Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
Doum’wielle turned with her father, side-by-side once more and facing into the tunnel, where four drow warriors, including the one who had levitated away across the river, stood in a line, lifting hand crossbows once more.
“And now we die,” her father said with resignation.
“Enough!” came a loud cry, volume clearly magically enhanced, from behind the enemy line. It was a call that would surely carry the weight of command among any raised in Menzoberranzan, for it had sounded in a female voice.
The drow line parted and between the warriors passed a female, dressed in fine black robes adorned with spider-shaped charms and elaborate designs. Even Doum’wielle, who had no experience with drow culture other than the teachings of her father, could not miss the significance. This was a priestess of the goddess Lolth, and one of great power.
For she held the terrible weapon of her high station, a snake-headed whip, four living serpents weaving eagerly in the air at her side, ready to strike at her command.
“Who are you and why are you here?” Doum’wielle asked in the language of the drow, which her father had taught her.
“Ah, yes, introductions,” her father said. “I would have offered them earlier, but your warriors were too busy trying to kill me.”
The snakes of the female’s whip hissed, reflecting her ire.
“You dare speak to a high priestess with such insolence?”
Doum’wielle was surprised to see her father fall back a step, clearly intimidated. He had underestimated her rank and did not seem overly confident now that it had been revealed.
“Forgive me,” he said with a graceful bow. “I am …”
“Tos’un Armgo, of House Barrison Del’Armgo,” Doum’wielle finished for him. “And I am Doum’wielle Armgo, of the same House.” She stepped forward, Khazid’hea at the ready, its red edge shining angrily, hungrily.
“You will escort us to Menzoberranzan,” she ordered, “where we will rejoin our House.”
She couldn’t tell if the stately priestess opposing her was impressed or amused.
“Children of House Barrison Del’Armgo, Menzoberranzan does not rule here,” she said evenly.
She was amused, Doum’wielle realized, and that did not bode well.
“The city of Q’Xorlarrin, though, will greet you,” the priestess said, and Tos’un sighed, and Doum’wielle thought it and hoped it to be an expression of great relief.
“Q’Xorlarrin?” he asked. “House Xorlarrin has built a city?” He half-turned to Doum’wielle and whispered, “My little Doe, our new life may yet prove more interesting than I had planned.”
“Yes, House Xorlarrin,” the priestess responded. “Once the Third House of Menzoberranzan, now greater. Greater than the Second House, it would seem.”
The way she had spoken seemed to take the hope from her father’s face, Doum’wielle noted.
“Tos’un Armgo,” came a male voice from behind, and Doum’wielle and Tos’un turned in unison to see a drow floating in the air just beyond the ledge. Doum’wielle moved as if to lash out with magic, but her father grabbed her arm and held her still. When she looked at him, she understood that he thought them clearly overmatched.
“Tsabrak?” he asked.
The floating mage laughed and bowed, which seemed almost comical while hanging in mid-air.
“A friend?” Doum’wielle whispered hopefully.
“Drow don’t have friends,” Tos’un whispered back.
“Indeed,” Tsabrak Xorlarrin agreed. “And yet, I have done you a great service, and likely saved you from summary execution.” He pointed down below him, and Doum’wielle and Tos’un dared to inch closer and glance down over the ledge, to see the two drow warriors they had driven over caught helplessly, but safely, in a magical web strung near the bottom of the watery cavern.
“My cousin, the eldest daughter of Matron Zeerith, has only recently been granted, by the will of the goddess, a fourth snake for her implement of Lolth’s mercy, and is eager to put the serpent to use, I would expect. Berellip is not known to show mercy on those who kill Xorlarrins.”
“Perhaps, then, she should not send Xorlarrins to attack the children of House Barrison Del’Armgo!” Doum’wielle imperiously replied. Tos’un gasped and moved to stop her, and indeed, she did bite off the end of that retort.
But only because four living snakes, the heads of Berellip’s mighty whip, bit her in the back for her impudence.
Khazid’hea screamed at her to retaliate, but the poison and the agony denied that, driving Doum’wielle to her knees.
And so her lesson had begun.
PART ONE
TOGETHER IN DARKNESS
Do people really change?
I’ve thought about this question so many times over the last decades—and how poignant it seemed to me when I happened once more upon Artemis Entreri, shockingly alive, given the passage of a century.
I came to travel with him, to trust him, even; does that mean that I came to believe that he had “changed”?
Not really. And now that we have once more parted ways, I don’t believe there to be a fundamental difference in the man, compared to the Entreri I fought beside in the Undercity of Mithral Hall when it was still in the hands of the duergar, or the Entreri I pursued to Calimport when he abducted Regis. Fundamentally, he is the same man, as, fundamentally, I am the same drow.
A person may learn and grow, and thus react differently to a recurring situation—that is the hope I hold for all people, for myself, for societies, even. Is that not the whole point of gaining experience, to use it to make wiser choices, to temper destructive instincts, to find better resolutions? In that regard, I do believe Artemis Entreri to be a changed man, slower in turning to the dagger for resolution, though no less deadly when he needs it. But fundamentally, regarding what lies in the man’s heart, he is the same.
I know that to be true of myself, although, in retrospect, I walked a very different path over the last few years than that I purposefully strode for the majority of my life. Darkness found my heart, I admit. With the loss of so many dear friends came the loss of hope itself and so I gave in to the easier path—although I had vowed almost every day that such a cynical journey would not be the road of Drizzt Do’Urden.
Fundamentally, though, I did not change, and so when faced with the reality of the darkened road, when it came time for me to admit the path to myself, I could not go on.
I cannot say that I miss Dahlia, Entreri, and the others. My heart does not call out for me to go and find them, surely—but I am not so certain that I could confidently claim such a casual attitude about my decision to part ways had it not been for the return of those friends I hold most dear! How can I regret parting with Dahlia when the fork in our road led me directly back into the arms of Catti-brie?
And thus, here I stand, together once more beside the Companions of the Hall, rejoined with the truest and dearest friends I have ever known, and could ever hope to know. Have they changed? Have their respective journeys through the realm of death itself brought to these four friends a new and guiding set of principles that will leave me sorely disappointed as I come to know them once more?
That is a fear I hold, but hold afar.
For people do not fundamentally change, so I believe. The warmth of Catti-brie’s embrace is one inspiring confidence that I am right. The mischievous grin of Regis (even with the mustache and goatee) is one I have seen before. And Bruenor’s call that night under the stars atop Kelvin’s Cairn, and his reaction to Wulfgar … aye, that was Bruenor, true to the thick bone and thick head!
All that said, in these first days together, I have noted a change in Wulfgar’s step, I admit. There is a lightness there I have not seen before, and—curiously, I say, given the description I have been told of his reluctance to leave Iruladoon for the mortal world once more—a smile that never seems to leave his face.
But he is Wulfgar, surely, the proud son of Beornegar. He has found some enlightenment, t
They are back. We are back. The Companions of the Hall. We are not as we once were, but our hearts remain true, our purpose joined, and our trust for each other undiminished and thus unbridled.
I am very glad of that!
And, in a curious way (and a surprising way to me), I hold no regrets for the last few years of my journey through a life confusing, frightening, and grand all at once. My time with Dahlia, and particularly with Entreri, was one of learning, I must believe. To see the world through a cynical perspective did not hurl me back to the days of my youth in Menzoberranzan, and thus encapsulate me in darkness, but rather, has offered to me a more complete understanding of the consequence of choice, for I broke free of the cynicism before knowing what fate awaited me atop Bruenor’s Climb.
I am not so self-centered as to believe that the world around me is created for me! We all play such self-centered games at times, I suppose, but in this case, I will allow myself one moment of self-importance: to accept the reunion of the Companions of the Hall as a reward to me. Put whatever name you wish upon the gods and goddesses, or the fates, or the coincidences and twists that move the world along its path—it matters not. In this one instance, I choose to believe in a special kind of justice.
Indeed, it is a foolish and self-serving claim, I know.
But it feels good.
—Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 1
THE SEASONED MATRON BAENRE
IT SEEMED JUST ANOTHER DAY FOR MATRON MOTHER QUENTHEL BAENRE as she went to her evening prayers. Her magnificent black robes, laced like flowing spiderwebs, swirled around her as she regally moved along the center aisle, passing the inferior priestesses at the many side altars of the Baenre House Chapel. The slightest breeze could send the spidery ends of that robe drifting upward and outward, blurring the form of the matron mother, giving her the appearance of etherealness and otherworldliness.
Quenthel’s sole surviving sister, Sos’Umptu, the first priestess of the House and keeper of the chapel, had preceded her to prayer this evening, and now prostrated herself, face down on the stone floor, legs tucked in a tight kneeling position. Quenthel considered that image as she neared, noting that Sos’Umptu had her forearms and hands flat on the floor above her head, up toward the altar, a position of complete supplication and apology, even, and not the typical form for daily prayers by the leading priestesses. A priestess of Sos’Umptu’s station rarely assumed so humble an entreaty.
Quenthel walked up close enough to hear her sister’s chanted prayer, and indeed, it was an apology, and a desperate one at that. The matron mother listened for a bit longer, hoping to catch some hint of why Sos’Umptu would be apologizing, but caught nothing specific.
“Dear sister,” she said when Sos’Umptu finally broke from her fevered chant.
The first priestess raised her head and turned to glance back.
“Supplicate,” Sos’Umptu whispered urgently. “At once!”
Quenthel’s first instinct was to lash out at Sos’Umptu for her disrespectful tone and for daring to order her to do anything. She even put a hand to her snake-headed whip, where the five writhing, sentient serpents continued their eternal dance. She was surprised as she grasped the weapon, though, for even K’Sothra, the most bloodthirsty of the serpents, warned her away from that course—and rare indeed was it for K’Sothra to ever counsel anything but the lash!
Hear her, purred Hsiv, the advisor serpent.
Sos’Umptu is devout, Yngoth agreed.
With the counsel of the serpents, the matron mother realized that only a matter of great importance would ever coax such irreverence from her sister. After all, Sos’Umptu was much like Triel, their deceased older sister, reserved and quietly calculating.
The matron mother straightened her robes out behind her and fell to her knees beside the first priestess, face down, arms extended in full surrender.
She heard the screaming—shrieking, actually—immediately, the discordant cacophony of demons, and of Lady Lolth herself, full of outrage and venom.
Something was very much amiss, clearly.
Quenthel tried to sort through the possibilities. Menzoberranzan remained on edge, as did most of Toril, as the world continued its realignment after the end of the Spellplague, some five years previous. But the drow city had fared well in that time, Quenthel believed. House Xorlarrin, Third House of Menzoberranzan, in league with House Baenre, had established a strong foothold in the dwarven complex formerly known as Gauntlgrym, and soon to be known as Q’Xorlarrin. The great and ancient Forge, powered by nothing less than a primordial of fire, had blazed to life, and weapons of fine edge and mighty enchantment had begun to flow back to Menzoberranzan. So secure did the new sister city seem that Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin herself had begun to make preparations for her departure, and had requested of Menzoberranzan’s ruling council that it approve the name Q’Xorlarrin for the new settlement, and as the permanent abode for her powerful House.
Replacing that House on the Council of Eight could prove messy, of course, as was always the case when those Houses immediately below the top eight ranks saw a chance at ascendance, but Quenthel remained confident that she had those issues under control.
Bregan D’aerthe, too, was thriving, with the resulting trade flowing in and out of Menzoberranzan. Under the leadership of Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle, the mercenaries had come to dominate the surface city of Luskan, and quietly, so as to not provoke the curiosity or ire of the lords of the surrounding kingdoms, particularly the powerful city of Waterdeep.
The matron mother subtly shook her head. Menzoberranzan was operating quite smoothly under her leadership. Perhaps these screams were prompted by something else. She tried to widen her focus beyond the reach of Menzoberranzan’s tentacles.
But the sudden shriek in her head left no doubt that Lolth’s anger this night was focused—and focused squarely on House Baenre, or at least, on Menzoberranzan. After a long while of accepting the telepathic berating, Quenthel lifted herself up to a kneeling position and motioned for Sos’Umptu to do likewise.
Her sister came up shaking her head, her expression as full of confusion as Quenthel’s own.
The source of Queen Lolth’s ire? Quenthel’s fingers asked in the intricate drow sign language.
Sos’Umptu shook her head helplessly.
Matron Mother Quenthel looked at the grand altar, its standing backdrop a gigantic drider-like figure. Its eight spider legs were tucked in a squat, and it bore the head and torso of a female drow, the beautiful figure of Lady Lolth herself. Quenthel closed her eyes and listened once more, then fell to the floor in supplication yet again.
But the shrieks would not provide focus.
Quenthel gradually came back to a kneeling position no less confused or concerned. She crossed her arms over her chest and rocked slowly, seeking guidance. She put her hand on her sentient weapon, but the serpents remained silent, uncharacteristically so.
At length, she lifted her hands and signed to her sister, Get you to Arach-Tinilith and retrieve Myrineyl!
“Sister?” Sos’Umptu dared to openly question. Arach-Tinilith, the training academy for drow priestesses, served as the greatest of the drow academies, elevated on Tier Breche above the school of warriors, Melee-Magthere, and Sorcere, the school for promising young wizards.
Quenthel shot Sos’Umptu a threatening glare.
I should retire to the Fane of Quarvelsharess, Sos’Umptu’s fingers flashed, referring to the great public cathedral of Menzoberranzan, one Sos’Umptu had been instrumental in creating, and in which she served as high priestess. I only visited Chapel Baenre so that I would not be tardy for evening prayers.
Her argument revealed to the matron mother that Sos’Umptu thought the issue bigger than House Baenre, encompassing all of
No! Quenthel’s fingers flashed simply. She saw the disappointment on Sos’Umptu’s face, and knew it was more a matter of the reason for the ordered diversion to Arach-Tinilith than the delay in her return to her precious Fane of Quarvelsharess. Sos’Umptu was no friend to Myrineyl, Quenthel’s eldest daughter, after all! Soon to graduate from Arach-Tinilith, the whispers had already started concerning the expected struggle between Myrineyl and Sos’Umptu over the title of First Priestess of House Baenre, which was among the most coveted positions in the drow city.
You will work with Myrineyl, Quenthel’s hand signs explained, and aloud she added, “Summon a yochlol, in this temple. We will hear the call of Lady Lolth and will answer to her needs.”
Up and down the chapel, the matron mother’s words were met by rising eyes, even rising priestesses, at the proclamation. Summoning a yochlol was no minor thing, after all, and most in attendance had never seen one of Lolth’s Handmaidens.
The matron mother watched the expressions being exchanged among the lessers, wide-eyed, full of apprehension, full of excitement.
“Select half the priestesses of House Baenre to witness the summoning,” the matron mother instructed as she rose. “Make them earn their place of witness.” She threw the train of her spidery gown out behind her and imperiously strode away, appearing the rock of confidence and strength.
Inside, though, the matron mother’s thoughts roiled, the shrieks of Lolth echoing in her mind. Somehow, someone had erred, and greatly so, and punishment from Lolth was never an easy sentence.
Perhaps she should take part in the summoning, she thought, before quickly dismissing the idea. She was the Matron Mother of House Baenre, after all, the unquestioned ruler of Lolth’s city of Menzoberranzan. She would not request the audience of a yochlol, and would only accept the invitation of one, should it come to that. Besides, high priestesses were only supposed to call upon one of Lolth’s handmaidens in a dire emergency, and Quenthel wasn’t completely sure that’s what this was. If not, and the summoning invoked the further displeasure of Lolth, better that she was not among those calling!