Daughter of the Drow (44 page)

Liriel and Fyodor exchanged a dismayed look. “But you killed him!” the Rashemi protested.

“Well, apparently it didn’t take,” Liriel said, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

“We have more important problems,” proclaimed a little-girl voice. This came from Hjrene, a tiny, kitten-soft doll of a priestess. With her elegant gowns and silvery ringlets, the delicate drow seemed the most unlikely of battlemasters. Yet with her first word she commanded the attention of every person in the room. “It is confirmed that a deep dragon—in drow form-—walks among the Dragon’s Hoard merchants.”

A murmur of dismay rippled through the room. “We haven’t the numbers to bring against such a foe. How should we fight a dragon?” said Elkantar in dismay.

Suddenly Liriel remembered a promise she’d made not long ago, without much thought or sincerity. With a crafty smile, she turned to the commander. “Give me two hours, and Til show you how! Fyodor, I need the spellbook you’ve been carrying for me, and Qilue, may I have access to the temple’s store of spell components? I need to adapt a known spell to create a new dimensional door. If someone has a spell scroll for a sending, so much the better. It’ll save me a trip back into the Underdark.”

“The Underdark!” The high priestess, leaned forward and fixed a penetrating gaze upon Liriel. “I think you ought to explain.”

The girl smiled into Qilue’s concerned face. “What better way to fight a dragon,” she said slyly, “than with another dragon?”

The city of Skullport was a trading center unlike any that flourished in the light of the sun. There, in a cavern far below the ports and streets of Waterdeep—deeper even than the bottom of the sea—merchants from dozens of races gathered to ply their trade. No race, no matter how powerful or rapacious, was denied access to the city’s ports, and no cargo was considered too illegal, immoral, or risky. Rules of “safe ground” made trade between enemies possible; however, intrigue, even small-scale, outright warfare, was part of daily life. Few denizens of Skullport cared to intervene in the quarrels of others. In the case of the more deadly races—such as beholders, illithids, and drow—the city’s residents were more than happy to look the other way. And if two drow females—one of whom was a purple-skinned, button-nosed elf with round, faintly reptilian eyes—wanted to indulge in a round of wild tavern-hopping, no one felt compelled to comment.

“Slow down, Zip,” Liriel cautioned her companion, eatch-ing the purple wrist while the goblet was still south of the female’s lips. The purple “drow” had downed enough wine to put away an entire battalion of dwarves, and Liriel had little desire to set a drunken dragon loose upon Skullport.

Zz’Pzora pouted, but the sparkle in her round eyes didn’t diminish in the slightest. The dragon-in-drow-form was having a wonderful time in this marvelous cesspool of a city. Gorgeously clad in a gown and jewels borrowed from Iljrene, supplied with coins that bought her an astonishing variety of high-potency libations, the dragon was free to wander at will among races who, in the Underdark, would have either fled from her or tried to destroy her. The deep dragon—mutated by the Underdark’s strange magic, cursed with two heads and conflicting personalities—had lived most of her life in enforced isolation. When Liriel’s magical message came to Zz’Pzora’s grotto, the dragon’s flighty, left-headed persona seized the chance to mingle with other races, to indulge in adventure and revelry; the practical, more traditionally minded right head kept a firm eye on the promised share of another dragon’s hoard. In the hours since she’d emerged from Liriel’s portal into the Promenade, the dragon’s dual voices had spoken as one. Even Zz’Pzora’s drow form, which boasted a single head, seemed to symbolize the creature’s rare unity of mind and purpose.

At the present moment, the dragon and the drow reclined on ale-stained couches in a ramshackle tavern known as the Grinning Gargoyle. True to its name, the taproom boasted scores of the ugly, winged stone statues, .perched on every lintel and rafter. Liriel suspected any one of them could take flight at will. Considering the caliber of patron, she’d almost consider this an improvement. The tavern was teeming with rough-mannered dark elves: commoners, former soldiers, riffraff of all kinds.

Zz’Pzora gestured with her goblet to one of several drow standing near the hearth. “That’s him. The one they’re calling Pharx. Look at his eyes.”

Liriel squinted. The male’s eyes were red, like those of most drow, but when the firelight hit them just so, she could see that the crimson orbs were slashed by vertical, reptilian pupils. “All right, that’s him. Now what?”

The drow-shaped dragon responded with a carnivorous smile. “Now I make the gentleman’s acquaintance.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and rose from the table.

Liriel caught her arm. “Take this gem with you. If you manage to get into the dragon’s stronghold, leave it there.”

“Oh, I’ll manage,” Zz’Pzora said in an arch tone. “Where else could we have the space—and the security—to resume our true forms? Purple or not, I’m the best thing in town! Don’t bother waiting up for me.” The drow-dragon smoothed the folds of her borrowed gown and slinked across the room.

True enough, the “drow” called Pharx seemed delighted by Zz’Pzora’s unsubtle advances. In moments, the pair slipped away through one of the doors that lined the back wall of the Grinning Gargoyle. Liriel lingered in the tavern for a while to watch the dark elves who had been with Pharx, taking note of their number and weapons. When she was satisfied she could learn no more, she returned to the Promenade to study battle spells.

Much later that evening, a smug and sated Zz’Pzora gave her report to a gathering of the Chosen. “There is a hidden tunnel leading from the Grinning Gargoyle to Pharx’s lair. It’s small—barely big enough for an elf to crawl through—but comfortable enough for a deep dragon in serpent form. Pharx has a lovely home. He gave me a tour of the caverns.”

Zz’Pzora smiled and admired her manicure. “It’s been a long time since he’s enjoyed the company of another dragon.”

“The details of your encounter, however entertaining, must wait for another time,” said Iljrene in her little-girl voice. The battlemaster spread a sheet of parchment on the table and thrust a quill at the drow-dragon. “Draw.”

Not even a dragon was immune to the power behind Iljrene’s lilting commands; Zz’Pzora complied without argument. The complex she sketched out was impressive. To the east of Pharx’s lair was a series of tunnels leading to three main chambers. The deepest and best protected was the hoard room, a vast cavern filled with the treasures Pharx had collected over the centuries, as well as the bones of those who’d hoped to claim some of the treasure as their own. Above the hoard were two smaller caverns that served the merchants as living quarters and warehouses. Two tunnels led out of the merchants’ quarters, one up toward the docks and another, an escape route, winding down to some still deeper dungeon.

Iljrene studied the drawing for a moment. “We’ll send two patrols to attack the merchant ships. That will draw their fighters up through this tunnel. When the way is clear, Liriel will open a portal into the hoard room, then find and engage the wizard.”

“She should not go alone,” protested Fyodor. “What if guards remain?”

“That is unlikely. Nisstyre’s people have no reason to suspect we know the location of his stronghold,” reasoned Iljrene. “They will see no further than the attack on the ship. They carry slaves, among other cargo, and they know that this alone is enough to arouse the ire of the Dark Maiden.”

“And why should he post guards, with a dragon in residence?” added Elkantar, leaning close over his battlemaster’s shoulder to study the drawing.

“Exactly,” Iljrene agreed. “Which brings us to the dragon, Zz’Pzora, you will ensure that Pharx remains in his lair. Keep him engaged, in battle or otherwise, until the way is cleared and our forces arrive.”

The drow-shaped dragon eyed the battlemaster’s exquisite, silvery gown with open greed. “Lend me that dress, girlie, and it’s a deal.”

“Done. Liriel, are you ready to face Nisstyre?”

The young wizard smiled grimly. “I’d be happier if I had the amulet, but I’m as ready as I can be. Did you leave my gem in Pharx’s hoard room, Zip?”

“Yes, and it nearly killed me to do it,” grumbled the dragon’s right-headed persona, emerging for a moment to mourn the treasure that had slipped through her purple fingers. “A black sapphire!”

“What would you have me do?” asked Fyodor. The young warrior had spent the past few days on the fringes of the group, watching the preparations intently. What he saw reassured him greatly, for the dedicated drow commanders reminded him of the Fangs of Rashemen—the canny chieftains who defended their tiny land against much stronger foes. Still, he was not sure of his place in all this.

Elkantar shook his head. “We could certainly use your sword, friend, but it’s best you remain in the temple, far from battle. If the battle frenzy should come upon you, could you tell one drow from another?”

The Rashemi had no answer for this argument, but his blue eyes burned with frustration as he listened to the drow plan each stage of their attack. Never, not in all the months since his berserker magic went awry, had Fyodor felt so utterly helpless. He searched his storehouse of old tales, hoping to find an answer there. Inspiration, when at last it came, did little to set his mind at ease.

When the meeting ended and those present scattered to prepare for battle, Fyodor beckoned one of their number into a private corridor. As he laid out the terms of his offer, his mind rang with the warning of an old Rashemi proverb:

He who would bargain with a dragon is either a fool or a corpse.

The ships of the Dragon’s Hoard were well guarded. Fully loaded and tied at the dock, they presented a tempting target. Drow mercenaries walked the docks, and dark-elven archers kept watch from the aft castles and crow’s nests of the waiting ships. The merchants of the Dragon’s

Hoard were not unaware that Eilistraee’s drow had expressed earnest interest in their business, and they did not have to think long to understand why. Packed in the hold of one ship was a score of drow children: unwanted males who would bring a fine price as slaves in the far-off cities of the south. The priestesses of the Dark Maiden took a dim view of such things and were foolish enough to attempt a rescue. So far they’d shown admirable restraint, but there was no predicting what the drow of the Promenade Temple might do.

Not far from the ships, far beneath the surface of the fetid water, Iljrene and ten of her fellow priestesses clung to the rocky seabed and waited. According to Liriel’s deep dragon, the tunnel from the merchants’ stronghold ended here, in the solid rock of the harbor’s floor. Each merchant of the Dragon’s Hoard wore a magical pendant that allowed him to pass through the rocky wall at will. It was Iljrene’s task to harvest of few of those pendants.

Armed with short swords and a spell that enabled them to breathe underwater for a short period of time, the priestesses waited anxiously, straining their ears for the sounds of battle above. Iljrene trusted Elkantar—he was her commander and she had fought under him for nearly a century—but this task required precise timing. If Elkantar’s patrol did not strike soon, the lurking priestesses would run out of air. Yet they could not come to the surface, for doing so would alert the Dragon’s Hoard mercenaries and put Elkantar’s people in peril. So Iljrene schooled her thoughts to icy calm, and bided her time.

Under the command of Elkantar, a double patrol of Protectors swam toward the docked ships. They’d come in from the Sea Caves, down the watery gates that transported ships into Skullport’s hidden harbor, and in from the dark water beyond the docks. His forces paddled stealthily toward the ships: a score of drow, their silvery heads covered by tight, dark hoods; six men; and a halfling—all adventurers rescued by Eilistraee’s priestesses and pledged to the Dark Maiden’s service.

As he swam, Elkantar took the measure of the forces arrayed against his band. At least a dozen well-armed drow mercenaries patrolled the docks, and as many walked the decks of each of the two ships. Their ranks were supported by minotaur guards and deadly, dark-elven archers. The battle would be costly, yet Elkantar did not for a moment reconsider his course. Qilue Veladorn was not only his consort, but his liege lady. He had sworn to her; he would gladly do anything—even die—for her. But this task he would have done regardless. The long years fell away as the drow remembered another, similar vessel. That time, Elkantar had been chained in the cargo hold: a warrior-trained youth, nobly born but too rebellious for his matron mother’s liking. What he had endured during his slavery, and how he’d finally made his escape, pressed heavily on him now.

But this was a time for action, not for memories.

The bow of the ship nearest him was pointed away from the docks and was the area least heavily guarded, A lone minotaur paced the deck of the forecastle. Elkantar raised a small, crossbow-shaped harpoon and took aim. The bolt flew silently toward its target, trailing a length of nearly invisible spider-silk rope. The barbed weapon tore into the bull-man’s massive chest. Instantly dead, the creature slumped against the railing, head lolling out over the water. He looked for all the world as if he were a seasick sailor reconsidering his last meal.

Elkantar swam right up to the ship. He tugged at the rope; it held, and he scrambled up the curving hull to the forecastle. Using the minotaur’s body as a shield, he hauled himself over the railing. At once an alarm sounded, and an arrow streaked down from the crow’s nest, missing him but sinking with a meaty thud into the lifeless minotaur. Elkantar returned fire with a handbow, rapidly sending dart after dart toward the archer.

Meanwhile, his band had found the web of ropes alongside the.ships and had swarmed up onto the decks. The ship guards rushed to do battle, and the drow guarding the docks surged up the gangplanks onto the ship, drawing their weapons as they ran. Swords clashed as the drow battled hand to hand.

The Chosen might have held off the fighters, but the archers in the crow’s nests picked off the valiant invaders one by one. Elkantar watched, helpless, as an arrow took one of his fighters through the throat. He turned to his second—a tall, grim halfling who had followed him up the rope—and pointed toward the crow’s nest. The halfling nodded and dropped to one knee behind the sheltering bulk of the minotaur. The small archer sent arrow after arrow toward the mast, effectively pinning the deadly archer down.