Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
“We are outside the city?” Quenthel asked, her voice a bit unstable. As the primary voice of Lady Lolth in Menzoberranzan, Matron Mother Quenthel was not allowed such journeys without a large entourage of soldiers and guards.
“You are quite safe, Matron Mother,” Gromph replied, and his use of the proper title had the desired effect, drawing a nod from Quenthel.
“I discovered an old friend out here—or shall we call him an acquaintance?—quite by accident, you see,” Gromph explained. “Although now I must presume that it was no accident, but a godly inspired discovery.”
“More riddles?”
“It is all riddles—to me as well,” he lied, for he knew well that Lolth had led him to these revelations and with definite purpose. “But you see, I am not the matron mother, and so our acquaintance will only reveal so much to me.”
Quenthel started to reply, but stopped when Gromph pointed a wand out into the darkness of a side corridor and called upon its powers to create a small light in the distance, revealing a cave entrance blocked by lines of beads.
The archmage started for it, the matron mother and the floating disc right beside him.
Quenthel fell back when those beads parted at the end of a three-fingered hand, and an ugly biped stepped forth, the tentacles of its bulbous head waving excitedly.
“Illithid!” Quenthel gasped.
“An old friend,” Gromph explained.
Quenthel steeled herself and stared hard at the approaching creature. Gromph took delight in her obvious disgust. Mind flayers were horrid creatures, of course, but this one was uglier still, having suffered grievous wounds, including one that left part of its brain-like, bulbous head hanging in a flap above its left shoulder.
“Methil,” Quenthel whispered, and then called more loudly, “Methil El-Viddenvelp!”
“You remember!” Gromph congratulated.
Of course she remembered—how could anyone who had been serving in House Baenre in the last decades of Matron Mother Yvonnel’s rule possibly forget this creature? Methil had served beside Matron Mother Yvonnel as her secret advisor, her duvall, as the drow called the position. With his mind-reading abilities, so foreign to all but psionicist drow, which were very few in number since Matron Mother Yvonnel had obliterated House Oblodra by dropping the whole of the place into the Clawrift during the Time of Troubles, Methil El-Viddenvelp had provided Matron Mother Yvonnel with great insight into the desires, the deceit, and the desperation of friends and enemies alike.
“But he died in the attack on Mithral Hall,” Quenthel whispered.
“So did you,” Gromph reminded. “And you are wrong in any case. Our friend here did not die, thanks to our bro—thanks to the efforts of Bregan D’aerthe.”
“Kimmuriel,” Quenthel reasoned, nodding, and Gromph was glad that he had corrected himself quickly enough, and that Kimmuriel Oblodra, one of the few surviving members of the fallen House, an accomplished psionicist, known associate of illithids, and, coincidentally, currently one of the co-leaders of the mercenary band, had reasonably come into her mind.
Kimmuriel had not even been involved in the efforts their brother Jarlaxle had expended in saving the grievously wounded illithid. But Quenthel didn’t need to know that—or to know that Jarlaxle was even related to them!
“How long have you known about the mind flayer?” Quenthel asked suspiciously.
Gromph looked at her as though he didn’t understand. “As long as you …” he started to reply.
“How long have you known him to be out here?” the matron mother clarified.
“Many months,” Gromph replied, though as he considered the question, he realized it had probably been many years.
“And you did not think to inform me?”
Gromph again stared at her as if he didn’t understand. “You think to use Methil as Yvonnel once utilized him?” Before Quenthel could reply, he added, “You cannot! The creature is quite damaged, I assure you, and would cause you considerable grief and nothing more in that role.”
Quenthel’s hand flashed up, palm outward, at the illithid, who had moved too close for comfort. She uttered a spell of command. “Halt!”
Normally such a spell would never have proven effective on a creature of such intellect, but when Matron Mother Quenthel uttered a command, it carried much greater weight indeed. That, perhaps combined with Methil El-Viddenvelp’s clearly diminished mental capacity, had the illithid skidding to an abrupt and complete stop.
“Then why are we here?” Quenthel asked her brother pointedly.
“Because Yvonnel would know,” he replied, and he turned to the iron box set upon the floating disc. He waved his hand over it, the cover magically lifting, and said, “Behold.”
Quenthel gasped again as she peered into the box to see a withered head, split down the middle and somewhat stitched back together, a head she surely recognized, the split head of her long-dead mother!
“What is that?” she asked, falling back in horror. “You dare to blaspheme—”
“To preserve,” Gromph corrected.
“How did you get that … her? Who?”
“Bregan D’aerthe, of course. The same ones who saved Methil, here.”
“This is unconscionable!”
“You mean to resurrect Yvonnel?” The tremor was clear in her voice, Gromph noted, and rightly so—such an act would steal profoundly from the current matron mother, after all.
Gromph shook his head. “Our dear dead mother is far beyond that. The magic that had kept her alive for too many centuries is long dissipated. To bring her back now, well, she would just wither and shrivel and be dead once more.”
“Then why do you have that?” Quenthel asked, pointing to the box, and she even dared to edge closer and glance in once more at the horrid thing.
“A curiosity at first,” said Gromph. “Have you not complained to me many times about my collections?”
“This is beyond even your morbid sensibilities,” Quenthel said dryly.
The archmage shrugged and smiled. “Indeed, you may be right, but …” He paused and nodded his chin past his sister. Quenthel turned and found the illithid in a highly agitated state, shivering and hopping about, with disgusting drool spilling down over the front of its white robe.
Quenthel turned an angry glare back at her brother. “Explain!” she demanded. “What desecration—”
“It would seem that I have preserved more than the physical head of our dead mother,” Gromph replied casually. “For, as I have learned from Kimmuriel Oblodra of Bregan D’aerthe, and he from the illithids, the physical mind is full of patterns, tiny connections that preserve memories.” As he spoke, he waved his hand, and the disc floated past Quenthel toward Methil, whose tentacles waggled insatiably.
“You would not dare!” the matron mother said, to both of them.
“I already have, many times,” Gromph replied. “To your benefit, I expect.”
Quenthel shot him an angry glare.
“The Spider Queen knows of it,” the archmage explained. “So said the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, with whom I spoke.”
Quenthel’s eyes flared with anger and her hand fell to her dreaded whip, but all five of the snakes screamed in her thoughts to hold back. Trembling with rage, for she knew well her conniving brother’s confidante, the matron mother composed herself as much as possible and whispered through gritted teeth, “You confided in Minolin Fey, above me?”
“On Lolth’s command,” came the damning reply, so easily and confidently spoken.
Quenthel cried out, and she winced then and swung around, then fell back a step when she saw Methil leaning over the opened iron box, the creature’s tentacles waggling within it, waggling within the skull of Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre, no doubt!
“I revealed nothing to dear Minolin in specific detail, of course,” Gromph casually continued. “Only in cryptic generalities.”
“You would choose House Fey-Branche over House Baenre?”
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Anger flashed in Quenthel’s eyes. “Minolin Fey is a weakling,” she said. “A fool of the highest order, and too stupid to even understand her own ignorance.”
“Yes, accept the truth of my insult,” Gromph came right back without fear. “How do you judge your tenure as the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan?”
“Who are you to ask such a question of me?”
“I am the archmage. I am your brother. I am your ally.”
“The city thrives!” Quenthel argued. “We expand to Gauntlgrym on my doing!”
“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Gromph asked slyly, for they both knew the truth. Titanic events were going on all around them with the end of the Spellplague, and Lady Lolth herself was at play in the realm of arcane magic, Gromph knew, and yet, through it all, the denizens of Menzoberranzan had been mere spectators, after all.
And while House Baenre’s hold on the city seemed as solid as ever at a cursory glance, the Baenre nobles knew the truth. The departure of House Xorlarrin, the Third House of the city and the one of greatest arcane power, was a tremendous risk that could bring great tumult to Menzoberranzan. Perhaps it would be seen as an opportunity for ascension to the ultimate rank by Matron Mez’Barris Armgo of House Barrison Del’Armgo, Baenre’s rival, who had long coveted the title held by Yvonnel and now by Quenthel.
Appearances aside, Gromph knew it and Quenthel knew it: Menzoberranzan teetered on the edge of civil war.
“Our friend is ready for you,” Gromph said.
Quenthel looked at him curiously for a moment, then, catching the reference, her eyes went wide as she spun around to face the illithid, who was standing right behind her. Quenthel took a fast step away, or tried to, but Gromph was quicker, casting a spell of holding upon her—a dweomer that never should have taken hold on the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.
Unless Lady Lolth allowed it, Quenthel realized to her horror as she froze in place.
Still, she fought against the magic with all her strength, thoroughly repulsed, as Methil El-Viddenvelp’s waggling tentacles reached for her tender skin, touched her neck and face, slithered up her nostrils.
Her expression became a mask of indignation, of outrage, and the purest anger Gromph had ever seen. He knew that if she found the power to break away at that moment, she would launch herself at him, physically and magically, to punish and bite and tear. She’d put her five-headed snake whip to work in short order, letting them strike at him, filling him with their agonizing venom, letting them chew into his belly and feast on his entrails.
Oh, if only she could break free!
But she could not, for Lady Lolth had sanctioned this most painful and profound lesson, and Gromph stood confident that by the time Quenthel was released, she’d more likely thank him than punish him.
For now, though, there was violation at a most intimate level, an outrage at the most primal depth, and pain of the most excruciating sort.
How she screamed! In terror and in the purest and most exquisite pain as the illithid did its work. Quenthel’s agonized wails echoed through the corridors of the Underdark.
CHAPTER 2
OF MEN AND MONSTERS
THEIR DECISION DOESN’T INTEREST YOU?” WULFGAR ASKED REGIS. THE two sat on the porch of Regis’s small house late in the afternoon the day after their return from Kelvin’s Cairn, and indeed it proved to be a wonderful spring day. They stared out across the waters of the great lake known as Maer Dualdon, the glistening line of the lowering sun cutting the waters. They each had a pipe full of fine leaf Regis had procured on his last ride through the Boareskyr Bridge.
Regis shrugged and blew a smoke ring, then watched as it drifted lazily into the air on the southern breeze. Any course Drizzt, Bruenor, and Catti-brie decided upon would be acceptable to him, for he was hardly considering the road ahead. His thoughts remained on the road behind, to his days with the Grinning Ponies and, more so, his remarkable days with Donnola and the others of Morada Topolino.
“Why did you change your mind?” he asked, cutting short Wulfgar’s next remark even as the huge barbarian started to speak. He looked up at his big friend, and realized that he had broached a delicate subject, so he didn’t press the point.
“You really enjoy this?” Wulfgar asked, holding up the pipe and staring at its smoking bowl incredulously.
The halfling laughed, took a draw and blew another ring, then puffed a second, smaller one right through the first. “It is a way to pass the time in thought. It helps me to find a place of peace of mind, where I can remember all that has come before, or remember nothing at all as I so choose, and just enjoy the moment.” He pointed out across the lake, where a thin line of clouds lying low in the western sky wore a kilt of brilliant orange above the rays of the setting sun.
“Just here,” Regis explained. “Just now.”
Wulfgar nodded and again looked distastefully at the pipe, though he tried once more, slipping the end between his lips and hesitantly inhaling, just a bit.
“You could use that fine silver horn you carry to hold the leaf,” the halfling said. “I could fashion you a stopper and a cover for the openings.”
Wulfgar offered a wry grin in response and lifted the item. “No,” he said solemnly. This one I will use as it is.”
“You like to be loud,” Regis remarked.
“It is more than a horn.”
“Do tell.”
“Three years ago, I traveled back to the lair of Icingdeath,” Wulfgar replied, and Regis sucked in his breath hard and nearly choked on the smoke.
“There remain many treasures to be found in the place,” Wulfgar added, “and many enemies to battle, so I discovered.”
“The dragon?” Regis coughed. “You went back to the dragon’s lair?”
“The long-dead dragon, but yes.”
“And you found that?” the halfling asked, pointing to the horn.
Wulfgar held it up and turned it a bit, and only then did Regis note its true beauty. It was a simple horn, similar in shape to one that could be procured from a common bull, but was made of silver, shining in the morning light, and with a thin gray-brown band encircling it halfway along its length. That band, actual horn, Regis thought, sparkled in the light even more intensely than the shining silver, for it was set with several white diamonds. Clearly this instrument had not been crafted by a workman’s hands alone, and certainly it was no work of the tundra barbarians. Elves, perhaps, or dwarves, or both, Regis thought.
“It found me,” Wulfgar corrected. “And in a time of great need, with ice trolls pressing in all about.”
“You called to your allies with it?”
“I blew the horn in hopes of giving my enemies pause, or simply because it was louder than a scream of frustration, for truly, I thought my quest at its end, and that I would not live to see my friends atop Kelvin’s Cairn. But yes, allies did come, from Warrior’s Rest.”
Regis stared at him incredulously. He had never heard of such a thing. “Ghosts?”
“Warriors,” Wulfgar said. “Fearless and wild. They appeared from a mist and went back to nothingness when they were struck down. All but one, who survived the fight. He would not speak to me, not a word did any of them utter, and then he, too, disappeared.”
“Have you blown it since?” Regis asked breathlessly.
“The magic is limited. It is a horn, nothing more, save once every seven days, it seems.”
“And then it brings in your allies?”
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“How many?”
The barbarian shrugged. “Sometimes just a few; once there were ten. Perhaps one day I will summon an army, but then I will have but an hour to put it into action!”
Regis dropped his hand to his own dagger, with its living serpents, and understood.
“So why did you change your mind?” he decided to ask once more, changing the subject back. “You were determined to enter the pond in Iruladoon when last I saw you, rejecting the idea of living as a mortal man once more.”
“Do you recall the time I first happened upon Bruenor?” Wulfgar asked, pausing every word or two to cough out some smoke.
Regis nodded—how could he forget the Battle of Kelvin’s Cairn, after all?
“I was barely a man, little more than a boy, really,” Wulfgar explained. “My people had come to wage war on the towns and on the dwarves. It was not a fight Bruenor and his people had asked for, yet one they had to endure. So when I, proud and fierce, and carrying the battle standard of my tribe, saw before me this red-bearded dwarf, I did as any Elk warrior might do, as is required of any true disciple of Tempus.”
“You attacked him,” Regis said, then laughed and added in his best dwarf imitation, “Aye, ye hit ’im in the noggin, silly boy! Ain’t no one ever telled ye not to hit a dwarf on the head?”
“A difficult lesson,” Wulfgar admitted. “Had I been swinging a wet blanket, my strike would have had no lesser effect against the thick skull of Bruenor Battlehammer. How easily did he lay me low. He swept my feet out from under me. That should have been the end of Wulfgar.”
“Bruenor didn’t kill you, of course. That is why you chose to leave the forest edge instead of the pond?” Regis knew that he didn’t sound convincing, because in truth, he wasn’t convinced.
“Bruenor didn’t kill me,” Wulfgar echoed. “But more than that, Bruenor didn’t let any of the other dwarves kill me! They were within their rights to do so—I had brought my fate upon myself. Not a magistrate of any town in all Faerûn would have found fault with Bruenor or his kin had my life been forfeited on that field. Nor was there any gain to them in keeping me alive.”