Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
Entreri shrugged and laughed. “I am no elf. And the magic? I thought I knew, but alas, I was surely wrong.”
“Then how are you alive?”
“You should ask Jarlaxle. Likely he knows more about it than I.”
Berellip came forward then, smiling wickedly. She put her hand out to cup Entreri’s chin and forced him to look up at her. “Once you pleased me,” she said. “Perhaps again.”
He didn’t respond, and did well to keep the hatred out of his expression. But Berellip took a step back from him, walking away, then swung around suddenly, snake whip in hand.
And she beat him—oh how she beat him!—the serpents gashing his flesh, spilling poison into his veins. It went on for a long, long while, and Entreri was left squirming on the floor.
Several drow males appeared then, out of nowhere, as if they had been in the room all along, hidden under a dweomer of mass invisibility, perhaps. Two grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him away. He realized that much at least, as the whip’s poison drove deeper into his sensibilities, pushing him farther from reality.
By the time he opened his eyes again, brought back to consciousness by the pinging of smithy hammers, he was back in his hanging cage, Dahlia sobbing quietly and pitifully off to his right, Afafrenfere slumped within the iron bands in a cage to his left.
The battered assassin nodded as he took in the scene. The drow priestess had just made a mistake, he knew.
She had given him purpose. He had no hope of leaving this place alive, unless it was to be dragged to Menzoberranzan as a slave once more.
But now he was determined to see at least one of these drow dead before him.
“Little Doe, oh my dear child,” Tos’un said when he was at last reunited with Doum’wielle in the lower corridors of the Underdark. The Baenre entourage had broken away from Tsabrak, returning home to Menzoberranzan.
“What have you led me into?” Doum’wielle asked, her voice and expression a combination of terror, shock, and dismay.
That sad look and inflection wounded Tos’un more than he ever could have imagined. He was the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo, after all, a drow noble warrior of high standing among the ranks of the Second House of Menzoberranzan, and perhaps the greatest warrior garrison of any drow House in the world.
Why did he care about his daughter, any more than the glory or trouble she would bring to him?
“What did you expect?” he asked rather callously. “Did I not teach you enough about the ways of the drow? Did growing up among our weakling cousins make you, too, weak?”
“Father …”
“Silence!” he cried and he slapped her across the face. “Are you drow or are you darthiir?” he demanded, using the drow term for the surface elves, and it was not a word spoken with any warmth at all.
“If I am darthiir, then I am dead,” Doum’wielle replied.
“If you are darthiir, then you will beg for death,” Tos’un was quick to clarify. “Do you think that Matron Mother Quenthel, or any of them, or even I, would suffer you to live—”
“Did you love my mother?”
“Love,” the drow spat with open contempt. The question struck deeper than Tos’un would admit—even than he would dare admit to himself!—for yes, he had known love with Sinnafein. And yes, his time among the elves of the Moonwood was at first out of convenience, and for simple survival, but it had become more than that as the years had drifted past.
But for it to remain more than that now meant certain doom, Tos’un Armgo knew, both for himself and for his daughter.
“Love is reserved for the goddess,” he instructed. “Your mother was my captor and nothing more. I took carnal pleasure from her as I could, and from that pleasure were you and your brother born. I could not leave her and her foul darthiir tribe, on my very life. But now, you have led me … home.”
Doum’wielle stood perfectly still for a long while, digesting those words and the clear, callous spirit in which they had been offered. Her gaze lowered to Tos’un’s hip.
“Give me my sword,” she instructed.
“The matron mother told me to carry it.”
Doum’wielle stared at him hatefully, imperiously. Tos’un could see the struggle within her, as clear as the one she had fought when trying to dominate Khazid’hea. Now she was trying to dominate her darthiir side, the soft elven weakness of Sinnafein’s heritage and the environment of the Moonwood. She had to win this fight, Tos’un knew, and had to win it decisively and quickly, or she would become fodder for the torturers of Menzoberranzan, and perhaps would find continuing life as an eight-legged abomination.
“The sword is mine, fairly earned in blood,” she said.
“As soon as the matron mother wills it, I will return it to you.”
He noted Doum’wielle’s blanch, and noted, too, that she was looking past him suddenly, and Tos’un spun around to find Matron Mother Quenthel standing right behind him.
“When we return to the east, should I allow Tos’un Armgo to lead the attack upon the Moonwood?” Matron Mother Quenthel asked with a sly grin.
“Allow me,” Doum’wielle interjected, “that I might use the battle to purge myself of the weakness of my mother’s heritage!”
“Doe, your place!” Tos’un warned, but Matron Mother Quenthel was laughing then, and seemed quite pleased.
“Give this child her sword back,” she instructed and both Tos’un and Doum’wielle stared at her incredulously.
“At once!” Quenthel demanded, and Tos’un quickly unfastened his sword belt and handed it over to his daughter. As Doum’wielle strapped it around her waist, the matron mother moved very close to her.
“That was my brother’s sword,” she said quietly. “Sword of the great Dantrag Baenre, the greatest weapons master of his time.” As she finished, she turned slyly upon Tos’un, as if daring him to disagree, for it was a source of great pride among House Barrison Del’Armgo to name the legendary Uthegental as the greatest weapons master of that era. Indeed, the rivalry between Uthegental and Dantrag had elicited whispers and argument in every corner of Menzoberranzan for centuries.
Tos’un, of course, did not openly challenge her assertion.
“Do you think it fitting that the sword of Dantrag hangs on the hip of an Armgo?” Matron Mother Quenthel pressed, and Tos’un swallowed hard.
“No, Matron Mother,” he said quietly, and Doum’wielle whispered her agreement.
“Nor do I, of course,” Matron Mother Quenthel said. “But it will be fitting when our Houses are joined anew in common cause. Walk with pride and consequence, both of you, for you are the ambassadors of the Second House of Menzoberranzan, who will lead Baenre and Barrison Del’Armgo to a place of greater understanding.”
“Matron Mother?” Tos’un heard himself saying as he tried to sort through that startling declaration. Lost within the wide web Matron Mother Quenthel had just cast was the reality that she was apparently now accepting not only Tos’un but Doum’wielle, a half-drow, half-darthiir in to her grand plans.
With a superior laugh, Matron Mother Quenthel spun around and walked away, rejoining Andzrel and the Baenre entourage as she took her place on her floating magical disc.
“Father?” Doum’wielle asked skeptically.
But Tos’un could only shake his head in confusion.
“It is a Baenre blade,” Andzrel complained to Gromph as the two continued along to the east with Tsabrak’s group. “To give it to a son of House Barrison Del’Armgo—”
“Is the matron mother’s choice,” Gromph coolly interrupted. He looked down on the weapons master. The two were not close and had never been, but their relationship had only deteriorated since Andzrel had learned that Gromph had played a role in helping Ravel Xorlarrin find the ancient dwarven homeland of Gauntlgrym, and that Gromph had been instrumental in making certain that Tiago Baenre, Andzrel’s rival for the coveted weapons master rank, had represented House Baenre on that successful mission.
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“But you do?” Andzrel asked with a derisive chortle.
“Why, yes,” Gromph matter-of-factly answered.
“Do enlighten me.”
“Hardly,” Gromph replied. “Your ignorance amuses me. I will offer you this, however: Tiago will not challenge you as Weapons Master of House Baenre.”
That startling revelation set Andzrel back on his heels, for he knew that Matron Mother Quenthel had instructed Saribel Xorlarrin to return to Menzoberranzan with Tiago posthaste. Andzrel had assumed that the brash young warrior, grandson of the famed Dantrag and armed with a new, and by all accounts fabulous shield and sword, would make his play for House weapons master quickly.
“He will remain with the Xorlarrins?”
“No.”
Andzrel looked at the cryptic old mage curiously.
“Too many moving parts for you to comprehend,” Gromph explained. “Tiago will be well-rewarded, but not as the Weapons Master of House Baenre, a position that is far too mundane at this time to waste his talents upon.”
The clever insult elicited a wince from Andzrel, but just a small one, and one that could not hold against the obvious relief Gromph’s news had brought.
And that had ever been this one’s limitation, Gromph recognized clearly at that moment. Andzrel was thrilled at the prospect of not having to go against Tiago, a fight he knew he could not win, but so focused was this small-minded warrior on the issue at hand that he could never see the larger picture and, of course, the bigger threat to his position. Quenthel’s own son, Aumon Baenre, would soon enough graduate from Melee-Magthere, and at the top of his class, of course, and the matron mother surely intended that he would soon thereafter become the Weapons Master of House Baenre. Tiago had never been seriously considered for that position by Matron Mother Quenthel and certainly wouldn’t be now that Quenthel had rightly and properly assumed the mantle as Matron Mother Baenre, in heart, in mind, and in cunning.
No, she had other plans for Tiago and his new bride Saribel, Gromph knew, and those plans would include a more important position for Tiago.
Because unlike Andzrel, Tiago understood something more than the martial arts.
Tiago knew how to play the game of intrigue.
“Count yourself fortunate,” Gromph said at length, “for you are to witness the Darkening, and it will be a glorious sight.”
Andzrel looked at him curiously. “Are you not planning to see Tsabrak through to the surface?”
“No,” Gromph answered, and he glanced back and waved to his mind flayer companion to catch up. “I have been out scouting this very morning. This is the final run to the surface, a few tendays hence, and the way is clear, and so I am done my duty here to Tsabrak. Stay with him and keep him safe—it should be an easy enough task.”
He began to cast a spell, tracing the outline of a doorway into the air.
“You are home to Menzoberranzan, then?”
“In time,” was all that Gromph would answer, and he waved the illithid into the portal before him, then nodded to the weapons master and stepped through, coming out into the small antechamber in the primordial room he had previously marked for just this purpose. The huge water elemental remained in there, at its guard, and it rose up menacingly before recognizing the archmage and melting back away.
Gromph created a dimensional door that he and Methil might cross the pit, then led the mind flayer into the bending, narrow tunnel that would take them to the Forge, the ping of hammers echoed off the stones to guide their way
They crossed the Forge, drawing a few stares from goblin and drow alike, though of course none dared to hinder their passage in any way. Gromph noted the cages hanging, but took little interest in them at that time.
They exited into a large corridor lined with magnificent dwarf statues, and even though he hated the bearded folk profoundly, Gromph could appreciate the craftsmanship, and thought it a good thing that the Xorlarrin force had not desecrated these remnants of another age. He was heading for Berellip’s chambers, but Gromph paused at a door along the way and listened with growing amusement. Without bothering to knock, the archmage cast a spell of opening and the door swung in, revealing a very surprised trio of dark elves.
Gromph swept into the room, Methil right behind. He found it curious that the highest-ranking of the three within, Saribel Xorlarrin, was the one who showed him the most deference, stepping back and politely bowing.
Yet the other two, her upstart and ambitious brother Ravel, along with the ever-upstart Tiago, seemed too agitated at the moment to even properly acknowledge the great presence of the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.
“I have been recalled to Menzoberranzan!” Tiago growled.
“The matron mother has use for you.”
“But no, Archmage, it cannot be!” the young warrior shouted, and he slapped his hands together in frustration.
“We are so close now,” Ravel explained. “We have captured his friends and dragged them here. They will tell us, and then the wayward rogue will be ours!”
“The wayward rogue? Drizzt Do’Urden again?”
“Yes!” the two young drow answered in unison.
Gromph wasn’t sure where to take this. The matron mother had set many plans in motion, in Menzoberranzan and in the surface region known as the Silver Marches, and Gromph doubted that those plans included a showdown between Tiago and Drizzt, particularly at this delicate time.
“Take me to these captives,” he decided, and shortly after, the five stood before the hanging cages in the great Forge of Gauntlgrym.
After a telepathic conference with the mind flayer, Gromph ordered Dahlia to be taken down, but the whole time, he continued to look at Entreri.
“Jarlaxle’s old friend,” he said to Tiago and Ravel, standing beside him. “A formidable warrior, as I recall.”
“Not so formidable,” Tiago replied.
Gromph turned to regard the vain young drow. The archmage wore a slight grin then, which Tiago did not understand, for Gromph was picturing this young warrior in combat with Drizzt Do’Urden, and expecting that Tiago would learn a bit of humility at the end of that one’s curved blades.
Gromph turned his attention to Dahlia, who seemed as if she would simply fall over were it not for the two drow guards holding her up.
“Take her to a room where I might be alone with her,” the archmage instructed and Dahlia was hustled away. “Well, not alone,” Gromph corrected, looking at his illithid companion.
“What do you intend to do?” Tiago asked.
Gromph looked at him incredulously, letting him know how ridiculous it was for him to even question the archmage in such a manner. “Did you intend to torture her?” Gromph asked. “And this other one? Would you wound them and sting them until they told you what you desired to know?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Tiago.
“Then let it serve as a perfect illustration of the limitations of Tiago,” Gromph said with a snort. “And of anyone who favors the blade over the greater powers.”
Soon after, the stone walls of lower Gauntlgrym echoed with the horrified screams of poor Dahlia as Methil El-Viddenvelp intruded into her mind. “You dare to spy upon the archmage?” Saribel asked Ravel from another room, where the Xorlarrin wizard had cast spells to magically and covertly intrude upon the interrogation of Dahlia.
“Silence,” Tiago said to the priestess. “Let him do his work.”
“It is the Archmage of Menzoberranzan!” Saribel argued. “If he detects—”
“Would you have us simply leave, as the matron mother instructed? Should I abandon this quest when the treasure is so near at hand?”
“When disaster is near at hand, you mean, if you intend to go against—”
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“The Battlehammer dwarves,” Ravel said. “She thinks Drizzt is with the Battlehammer dwarves under the mountain in Icewind Dale.”
“We know the tunnels to take us there,” Saribel whispered eagerly.
“It is not so far,” Tiago added. “We can get there and be done with our task, then return triumphant to Menzoberranzan within any reasonable timeframe—reasonable even to the matron mother.”
The door opened and Tiago and Saribel nearly fell over in surprise, although Ravel, who was not really there, continued his work. Great relief flooded through the young drow couple to see that it was Berellip come calling, and not some ally of Gromph.
“Icewind Dale, to the north,” Tiago said to her, moving fast to shut the door behind her as she entered. “Dahlia reveals the way to Gromph’s ugly pet.”
Berellip looked from Tiago to Ravel curiously. “You are spying on the archmage?” she said with a gasp.
“Nay, we are done spying on the archmage,” Ravel answered before Tiago could, the mage coming back from his clairvoyance and clairaudience dweomers. “And it was a fruitful exercise indeed.”
“Gromph will destroy you with a snap of his fingers,” Berellip warned.
“To what end?” Ravel asked, at the very same moment as Tiago insisted, “Not when I walk into Menzoberranzan with the head of Drizzt Do’Urden.”
“You have found him?” Berellip asked, and suddenly she seemed interested. She moved in close, sitting opposite Saribel at the room’s small table.
“When is your Matron Zeerith due to arrive?” Tiago asked.
“Two tendays, perhaps three.”
Tiago grinned and turned to Ravel, who was similarly beaming. “Plenty of time,” the wizard agreed.
Gromph Baenre and Methil learned much more from Dahlia that day than Ravel and the others had discerned, not that those lesser drow would have understood the startling revelations anyway. Gromph wasn’t even certain that he understood it all, but in the greater context of the events all around them—the coming Darkening; the war Matron Mother Quenthel was determined to wage; a war for the glory of Lolth and the widening of her realm of influence to the sphere of the arcane; a war to wound the rogue Do’Urden and by extension, the goddess who had stood by him to pull him from Lolth’s clutches—the important role of this miserable darthiir known as Dahlia had truly surprised him.