pair of mated quaggoths.

House Hunzrin kept and bred the bearlike creatures for use as guards and shock troops. Quaggoths were ideal for both. Seven feet tall, heavily muscled and protected by tough hide covered with thick white fur, the quaggoths were fearsome in appearance and were strong, fierce fighters. They also had an unpleasant surprise in store for anyone who managed to wound or anger them.

Shakti gave the creatures the combs Ssasser bad pilfered from Liriel’s home. The quaggoths had keen noses and were excellent trackers, provided she was able to set them in the right direction. It was time to test the power of Nisstyre’s ruby.

The priestess took a small scrying bowl, as red and as black as dried blood, and placed it upon the map the naga had stolen. She cast the spell that would enable her to locate Nisstyre. Saasser’s map glowed, marking the spot where the drow wizard now stood. The naga had done his research well, for the glowing spot was in the caverns the snake-creature had named. Apparently Nisstyre held similar opinions concerning Liriel’s destination.

When Ssasser returned with the wizard, Shakti handed the drow the spellbook and told him to open a gate near the spot marked on the map. Intrigued, the male leafed through the book until he found the proper spell. After a period of study, the wizard cast the enchantment. A shimmering oval appeared in Shakti’s chamber.

“Will the gate close of its own accord, or does that require another spell?” she demanded.

“It will last only a few moments, then dissipate,” the wizard assured her.

Shakti nodded approvingly, and the snake heads at her belt began to writhe in anticipation. The new high priestess seized her weapon, enjoying the feel of the cool adamantine handle in her hand, and she lashed out at the hired wizard.

The five snake heads dove in to fasten their fangs in his flesh. Numbing, burning pain coursed through the drow male. Unable to move, unable to Ťftst a spell in his defense, he slumped to the ground. The sight drove Shakti into a frenzy of vicious delight, and she lashed at the defenseless wizard again and again.

When it was clear he was dead, Shakti tucked the weapon away. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly—more from excitement than from the effort of killing the male—but a rare expression of calm suffused her face. She felt sated by the wizard’s death, utterly content for now but also eager to kill again.

“Take the male through the gate with you,” she instructed Ssasser. When the naga hesitated, puzzled, she added, “You and the quaggoths might enjoy a snack before starting your hunt. Leave no trace of him for anyone to find.”

The naga grinned fiercely and sank his blue fangs deep into the dead drow. Lifting his burden, Ssasser struggled to the gate and slithered through eagerly. But the quaggoths hung back, obviously leery of the unfamiliar magic.

Shakti seized her pitchfork and stabbed one of the reluctant creatures—the male, of course—in the backside. The quaggoth let out a roar of pain and plunged into the shining oval. His mate glanced at the glowering drow, then stepped through the gate without further hesitation.

Finally alone, the traitor-priestess placed her new weapons in a row, along with the magic pitchfork that had hitherto been her only claim to power. She admired them—the pitchfork, the snake-headed whip, the ruby scrying bowl of Vhaeraun—and debated which among them was her favorite.

It was pleasant exercise, for in truth she really did not have to pick, although the day might come when she would have to make such a choice. Until that day, Shakti intended to enjoy all her weapons, all her power, to the fullest extent.

After his interview with Shakti, Nisstyre wasted little time in leaving Menzoberranzan. First he sent his merchants out of the city, not wanting any of them sacrificed to the double ambitions of the traitor-priestess, then took a relay of gates that led to his surface stronghold.

When Nisstyre emerged into the Night Above, the bunding intensity of a spring twilight was muffled by the leafy layers of a deep woodland canopy. Here the drow followers of Vhaeraun had built a settlement, above ground, that in small scale began to approach the glory the drow had known before they were forced Below. Among the trees were twisted, spiraled fortresses crafted of stone and magic, as wondrous as the homes in any elven city. The drow had little fear of discovery, for the High Forest held a thousand other secrets.

As darkness approached, the drow began to emerge from their homes to go about the night’s business. Most of the settlement’s inhabitants were males: restless young nobles unhappy with their subservient role in traditional drow society, renegades from destroyed noble houses, ambitious warriors both noble and common who wondered why the drow did not yet rule all of the Underdark. They were all dark-clad in common garments, and as followers of Vhaeraun they practiced and celebrated the arts of stealth and thievery. Yet not one drow among them wore a piwafwi, and the changing of guards at the watchtowers was accomplished by ladders rather than levitation, for they had lost their heritage of natural magic. The drow were not what they once had been, but they were still to be feared.

There were few females in the village, and of them only two were drow. One of the Masked God’s main directives was to increase the drow race, particularly on the surface. And so, unlike most drow, Vhaeraun’s people sought contact with other elves. Children of such unions tended to breed toward drow. Taking a long view, it was one way to eradicate the pale races of elves!

Nisstyre took his god’s instructions one step further: he kept a small harem of surface elves in the settlement. It was not ideal—Vhaeraun indicated there should be equality between males and females—but it was proving effective. With the coming of night, the village’s children were awakening. They ran about in play, staging mock battles and elaborate games of stealth and ambush. There was not a full drow among them, but most of the ebony-skinned elflings were as drow in appearance and temperament as any child of Menzoberranzan. There were among them a couple of black-haired, pale-skinned elf children, even a dusky half-drow lad. The boy was tolerated in the community, for Vhaeraun was not averse to a little human blood in his followers. It was a matter of necessity, for few drow females were willing to follow the Masked God into the Night Above.

Not that any of the village females were all that devout. Most of them were silver elves, and without exception the elf-women were wretched outcasts who for one reason or another had no other place to call home. It was, Nisstyre acknowledged, hardly an auspicious way to begin a kingdom.

Yes, the lack of drow females was a problem, one Nisstyre planned to end. With the inducement of Liriel’s magic, he could entice more of the proud and powerful females into the

Night Above. Drow tended to be far more prolific than other elves, and only their constant, incestuous warfare kept their numbers low. Once the drow became a united people, their strength would quickly reach nightmare proportions.

With this pleasant thought in mind, Nisstyre gathered together a band of hunters and summoned the settlement’s ranking priest, a drow of middle years known only as Henge. The cleric made cautious comment on the ruby glowing in the center of Nisstyre’s forehead.

“A third eye,” Nisstyre said casually. “A wizardly device. You need not concern yourself with it.” The priest looked doubtful but did not press the point.

“You must travel swiftly through the night toward the village of Trollbridge. Not to pillage,” Nisstyre added swiftly, noting the fierce smiles on every face. “Travel to the hills surrounding the human village and search there for a lone drow female.”

“Find a single drow, in that network of caves?” balked the priest.

“It should not be a difficult task. From what I know of Liriel Baenre, I cannot imagine her content with a hermit’s life in some remote cave. She is armed with considerable magic and will be extremely difficult for the humans to capture and kill. I would prefer, of course, that you find her before she finds the humans. You will know her by an amulet she wears: a small golden dagger in a rune-carved sheath that hangs from a gold chain.”

As he spoke, Nisstyre reflected upon how little prepared Liriel—or any female drow, for that matter—was for the world Above. The proud females could not begin to fathom the surface dwellers’ hatred and loathing for the dark elves. Drow expected to be feared; they were not prepared to be despised and hunted. Downtrodden males, who had survived decades of miserable existence Below, fared somewhat better than their more privileged counterparts. Despite his confident words to his hunting band, Nisstyre knew the importance of finding the princess soon, before her pride and arrogance brought about her destruction.

So with a few quick words of instruction, he set the four fighters on Liriel’s trail. He thought he knew where she might have gone. There were many gates the female might have used, for dark-elven wizardry had opened portals to distant places such as Calimshan. But the price for such incredible power was correspondingly high. The caverns near Drygully Tunnel were the easiest areas to reach through magical travel. They were open, near the surface, and had little interference from the Underdark’s radiation magic. At short notice, it might have been the best anyone could do. He felt fairly certain Liriel would have fled using that route.

When the hunters were on their way, Nisstyre and Henge went to the privacy of the wizard’s own home. Henge looked none too pleased with the task ahead but he kept his opinions to himself. Nisstyre took note of this and saw no need to comment. There was little liking between the two drow males, but as long as the priest did not openly defy him, Nisstyre was content.

The wizard took out a medallion embossed with a curving, stylized dragon. It matched the tattoo on the face of his lieutenant, Gorlist, and enabled him to find the drow fighter at any time. The wizard fingered the metal and chanted the words that would take him and the cleric to the fighter’s side.

The pair of drow materialized in a small cave. There they found Gorlist, along with his two companions, strapping on weapons in preparation for the night’s journey. The drow lieutenant did not look particularly surprised to see his leader.

“How long must we maintain this ridiculous facade?” he snapped. “It is effort wasted.”

“Our plans have changed,” Nisstyre said coolly. “You will retrace your steps toward the caverns with all possible haste. I have reason to believe you will find Liriel Baenre there or nearby. Find her, and bring her to the forest settlement.”

Nisstyre noted the fierce gleam in the fighter’s eyes and vowed to instruct Gorlist in the art of balancing revenge with necessity. He led the way out of the cave, stooping low to duck through the small entrance.

A rustle of leaves was his only warning. Nisstyre spun to see a black-haired human bearing down on him, his pale club lifted high and cold fire in his blue eyes. Although it seemed impossible to the drow wizard, he recognized his attacker as the crazed warrior whom he himself had buried aüve in an icy tomb in a distant forest glade.

The drow raised one hand, and dark fire spat from his fingers to engulf the persistent human. The man’s club swung right through the flame, arcing downward to meet the wizard’s head.

Nisstyre heard the thud of impact, registered the way the rocky ground sped up to meet him. He suffered no pain and supposed he should be grateful, but all he felt was cold wrath. The wizard clung to this emotion as he went down into the darkness; he knew desire for revenge was a powerful force, perhaps the only one that would help him fight his way back.

Fyodor kicked aside the crumpled form of the copper-haired wizard and took in the scene before him in a glance. The heat of the berserker rage fueled his body and sped his mind, so it seemed as if the world slowed down around him, giving him time to react, to attack. In his altered state, Fyodor never felt pain, although he knew from the smell of singed leather that the drow wizard’s bolt of dark fire had struck his shoulder. Nor did he feel fear, even though his mind coolly registered that he was outnumbered indeed by the three well-armed drow before him.

The first of the dark elves came on, twin blades in his hands and a cocky smile on his ebony face. As the drow advanced he put his weapons through an elaborate routine: crossing, spinning, slashing the air. The show was clearly meant to taunt and unnerve his victim, much as a barn eat might play with a captured squirrel. Despite the red haze of the battle fury that filled and possessed him, Fyodor could not help but note the drow’s brilliance. Even perceived in slow motion, it was a dazzling display of swordcraft. The dark elf warrior possessed a finesse Fyodor could not begin to understand, a skill he could not hope to match.

But no fear came with this realization. The young berserker registered the drow’s flailing arms, the trailing light of the enchanted weapons, and he reasoned there was a chest somewhere in the midst of all that activity. So

Fyodor hefted his sword high, sighted down a spot in the very center of that incredible swordplay, and heaved with all his might. The mighty weapon flew toward the drow, its path as true and straight as that of a thrown spear.