Resurrection (12 page)

"The caves," Quenthel said, nodding.

"Yes, Mistress," hissed one of the female heads of her whip. "The caves will be safer."

"Silence, Zinda," Quenthel gently admonished her whip.

"Safer?" Jeggred said and sneered. "Safety is the concern of cowards, timid priestesses, and weak mages." He eyed Quenthel and Pharaun meaningfully in turn.

Pharaun smiled at the draegloth, turned his gaze to Quenthel, and said, "I would remind your nephew that it was Mistress Danifae who suggested that we seek shelter to avoid the danger of the Teeming. Does that mean you think her timid, Jeggred?"

Pharaun took a moment to enjoy the look of consternation on Jeggred's face before he said, "Perhaps not, then. But in any event, it appears you would prefer to linger on the surface until we return. I think it an excellent idea. Thank you, Jeggred. Your bravery will be remembered in song."

He offered the draegloth an insincere bow, and Jeggred snarled and bared his fangs.

Pharaun ignored the oaf-showing a dolt to be a dolt brought him only small satisfaction-and eyed the open mouth of the chwidenchas' hole.

To Quenthel, he said, "I can seal the cave opening behind us with a spell, and we can wait for as long as need be. When the storm passes and the violence ends, I can get us back through, and we can travel then."

Quenthel nodded, and said, "An excellent idea, Master Mizzrym."

Jeggred snorted with contempt, and Quenthel fixed him with a stare that could have frozen a fire elemental. The serpent heads of her whip rose up and offered the draegloth a stare of their own.

"Nephew?" she said and made the word sound like an insult. "You wish to say something more, perhaps?"

Jeggred opened his mouth, but Danifae's hand on his arm stopped him from saying whatever words he had thought to offer.

Instead, Danifae smiled her disarming smile and looked to Pharaun.

"Master Mizzrym has offered sage counsel," she said, as though to Jeggred but really to Quenthel. "And Mistress Quenthel is wise to heed it." She let that sit a moment before she cocked her pretty head and frowned. "Though, I've never before seen a male demonstrate such persuasion over a priestess of Lolth."

Pharaun almost laughed aloud at the transparency of the play. Danifae hoped to weaken the relationship between Pharaun and Quenthel by intimating that the high priestess relied to an unseemly degree upon Pharaun.

"Hardly persuasion," he replied. "But perhaps if she were not the only priestess in this little band to have demonstrated wisdom, she would not have to rely on the paltry suggestions of a mere male."

Jeggred glared at him, fangs bare. Pharaun stared back at the oaf.

Danifae showed no sign that she had heard Pharaun. She had eyes only for Quenthel.

The Baenre priestess met Danifae's stare with one of her own, gave a tight smile, and said, "Some males serve a purpose, battle-captive." She too let that sit a moment before adding, "Of course, one must be careful in choosing which males best suit the purpose at hand." Then she let her gaze settle contemptuously on Jeggred. "A priestess with a poor eye for choosing her male servants is often a dead priestess. Perhaps your draegloth has some sage counsel of his own to offer on the matter?"

"Counsel?" Jeggred snarled. "Here's my counsel, you-"

"Jeggred," Danifae interrupted and patted one of the draegloth's fighting arms. "Be silent."

The draegloth said no more.

"Your dog is well-trained," Pharaun said, and Jeggred started to lunge at him.

Danifae caught his mane, and he halted in mid-stride. Pharaun held his ground and smiled.

Again, Danifae did not acknowledge Pharaun, instead saying to Quenthel, "No, Jeggred has nothing to say at the moment. He is a male and offers his counsel only when solicited by me."

Pharaun could see the anger brewing behind Quenthel's eyes. She walked up to Danifae-not even Jeggred dared get in her way, though he did stay beside the battle-captive-and stared down at the smaller female.

"My nephew has never been known for his intellect," she said.

Danifae smiled and stroked the draegloth's arm. "No, Mistress Quenthel," she replied. "Just his loyalty."

Quenthel's expression hardened. She gave Danifae one last glare before turning to Pharaun and saying, "And I rely on only Lolth, male."

When he heard those words, Pharaun knew that Danifae had accomplished exactly what she had hoped.

"Of course, Mistress," he said, and nothing more, for there was nothing more to say. The damage was already done.

Behind Quenthel, Danifae offered him a knowing smile through the cuts on her face. Jeggred offered him a snarl of undisguised hate.

He ignored them both and said to Quenthel, "The cave, Mistress?"

She nodded and replied, "The cave. But first…"

The high priestess withdrew from an inner pocket of her
piwafwi
the wand of healing that she had stolen from Halisstra Melarn back in Ched Nasad. She touched it to herself and whispered the command word. The cuts on her face closed, the burns diminished, and her breathing grew easier. Afterward, she walked over, and without asking permission, touched it to Pharaun and repeated the process. Much to his relief, his nose healed, the charred mess of his hand regenerated, and the innumerable cuts and scratches on his torso closed.

"Thank you, Mistress," he said with a bow.

Quenthel did not acknowledge his gratitude. She put the wand back in her cloak, turned to Danifae, and said, "No doubt, you will tend to yourself and your loyal draegloth."

Pharaun offered Danifae a sneer. Likely, Danifae could tend to no one. Though Lolth had reawakened and both priestesses had spells at their command, it was rare for a priestess of Lolth to store many healing spells in her mind. Priestesses of Lolth destroyed, they did not heal. Quenthel could heal herself and Pharaun fully only because she had Halisstra's wand.

To his surprise, Danifae smiled at Quenthel and said, "Lolth will tend to us. As always."

"Quite so," Quenthel replied with a cunning look.

Pharaun straightened his robes. At his feet, the cave mouth yawned. It sank almost vertically into the rock. Webs lined its walls, and stink leaked from it.

"After you, Mistress Danifae," he said and gestured down at the cave, all the while thinking, After all, there might be something dangerous down there.

Danifae twisted her beautiful face into a sneer and said, "Come, Jeggred, Master Mizzrym remains timid."

The draegloth took her curvaceous body in his inner, smaller arms and lifted her from her feet.

"How quaint," Pharaun observed.

The draegloth stared holes into the mage.

One of Danifae's legs escaped her cloak. She wore tight-fitting breeches, and the curve of her thigh and hip drew Pharaun's eye, despite himself. She caught him eyeing her and did not cover her leg.

"Descend," she said to Jeggred, all the while smiling seductively at Pharaun.

Jeggred touched his House Baenre brooch and levitated down into the cave mouth.

For Quenthel's benefit, Pharaun signed after Danifae,
Whore.

He looked up to find Quenthel staring at him, her expression unreadable. She drew her whip and stepped to the cave opening.

"Seal it behind us, mage," she said.

She touched her own brooch and followed Danifae and her nephew down, whip bare and ready in the event of an ambush.

Pharaun stood a moment at the edge, watching the top of Quenthel's head sink into the darkness. Quenthel had said to Danifae that
some
males served a purpose-he needed to make certain that she continued to think him one such.

For a moment, for a single tempting heartbeat, he considered abandoning her, abandoning the quest, but quickly dismissed the idea as ill-advised. Lolth was awake, and her priestesses again wielded the power of their goddess; things were returning to normal. Besides, Pharaun would be answerable to Gromph and House Baenre upon his return to Menzoberranzan for any direct or indirect harm he caused Quenthel.

With nothing else for it, he touched his House Mizzrym brooch and stepped out over the cave mouth. For a moment, he hovered there, listening to the darkness below, wondering whether Danifae and Jeggred would actually dare an ambush. He heard nothing and so descended until he floated just below the cave mouth. There, he withdrew from his pocket a round piece of polished granite, a stone he had purchased from a curio vendor in Menzoberranzan's bazaar, long ago. He cradled it against his palm with his thumb, flattened his hands palms downward, and recited a series of arcane words.

When he finished the incantation, the magic formed a wall of stone over the cave mouth. Its borders melded with and into the surrounding rock, blocking the light from Lolth's sun. The brewing storm and the seething Teeming disappeared behind the wall. The cave fell into welcome darkness, to which his eyes quickly adjusted.

He put the granite back in its place and descended the rest of the way down the shaft. It wove a bit here and there, but moved ever downward. He heard no sounds coming from below and assumed that nothing dangerous lurked there-other than his companions. To be prudent, he pulled another chip of flakefungus from his pocket and readied himself quickly to cast the flesh-flensing spell. He thought of an ancient drow adage: Keep allies within reach of your sword, but keep enemies within reach of your knife. He saw the wisdom of it. Pharaun never felt more uncomfortable than when Jeggred and Danifae were out of his sight.

It was clear to him that Danifae was trying to undermine Quenthel's claim that she was the
Yor'thae.
Perhaps she thought to take that title for herself? As absurd as it sounded, Pharaun thought it to be true.

For his part, he was beginning to think that neither priestess was or would be Lolth's Chosen.

Most of Ched Nasad rested in ruins around him. Heaps of rubble and chunks of stone lay scattered and broken about the chasm's bottom like the grave markers for a race of titans. Once, the city had hung over the chasm on thick calcified webs. Then the duergar had come, the webs had burned under the gray dwarves' stonefire bombs, and the city had fallen.

Nimor smiled at the destruction. He had returned from Chaulssin to look once more upon what his people had wrought.

High above him hung those few of the city's webs that had survived the duergars' attacks bombs. A number of intact buildings dangled in the broken, calcified strands like trapped caveflies, twisting helplessly over the abyss. A handful of minor noble houses, built into the chasm's walls rather than on the webs that once had spanned the abyss, remained largely intact.

Nimor knew that the Jaezred Chaulssin had begun to rebuild the city in their image. Drow in service to the Jaezred Chaulssin worked at the bottom of the chasm, along its walls, and in the surviving webs near the top. The beat of shadow dragon wings whispered in the cavern's depths, and many of the ruined buildings that lay at the bottom of the chasm had already been melded into the Shadow Fringe. Oily, impenetrable clouds of darkness shrouded the areas that existed simultaneously in both planes.

The transformation would go on for decades, Nimor knew, centuries perhaps. But when it was complete, Ched Nasad would be another Chaulssin. The resurrected Ched Nasad would be one drow city that contained nothing of the Spider Queen or her servants.

Nimor smiled, but softly. The sting of his failure lingered still, overwhelming whatever satisfaction he otherwise would have felt. He had hoped to see not only Ched Nasad transformed but also Menzoberranzan.

He eyed the magical ring of shadow on his fingers, a band of liquid black that wrapped his digit like a tiny asp. Of his many magic items, only his ring and his House brooch had retained their enchantments after Gromph Baenre had cast his spell of disjoining during their combat over Menzoberranzan's bazaar. Nimor had not yet replaced any of his lost items. He regarded his penury as penance for his failure.

Menzoberranzan. He saw the city in his mind's eye, imagined it lying in ruin about him like Ched Nasad…

He shook the image from his head. Menzoberranzan stood, and Lolth had returned. Nimor had failed, and he was no longer the Anointed Blade.

He sighed, fingering his ring.

Patron Grandfather Tomphael had ordered Nimor to return to Ched Nasad and Menzoberranzan one final time, to look alternatively upon the scene of the Jaezred Chaulssin's success and the scene of their failure. Nimor, of course, would obey the patron grandfather.

Besides, certain matters in Menzoberranzan-a certain bald matter and a certain half-devil matter-required his attention.

"Here is success," Nimor said to himself, taking one final look around. "Now, on to failure." Without further ado, Nimor called upon the power of his shadow ring to remove him to the Fringe. When the magic took effect, ruined Ched Nasad vanished, replaced by a shadowy ghost of itself. Only those portions of the city that had been removed to the Plane of Shadow appeared substantive.

Nimor willed open a path along the Fringe to Menzoberranzan, and it opened before him. He stepped onto it, beat his wings, and took to the air. Unbound by the physical rules of the Prime Material Plane, the Shadow Fringe allowed rapid travel. Swirling ribbons of shadow surged past and through Nimor. The power of the ring and the nature of the Fringe turned a journey of days into a journey of less than an hour.

Presently, he found himself within the shadow correspondent of Menzoberranzan, a ghostly, dead image of spires, towers, and stalagmite structures. With an effort of will, he pierced the veil between the Fringe and the Prime and found himself hovering in darkness near the top of Menzoberranzan's cavern. Darkness enshrouded him, rendering him invisible even to the otherwise discerning eyes
of any drow who might look up. He gazed down on his failure.

The Jaezred Chaulssin had scried the city, to keep tabs on events even after Nimor had fled. He knew what those scryings had shown: The forces that he had so meticulously marshaled to conquer Menzoberranzan were falling into disarray.

Vhok and his Scourged Legion were beginning to withdraw, fighting retreating actions through the caverns east of the fungus gardens. No doubt the tanarukks would flee back to their warrens under Hellgate Keep with their hides, if not their dignity, intact. Horgar and his ridiculous duergar forces would not be so fortunate. The duergar had left the rock of Tier Breche a pockmarked, melted, blackened waste, but they had failed to break through-Melee-Magthere, Arach-Tinilith, and Sorcere all remained in the hands in the Menzoberranyr. The battle there continued still. Explosions and blasts of magical energy denoted the ferocity of the ongoing fight. Nimor knew it to be futile. Lolth had reawakened; the opportunity to conquer the city had passed. The Spider Queen once again answered the prayers of her priestesses, and when Arach-Tinilith spat out her daughters and they bolstered the Menzoberranyr forces with their newly regained spells, the duergar would be routed. Few of them would ever leave Menzoberranzan. Unlike Vhok, Horgar was too blind or too stupid to see it.

Nimor let his eyes linger long on the high plateau of Tier Breche, in particular on the soaring spires of Sorcere. Somewhere within, he knew, was Gromph Baenre. Thinking of the Archmage caused Nimor's blood to seethe. Gromph had destroyed the lichdrow Dyrr- the bazaar was still a smoking ruin from their spell battle-and had been instrumental in thwarting the entire invasion. Nimor both hated and respected him.

Nimor beat his wings and looked to his right, to the great spire of Narbondel. Its base glowed red in the darkness, a defiant beacon proclaiming to the whole of the Underdark that Menzoberranzan remained standing. Nimor wondered if Gromph Baenre himself had lit the beacon's fires.

With startling suddenness, Nimor's emotional control slipped. An unbearable wave of frustration washed over him. He clenched his fists and swallowed down the roar that threatened to escape his throat.

He had fought well, schemed his best, and
nearly
-within a rothe's hair-conquered the most powerful drow city in the Underdark. The trophy of Ched Nasad would have paled in comparison to the jewel of a conquered Menzoberranzan.

Of course, he knew that
nearly
was insufficient,
almost
a paltry substitute for success, both for him and for the Jaezred Chaulssin.
Nearly
won him nothing.
Nearly
had lost him his place of honor as the Anointed Blade of
the Jaezred Chaulssin.

That was the lesson the patron grandfather had wanted him to learn in returning-Nimor was to taste of failure, to gag on its flavor so much that he would never allow it to happen again. A tiny amount of humility took root in him and tempered his habitual arrogance.

You promised to cleanse Menzoberranzan of the stench of Lolth,
Patron Grandfather Mauzzkyl had said to him.
Have you done that?

Nimor had answered truthfully-he had not done it. He had only
nearly
done it, and the bitter taste of
nearly
had all but choked him.

There will be other opportunities,
Patron Father Tomphael had promised.
If you learn wisdom.

Lesson learned, Tomphael, Nimor thought.

He fixed his gaze on Tier Breche, where the battle still raged, on the quiet Donigarten, where drow soldiers prowled amongst the giant mushrooms. He thought of Horgar, of the little princeling's failings…

Nimor had a lesson of his own to teach. Horgar would be his student.

With his mind made up, he looked down upon Menzoberranzan a final time. He stared at the soaring, elegant spires, the tall towers, the twisting architecture of the great manor houses-all of it a silent testimony to the unbearable arrogance of the Menzoberranyr. Perhaps they too had learned to temper their arrogance with humility.

Or perhaps not.

Nimor looked down on the city and offered it a grudging nod of respect.

It had beaten him.

This time.

With a minor exercise of will, he moved into the bleakness of the Shadow Fringe.

The chwidencha shaft dropped down a spearcast before ending in a round chamber from which a wide horizontal tunnel extended. Old webs covered the walls, and the dried husks of dismembered spiders lay cast about here and there, no doubt the remains of the chwidenchas' meals. Jeggred kicked at them absently. The dry air stank of must and decay.

Pharaun lowered himself to the ground beside Quenthel. Her whip flicked its tongues at him.

Danifae and Jeggred stood apart, eyeing them. Danifae ran her fingers over her holy symbol.

Pharaun could not help but think that not all of them would be returning to the surface. As a precaution, he still held the piece of flakefungus hidden in his palm.

To Quenthel, he said, "The tunnel is sealed above us, Mistress."

She nodded, looked down the horizontal tunnel, and said, "We will continue on for a bit longer. Find a more suitable spot to rest."

No one protested, and Quenthel started down the tunnel. The rest of them fell in beside her. The cavern was wide enough to accommodate the four of them walking abreast, and they did exactly that. None wanted to show their backs to the others.

Here and there, smaller tunnels branched off of the main corridor and extended away into the darkness. Pharaun wondered if all of Lolth's plane was hollowed out with tunnels, possessed of an Underdark of its own. He thought they might have escaped the chwidencha and the Teeming only to find themselves facing something worse in the depths.

Nothing for it now, he thought, but he kept his hearing attuned for sound from ahead.

He heard nothing other than Jeggred's respiration and the scrape of their boots over the rock. The draegloth shouldered aside any carcasses in their way, but they encountered nothing alive. With the chwidencha pack on the surface, it appeared that at least the main horizontal tunnel was empty.

After a short time, they came to another roughly round chamber, one littered with more desiccated spider husks and the hollowed out molt shells of the chwidencha. The shells, each as thin as fine parchment, looked like dozens of chwidencha ghosts. Jeggred clutched one of them by its leg, and the entire shell crumbled away in his grasp.

A few small pools of green acid dotted the chamber and bubbled smoke and stink into the air. It vented through cracks in the low ceiling. A natural archway in the far side of the chamber opened onto another large tunnel.

"Perhaps here, Mistress?" Pharaun ventured. "We are not vulnerable to attack from behind"-at least not from the chwidencha, he thought-"and can set a watch in the tunnel ahead. A rest would allow me time to study my spellbooks and replace those spells I've cast."

He knew that it would also allow the priestesses, after a brief Reverie, to refresh their own spells from Lolth. He could use the benefit of one or two of Quenthel's healing spells.

Quenthel eyed him with cool disdain, obviously displeased that he had offered yet another "suggestion." Still, she said, "Here is as good a place as any. We will eat, rest, and pray to Lolth."

Hearing no protests, Pharaun found a choice rock and collapsed atop it.

"Jeggred will take the first watch," Quenthel said.

The draegloth, crumbling yet another chwidencha molt, looked to Danifae, who nodded.

"Very well," Jeggred said to Quenthel and stalked across the chamber to take a position at the mouth of the tunnel before them.

Quenthel watched him go with anger in her eyes. When he seemed situated, she said, "Not there, nephew. Up the tunnel a ways. It does me no good to learn of danger after it is already upon us."

Jeggred offered her an irritated growl and looked again to Danifae. The former battle-captive hesitated.

"Are you concerned to be alone with me?" Quenthel asked Danifae, letting contempt drip from her tone.

Danifae looked at Quenthel with a challenge in her startling gray eyes. "I have yet to see a reason why I should be," she replied.

Quenthel smiled. Still holding Danifae's attention, she waved dismissively at Jeggred and said, "Be off, nephew."

Jeggred held his ground until Danifae gestured him up the tunnel with a flick of her fingers.

"I will not be far," Jeggred warned, for the benefit of everyone.

Even after the draegloth had prowled up the tunnel, Quenthel continued to stare at Danifae. The former battle-captive studiously ignored Quenthel, examined her wounds, shook out her gear, and stripped down to a tight-fitting tunic and breeches. Scratches, cuts, and bruises from the battle marred her skin but did nothing to diminish her attractiveness.

Pharaun again was struck by the sheer physicality of the woman. Men had fought and died for things much less beautiful than Danifae's form.

It was unfortunate she would have to die. Hopefully, soon.