J. Robert King & Brian Thomsen - Realm of the Underdark

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Realms of the Underdark
(part of Demilich's Lair Project, OCR'ed by .............)
PREFACE
At the Publishing House
The offices of Tym Waterdeep Limited, the most successful publishing firm in
all Faerun, had been fraught with tension for several weeks. Justin Tym,
Faerun's most successful publisher, was worried about the upcoming list. It
was common knowledge throughout the City of Splendors that TWL (as it was
known to the bookselling community) was on the verge of publishing their two
most eagerly anticipated titles yet.
Cormyr: A Novel had received numerous prepublication endorsements, and initial
orders were at an all-time high for a first novel. Likewise, Volo's Guide to
the Dalelands had all the earmarks of becoming the most successful volume in
the guide series written by the gazetteer rumored to be the most successful
traveler in all the Realms.
Without a doubt, TWUs current list was their best ever .. . yet Justin Tym was
still worried. Unlike the common book buyer, seller, or reader, a book
publisher seldom worried about the titles currently being released. His
concerns were typically the next season's list, titles currently being edited
and readied for publication; and next year's roster, those titles to be
contracted to assure that the firm maintains the strength of its list in the
times ahead.
Justin Tym was deeply concerned because, as of yet, no new surefire success
had found its way to his desk and onto the list to follow up the current crop
of titles.
Though a follow-up novel to Cormyr: A Novel was under discussion (perhaps a
sequel, or perhaps something totally different, such as Evermeet: A Novel),
the author in question, Greenwood Grubb, was beginning to show signs of
becoming a prima donna, toiling over every word. Where Cormyr: A Novel was
written over the course of the aged scholar's seasonal sabbatical, Grubb had
already indicated that the new title would probably take at least thrice as
long to write, commenting that artists need time for the creative juices to
flow. Tym suspected that the juices that would be flowing were of the more
distilled variety, that they would continue to flow until the advance from the
earlier book had been completely spent, and that the scholar would not apply
himself to his next opus until he absolutely had to: when the gelt ran out.
Unfortunately this could be, depending on the extravagance of the author's
tastes, several seasons from now. True, success for the next title was almost
assured once it was published, but no one, particularly not TWL's creditors,
expected the house to stop the presses until thai time.
Weighing even more heavily on Justin's mind, however, were the curious set of
circumstances connected to the other title.
TWL had always been sole publisher of the works of the legendary Volothamp
Geddarm, and Tym had always considered the success of the numerous Volo's
guides to be the product of a true publishing partnership. He thought Volo
considered him more than just a publisher, maybe even a father figure (or
perhaps an older brother, since their ages weren't really that far apart).
Likewise, he considered Volo more than just a travel writer or some hack
author; he was the house's cash cow, the goose that laid the golden volumes.
He was that rare commodity: a bankable author.
Theirs was a relationship blessed by the gods; at least it was until a few
months ago.
Justin scratched the top of his pate. It was long forlorn of hair and most
recently the home of more than a few wrinkles, which had been creeping upward
from his brow line. He still couldn't understand what could possibly have come
between them.
A lunch meeting had been set, as was their custom, but Volo sent a message
canceling the appointment due to some other more pressing commitment. Justin
didn't think much of it at the time. He simply figured Volo was embarrassed by
not having a new project ready to feed into the TWL publishing pipeline,
especially since his Guide to Shadowdale was already about halfway through its
production cycle. With a shrug, Justin decided to take the rest of the day
off.
The next day, when he returned to the office, he discovered that Volo had come
by that very afternoon demanding payment for some manuscript he claimed to
have delivered that very morning. Had Justin been in, something might have
been worked out; but an overzealous employee (who was later dismissed) ushered
the star author rather rudely off the premises and gave him a sound
tongue-lashing for having stood up the venerable publisher for lunch.
Not a word had been heard from the author since that day, and Justin was more
than a bit worried.
"Where will I send the next royalty payment?" the publisher fretted. "And,
more importantly, what will I do for a new Volo's guide? We had discussed
doing the next one on the Moonsea area. Without it, my next year's list is as
barren as the Battle of the Bones."
Paige Latour, Justin's latest in a long line of secretaries and the most
curvaceous to date, entered the publisher's office, undetected by her
preoccupied boss. "Justin, I mean, Mr. Tym," she said, interrupting him from
his worrisome speculations while proffering a sealed parchment pouch. " A
messenger just dropped this off for you."
"Probably just another wanna-be submission," the publisher offered absently.
"Send it back unread. You know the procedure."
"But I think you might want to read it."
"Not now," he retorted curtly. "Just handle it, and don't bother me."
"But, boss," she insisted, "I really think you should read it. It's from some
guy named Volothamp, and I figured maybe you could talk him into shortening
his name and taking over those Volo's guides you've been worried about."
"Volothamp?" Tym inquired, jolted out of his preoccupations.
"Yeah, boss," she replied. Patting herself on the back, she added, "Pretty
neat plan I've come up with, huh?"
"Give me the pouch," the publisher ordered.
"Sure thing," Paige replied. "Can I be an editor now? You promised you'd show
me the ropes, but so far you've only shown me . .."
Justin only had to glance at the writing to immediately recognize the
penmanship.
"Miss Latour," Justin interrupted. "This isn't the ideal candidate for a
pseudo-Volo."
"It's not?" she asked, puzzled by her boss's reaction.
"No, this is from the real Volo," he replied.
"Oh," she groused, not even trying to hide her disappointment. "I guess I'm
not ready to be an editor yet."
Miss Latour quickly left Tym's office as he read the short missive.
Justin,
All is forgiven.
Moonsea guide is still in the works, but should be done on schedule.
We can discuss Magic volume when I return (dare I suggest over lunch?).
Till then, please spot me some gelt, care of the Shipmaster's Hall (you know
my earned royalties will make good on it and more).
Best,
Volo
P.S. I'm working on another project that will make the Moonsea guide look like
last year's WHO'S WHO AMONG THE ZHENTARIM, but have decided to keep you in the
dark about it until it nears completion (Hee, hee!).
The publisher stared at the missive several times while mopping his brow with
a recently untied cravat. He was happy the tension brought about by situations
unknown seemed to have been defused, but he was still concerned about the
upcoming schedule. Did this mean the Moonsea guide would be in on time or not,
and what of this other project? Volo had always been fond of puzzles, puns,
and conundrums. Perhaps there was a clue in the note, and maybe the solution
would mean TWL's salvation as well.
Hmmmmm. ...
THE FIRES OF NARBONDEL
Mark Anthony
Chapter One
Weapons Master
There are a thousand deaths in the Underdark-a thousand different horrors
skulking in lightless caverns and lurking deep in still black pools, each
waiting to rend unwary flesh with fang, or talon, or caustic venom. In the
overworld, far above, animals kill so that they might eat and live. But the
creatures that haunt the dark labyrinth beneath the face of Toril do not kill
to live, for life itself is agony to them. They kill because they are driven
to kill: by madness, by hatred, and by the foul atmosphere of evil that
pervades every stone of this place. They kill because, only in killing, can
they know release.
With the silence of one shadow slipping past another, Zaknafein-weapons master
of House Do'Urden, Ninth House of Menzoberranzan, ancient city of the dark
elves-trod down the rough-walled passage. He had left his lizard mount behind,
clinging to the side of a massive stalagmite some distance back. Swift and
soundless as the giant reptiles were, Zak preferred to rely on his own powers
of stealth for the final twists and turns. It would not be far now.
Like a wraith, he plunged deeper into the Dark.
Dominion, the wild region beyond the borders of the underground city. His ebon
skin and black rothe-hide garments merged with the dusky air, and he had
concealed his shock of bone-white hair beneath the deep hood of hispiwafwi,
his magic-tinged cloak. Only the faint red glow of his eyes-eyes that required
no light to see, but only the countless gradations of heat radiated by stone
and flesh and all things in between- might have belied that it was not a dark
breath of air that moved down the passage, but a living being.
Zak cocked his head, pointed ears listening for the first telltale sounds. He
had now passed beyond the farthest reach of the patrols-those merciless troops
of dark-elf soldiers and wizards that kept the tunnels around Menzoberranzan
free of monsters. Anything might lie beyond the next bend of stone, any one of
those thousand waiting horrors. Yes, death could be found in endless variety
in the Underdark. But what did he have to fear? Zaknafein laughed without
sound, his white teeth shining in the darkness. Were not the draw the greatest
horror of all?
He moved on.
Minutes later Zak came upon his prey: a band of pale, bug-eyed kobolds. Until
that moment, he had not known he was hunting the stunted, dog-snouted
creatures. It might have been bugbears, or deepspawn, or black crawlers, or
any one of a score of different monsters. It made no difference. All that
mattered was that they were evil. He had come upon the kobolds first. They
would serve him well enough.
The ragged creatures huddled in a small cave, pawing over the spoils of their
latest victim. Zak's red eyes detected the cold metallic outline of a horned
helm and a stout warhammer. A dwarf. Dwarves were fierce fighters, and kobolds
were cowardly creatures, but a dozen of them would not hesitate to swarm a
lone wanderer. No doubt the dwarf had had the ill luck to find himself alone
and too far from the underground home of his clan. Tufts of hair matted with
blood still clung to the armor and weapons. The kobolds had jumped him and
ripped him to shreds.
"Mine!" one of the creatures shrieked in the crude common tongue of the
Underdark, its eyes glowing with lust. It snatched a cloak of fine cloth from
one of the others, clutching it in grimy hands.
"Mine, it is!" the other kobold growled. "I it was who bit its filthy neck!"
"No, mine!" hissed a third. "Gouged its foul, sticky eyes with my own fingers,
I did!"
The two hateful contenders tackled the first creature, snarling and biting
with yellow teeth, tearing the cloak to tatters in the process. Quarrels broke
out among the rest of the kobolds as they fought over the dead dwarfs goods.
Zak knew he had to act now if there was to be any work left for him to do.
Tossing back his concealing piwafwi, he stepped into the cave.
"Why don't I settle this little argument for you?" he asked in a ringing
voice. A fierce grin split his angular visage. "How about if you all
get-nothing?"
The kobolds froze, staring at the drow weapons master in surprise and dread,
bits of cloth and jewelry dropping from their bloodstained fingers. Then, as
one, the diminutive creatures shrieked in terror, scrambling and clawing past
each other to escape the nightmare before them. There was nothing in all the
Underdark that kobolds feared more than drow. For good reason.
With one hand, Zak drew his adamantite sword, while the other uncoiled the
whip from his belt. In an almost lazy gesture, he flicked his wrist. The whip
struck like a black serpent, taking the feet out from under the nearest
kobold. His sword followed. Like a dying insect, the kobold squirmed for a
moment on the end of his blade. Then Zak heaved the creature aside, turning
toward the next. Kobolds were like candy. He could never kill just one.
Zaknafein's grin broadened as he cut a swath through the shrieking tangle. He
was slender, like all elven kind, but his lithe form was as sharp and
well-honed as his blade. In a city of warriors, Zak knew he was one of the
best. It was not a matter of pride. It was simply fact.
Another kobold expired on the end of his sword, the evil phosphorescence of
life fading from its eyes until they were as cool and dull as stones. Even as
one hand wrested the blade from the dead creature, the other lashed out with
the whip. Supple leather coiled around a fleeing kobold's neck, stopping it in
its tracks. The thing clutched at its throat, fingers scrabbling in vain. .
Zak gave the whip an expert tug, snapping the creature's neck.
Excitement surged in his chest. Zaknafein had been alive for nearly four
hundred years, and he had spent almost all of those years mastering the art of
battle. This was his calling. This was what he had been born to do.
Zak spun and danced easily through the writhing throng of kobplds, falling now
into the trancelike rhythm of the fray. When killing things of evil, he felt a
clarity he did not know at other times. Unlike anything else in the tangled
and devious world of the dark elves, this made sense to him. In
Menzoberranzan, all life revolved around station. Each of the noble houses in
the city was caught in a never-ending game of intrigue, alliance, and
treachery. All of it served one goal: to win the favor of the dark goddess
Lloth. Those who gained the blessing of the Spider Queen knew great power and
prosperity, while those who earned her displeasure found only destruction and
death. To Zak, climbing Lloth's Ladder was a pointless exercise. No family
stayed in Lloth's favor forever. Each was doomed to fall eventually. He wanted
no part of that meaningless game. The machinations, the deceits, the shadowed
plots: all were beyond him. But this-another kobold died screaming under the
swing of his blade-this he understood. Zak blinked.
The small cavern had fallen silent, save for the piteous whining of a single
kobold that cowered before him. All the rest of the evil creatures were dead.
Veins thrumming with exhilaration, Zak raised his adamantite sword to finish
what he had begun.
That was when he saw it. It dangled from a silvery thread not five paces away
and watched him with eyes like black, many-faceted jewels. A spider.
The sword halted in its descent. Zak stared at the arachnid. It was only an
ordinary rock spider, no larger than the palm of his hand. But all spiders
were sacred to Lloth. And all were her servants. The metallic taste of disgust
spread across his tongue. He had slain the kobolds for himself, to quell his
own needs. But the act served Lloth as well, did it not? The kobolds were the
enemy of the drow, of her children. Their deaths could only please her.
His lips pulled back, transforming his grin into an expression of loathing. He
turned away from the last kobold, and the creature squealed in surprise,
thinking it had somehow escaped its worst nightmare. Without even looking, Zak
thrust the blade backward, silencing the creature, ending its false hope. But
there was no pleasure in the act. Not now. He glared at the spider, fingered
the handle of his whip, and knew he could crush it with a single flick. But
even he dared not harm one of Lloth's messengers. He let his hand fall from
the weapon.
A gloom settled over him, even darker and more stifling than the oppressive
air of the Underdark. After reluctantly harvesting the expected trophies, he
started back toward the city of the drow.
By the time he reached the edge of the vast underground cavern that housed
Menzoberranzan, his gloom had deepened into despair. Sitting astride the broad
back of his lizard mount, he gazed over the dwelling of the dark elves-his
home, and yet not his home. Long ago, the legends told, the dark elves had
lived in the overworld. They had dwelt along with their fair sylvan kindred,
with no comforting roof of stone above them but only a vast emptiness called
sky. As out of place as Zak felt among his people, the thought of living on
the surface chilled his blood. So changed were the drow after dwelling for
eons in the realms below that they could never live in the overworld again.
They were creatures of the dark now. Lloth had seen to that. She had made them
what they were, and for that he hated her.
Zak let his gaze wander over the eerie cityscape before him. Pale faerie fire,
conjured by the wizards of the various houses, revealed the fantastic shapes
into which the cavern's gigantic stalagmites and stalactites had been hewn.
Slender bridges leapt impossibly between the stone spires. In the five
thousand years during which the dark elves had dwelt in this place, not a
single surface had been left untouched. Every piece of stone had been carved
and polished and shaped to suit the needs of the drow. Everything that was,
except for Narbondel.
The rugged pillar of stone stood, as it had for millennia, in the center of
the great cavern. Here in the unending dark, where there was no alternation of
day and night to mark time, Narbondel served as the city's clock. Once each
day, Menzoberranzan's archmage cast a spell of fire upon the base of the
pillar. Throughout the day the enchanted fire rose, until the entire column
glowed with the heat of it, before finally fading into cool darkness - the
Black Death of Narbondel - upon which the cycle was begun anew.
Despite the magical fires that were cast upon it, each day Narbondel fell
black again. Darkness always won in the end. Zak shook his head. Perhaps he
was a fool to think he was different from the rest of his cruel and capricious
kindred. He killed only creatures of evil, but it was the killing itself he
craved, was it not? Maybe he was no different at all. That was, perhaps, his
deepest fear.
A faint humming sound broke his grim reverie. Something twitched against his
throat. He reached into his neck-purse and pulled out the insignia of House
Do'Urden. The adamantite disk was engraved with a spider that wielded a
different weapon in each of its eight appendages. The coin glowed with silver
light and was warm against his hand. It was a summons. Matron Mother Malice,
leader of House Do'Urden, required the presence of her weapons master.
For a moment, Zaknafein gazed into the darkness behind him. He half considered
plunging back into the Dark Dominion and leaving the city forever. The chance
that a lone drow could survive in the Underdark was slim. But there was a
chance. And he could be free.
The metallic disk twitched again on his palm, the heat growing uncomfortable.
Zak sighed. Thoughts of fleeing evaporated. He belonged in the Underdark even
less than he did here. Like it or not, this was his home. He nudged his lizard
mount into a swift, swaying walk, heading through an arched gate into the city
of the drow.
One did not keep one's matron mother waiting.
Chapter Two
Matron Mother
"Where is he?" Matron Mother Malice of House Do'Urden demanded in a voice
sharp with impatience.
She paced with perilous grace before the adamantite railing that separated the
compound's private upper chambers from the common levels below, her dark gown
flowing behind her like shadows. The other nobles of the house-her five living
children, along with her current patron, Rizzen-watched from a prudent
distance. None dared cross the path of her ire.
Malice muttered a curse under her breath. There was no doubt Zaknafein was the
finest weapons master in the city, but that gave her little advantage if she
could not control him. A servant-especially a male servant-did not make his
matron wait. Several years ago, she had revoked Zak's position as patron and
had taken Rizzen in his stead, thinking that would show him the consequences
of displeasing her. In the time since, though, he had become only more willful
and unmanageable. Malice was growing weary of being embarrassed by Zaknafein.
Useful as he was to her, she would not tolerate it much longer.
"Let me deal with Zaknafein when he returns, Matron Malice," offered Briza,
Malice's eldest daughter. Unlike her lithe mother, Briza was a big-boned and
round-shouldered elf. Recently anointed a high priestess of Lloth, she enjoyed
wielding her new authority. "Males are not as intelligent as the rest of us.
There is only one sort of instruction they understand." With fond fingers, she
touched the writhing, snake-headed whip at her belt. The half-dozen snake
heads hissed in anticipation.
"If I have wronged Matron Mother Malice, then punishment is hers to mete out,
not yours, Briza Do'Urden."
All turned to see a feral form step out of midair and float over the
adamantite railing. Zaknafein drifted to the floor before Malice, waving a
hand to end the levitation spell of which all highborn drow are capable-a fact
that accounted for the lack of stairs leading to the upper level of the house.
Briza glared daggers at the weapons master but held her tongue. All knew that
his rebuke had been correct, and that she had overstepped her bounds in her
eagerness to punish him.
Malice folded her arms over her breasts, her expression cold. "I do not like
waiting, Zaknafein. Tell me quickly why I should not give you to Briza and her
whip."
"There is no reason, Matron Mother," Zaknafein replied, bowing his head and
assuming a submissive posture before her. "But allow me to present you with
these before you do what you will."
He laid a grisly bundle at her feet-a dozen hairy kobold ears bound together
with twine. Malice raised a single eyebrow, impressed despite her anger.
Kobolds were wretched creatures, but they were vicious when cornered, and
slaying a dozen alone was no mean feat. Such an act could only please Lloth.
She felt her anger receding. The gift was a good one, and Zaknafein was now
acting suitably repentant. Perhaps his punishment should be to come to her
bedchamber and serve her there. She knew she should resist the temptation. Zak
needed to know how he had displeased her. And yet... She glanced at Rizzen.
Her current patron was handsome, yes, but so docile, so pliant, so utterly
dull. Maybe it was her lack of control over Zak that made him desirable.
Danger could be ever so alluring.
Whatever her decision would be, Malice decided to save it for later.
Zaknafein's offering had mollified her for the moment. Besides, there were
more important matters to attend.
Malice rested her pointed chin on the back of her hand, her dark eyes
glinting. "You and I will consider the matter of your punishment later,
Zaknafein. Alone."
At that last word, an expression of surprise crossed Briza's broad face.
Rizzen shot Zaknafein an open look of hatred, then remembered himself and
averted his gaze, lest he attract his matron mother's wrath. Zaknafein only
gave an emotionless nod.
Satisfied the matter was resolved, Malice decided it was time to tell the
others why she had gathered them together. "I have concocted a plan," she
announced in a bold voice. "A plan that, if it succeeds, will bring the favor
of Lloth upon House Do'Urden.
Vierna and Maya, Briza's younger sisters, exchanged puzzled looks.
"But do we not already enjoy the favor of the Spider Queen?" Vierna asked in a
tentative voice.
Maya's tone was more confident. "After all, we are Ninth House of
Menzoberranzan now."
Malice's eyes narrowed as she regarded her two youngest daughters. Though both
were nearly high priestesses, they were not such yet, and should not have
spoken without her leave. Yet their words served her, and she chose to let the
affront pass without comment.
"Yes, we are the Ninth House," Malice replied. "But is it not better to be
eighth than ninth?"
A hot light ignited in the eyes of her daughters, and Malice knew she had
chosen well. Being Eighth House meant gaining a seat on the ruling council-a
seat that one of her daughters would one day inherit. A smile coiled about the
corners of Malice's dark red lips. Desire was a stronger motivator than
punishment. Now Vierna and Maya gazed at her with eager expressions.
Malice raised a hand to her throat. "I am thirsty. I require wine."
Throughout the discussion, her two sons had stood in silence to one side. It
was not a male's position to speak concerning house affairs unless directly
asked. At eleven years, and by far the younger of the two, Drizzt had only
recently become page prince, and was not yet a true noble. Thus, serving the
matron mother was his duty. However, the boy seemed not to have heard her
words; he continued to gaze at his feet, as a page prince was taught to do in
the presence of nobles. After an uncomfortable moment, Dinin, who was elderboy
of House Do'Urden, boxed Drizzt on the ear, jerking the boy out of his stupor.
"You heard the matron mother," Dinin hissed. "She requires wine."
The boy Drizzt blinked and gave a jerky nod. He hurried to a gilded table upon
which rested crystal glasses and a decanter of dark mushroom wine.
Malice did not wait, but went on. "The Festival of the Founding approaches,
the day on which we recall the founding of Menzoberranzan over five thousand
years ago. Do any of you know what is to happen on that day?"
"I know."
All stared in shock at the boy Drizzt. He stood before Malice, holding out the
cup of wine. For Dinin, a full-grown elf, to speak without leave would have
been a grave offense. For a page prince, it was unthinkable. However, before
Malice could react, the boy continued.
"On the Festival of the Founding, the Spider Queen is supposed to appear
somewhere in the city." Drizzt frowned as he thought out the details. "Only
she appears in disguise. I suppose that's so she can see what the drow really
think about her."
Briza was the first to recover. She lunged forward, gripping her snake-headed
whip. "You idiot!" she snarled. "That's only an old story." She raised the
whip. Drizzt stared at her in fear but did not flinch.
A hand shot out, halting the whip's descent.
"It happens to be a true story, you fool," Malice hissed, her rage now
directed at her daughter.
Briza stared in dull astonishment.
Malice made a sound of disgust. "Perhaps you were given the mantle of high
priestess too soon, Briza, if a child - and a boy child at that - knows more
than you."
Briza started to stammer an apology, but Malice turned away. She bent over the
boy, gripping his chin tightly in her hand, lifting his head with cruel force.
The cup fell from his fingers, and wine spilled across the floor like dark
blood. She gazed into the boy's eyes, holding them by force of will, so they
could not look elsewhere. His eyes were an unusual color. Lavender. As always,
Malice wondered at this. What did they see that other eyes did not?
"Tell me what else you know about the Festival," she commanded.
The boy stared at her in mute terror. She tightened her grip, her fingers
digging into his flesh.
"Tell me!"
Despite his fear, Drizzt managed to speak. "I don't really know anything
else," he breathed. "Except that on the festival day, you have to be nice to
everybody, even goblins and bugbears, because there's no telling what shape
Lloth might put on. That's all."
She searched his strange purple eyes a moment more, then nodded, satisfied he
spoke truth. He was peculiar, this youngest son of hers, and difficult to
train in the most basic matters of behavior and respect. However, there was a
power in him. She sensed it. Right now it was unshaped. But if she could forge
it with her will and temper it with the proper experiences, he would be a
powerful weapon in her hands one day.
Malice released the boy. Drizzt stared in confusion until Dinin, face angry,
motioned for him to return to his side. No doubt Dinin would punish the boy
later for embarrassing him with disobedience, as it was his role to instruct
the boy in the proper manners of a page prince. Malice would not intervene.
That was Dinin's right. And it would only strengthen the boy.
Malice addressed her family then. "Child though he is, Drizzt is correct. The
tale is not simply a legend, though many believe it to be. On the Festival of
the Founding, the Spider Queen will indeed appear somewhere in the city. And
if she were to appear within a noble house that house would know great honor
and would surely prosper in the coming year." Her voice dropped to a
self-pleased purr. "And my plan will make certain it is House Do'Urden where
Lloth chooses to appear." Zaknafein laughed at this. "With all due respect,
you are very sure of yourself, Matron Mother." "As well I should be," Malice
snapped. What had she done to be cursed with such precocious males? At least
Dinin knew his place. "How do you intend to bring Lloth here?" Briza asked in
meek tones, clearly attempting to regain her mother's favor.
Malice let Briza believe she had succeeded. "With this," she answered. From
her gown, she drew out a small, dark stone carved in the shape of a spider. A
single red ruby glistened on its abdomen. "This spiderjewel will lead whoever
bears it to the resting place of an ancient and holy relic-a dagger once
wielded by Menzoberra, she who founded our city in the name of Lloth so long
ago. I have been assured by the one who gave me this spiderjewel that, were we
to regain the Dagger of Menzoberra, Lloth would certainly grace us with her
presence as a reward."
The others absorbed this information and nodded- except for Zaknafein, who
again asked a skeptical question. "And how did you come by this information
and this jewel?"
Malice gave him a flat glare. "I summoned a yochlol."
The others stared at her in horror and amazement- including, to her
satisfaction, Zaknafein.
"Yes, I did it myself," she went on. "A great risk, but then Lloth favors
those who take risks."
Despite her pleasure, Malice shuddered at the memory of the dark, secret
ceremony. One did not summon one of the Handmaidens of Lloth on a whim. Though
Malice was five centuries old and matron of the Ninth House, even she had
trembled at the sight of the bubbling, amorphous being that had appeared in
the midst of the magical flames she had conjured. Had it been displeased with
her call, the yochlol might have turned her into a spider and squashed her
with a shapeless hand. But the time had seemed propitious to risk the summons,
and Malice had been right. The yochlol had been pleased with her obeisance,
and had given her the spiderjewel and the answer to her question-how to
increase her stature in the eyes of Lloth.
She approached the weapons master. "Zaknafein, I charge you with the
spiderjewel, and with finding the Dagger of Menzoberra, in the name of House
Do'Urden." She held out the dark gem.
Zak stared at the jewel but did not reach for it.
Rage warmed Malice's cheeks for all to see. "Do not defy me in this,
Zaknafein," she warned in a dangerous voice. "I have been indulgent in the
past, but I will suffer your embarrassments no longer. If you fail me in this
task, it will be for the final time."
The others held their breath as matron mother and weapons master locked gazes.
For a moment Malice was not certain she would win. At last Zak lowered his
gaze and took the spiderjewel. "I will find the Dagger, Matron Mother, or die
trying," he uttered through clenched teeth.
Malice bit her tongue to keep from sighing in audible relief. She did not
always enjoy being so harsh with her children and servants, but she was matron
mother, and the well-being of the house took precedence over all else, even
her own feelings. "A wise choice, Zaknafein," was all she said. After a
moment, she spoke in a brisk voice. "Now, I wish to be alone with my
daughters."
At this, the three males bowed and retreated toward the adamantite railing. As
one, they rose over the railing, then levitated to the ground below.
"Finding the Dagger cannot be so easy a feat," Briza said when the males were
gone. "What if Zaknafein indeed dies in the attempt?"
Vierna and Maya looked at the elder women in concern, wanting to speak their
own worries, but remembering their places this time.
Malice tapped her cheek, musing this over. "If Zaknafein dies in an attempt to
gain the glory of Lloth, the Spider Queen will certainly consider it a
sacrifice in her honor." Malice allowed herself a throaty laugh. "Either way,"
she crooned, "Lloth is bound to be pleased with House Do'Urden." Malice's
daughters joined in her laughter.
Chapter Three
Page Prince
Never lift your gaze from the floor.
That was Drizzt Do'Urden's first lesson as page prince, and it had been one
hard learned. He couldn't count the times he had felt the stinging bite of his
sister Briza's snake-headed whip as punishment for breaking that all-important
rule. It wasn't that it was so hard a thing to remember. Drizzt knew that he
wasn't supposed to look up without permission. But knowing something wasn't as
easy as doing it. No matter how hard he tried to stare at his boots, it seemed
that something peculiar, or interesting, or wonderful always caught his
attention, lifting his gaze before he even knew it was happening.
Unfortunately, more often than not, Briza would be lurking behind him, waiting
for just such a transgression to occur. With an evil grin, she would uncoil
her hissing whip and rake the fanged serpents across his back. Drizzt never
cried out or tried to dodge the blows. To do so would only win him more
lashes. He was page prince, and as far as he could tell, that meant he was the
lowest form of life in all House Do'Urden.
"Page Prince, come here!" a voice called out across the house's main
enclosure. "I have a task for you."
This time Drizzt remembered to keep his head down. He could not see the
speaker, but he knew the voice well. It belonged to his sister, Vierna.
For the first ten years of his life, before he had become page prince,
Vierna's had been the only voice he had known, save for his own. Vierna had
been his word-wean mother. She had been given Drizzt as an infant, and as he
grew she had taught him the language of the drow-both the spoken tongue and
the complex system of hand signs that the dark elves used to communicate in
silence. She had also taught him how to use and control his innate magical
abilities: the power to levitate by force of will, and to conjure glowing
faerie fire from thin air. More than anything else, however, she had taught
him his place as a male in drow society. Females were his superiors, and he
was always to defer to them. She had made him repeat this doctrine so often
that sometimes he still woke at night to find he had been speaking it in his
sleep.
Though Vierna's teachings had been anything but gentle, she had seldom used
her whip on him, and when she did it was without the open relish Briza always
displayed. However, in the year since he had become page prince, Vierna had
resumed her studies at Arach-Tinilith, and would soon be anointed as a high
priestess. As that time approached, Drizzt knew he could expect less and less
kindness from his sister. High priestesses of Lloth were not known for their
mercy.
Keeping his eyes on the floor, Drizzt hurried in the direction of the voice,
relying on his keen senses of hearing and touch to avoid objects he could not
see. In moments, he stood before a pair of supple leather slippers he knew
belonged to his sister.
"Listen well, Page Prince, for I do not have time to instruct you twice,"
Vierna said in curt tones. "The Festival of the Founding is but two days
hence, and the matron mother has ordered that the house be made ready for the
Spider Queen's imminent visit."
"If she bothers to come at all," Drizzt mumbled under his breath before he
could think to stifle the words. To his good fortune, Vierna either did not
hear the statement or chose to ignore it.
"A green fungus has grown on the walls in the feast hall since the last revel
was held," the young drow woman went on. "Briza wants you to clean all the
stones. With this."
Into his hand she thrust a bent copper spoon. He gaped in astonishment at the
small spoon. Clearly it was utterly inadequate for so large a task.
"I'm supposed to scrape all the walls in the feast hall with this?" he
groaned, forgetting himself.
"Do not question me, Page Prince!" Vierna warned in an overloud voice. "Expect
a lash of the whip for every speck of fungus you leave on the walls!"
Knowing better than to question her again, Drizzt started to bow in
submission. Then, to his surprise, Vierna leaned over and whispered in his
ear. "I have placed an enchantment of sharpness on the spoon, little brother,
so perhaps the task will not prove quite so impossible. But I swear, if you
tell Briza-or anyone-about what I have done, I will beat you until your skin
slips from your flesh like a rothe-hide coat."
Drizzt shivered at her chilling words. He did not doubt that she meant them.
Before he could answer, Vierna whirled around and disappeared through a side
door. Drizzt studied the spoon in his hand, his thumb testing the magically
sharpened edge. Perhaps the priestesses of Lloth at Arach-Tinilith had not yet
bled all the mercy out of Vierna.
Not wishing to get caught with the enchanted object, Drizzt dashed down a
stone passageway. At eleven years, he was much like other dark-elven youths-
small and slender, but quick as Briza's whip. In moments, he reached the empty
feast hall.
Unlike most of the noble houses of Menzoberranzan, which were typically built
within a stalactite-stalagmite pair, House Do'Urden was set into the western
wall of the cavern. The feast hall delved deeper into the surrounding rock
than did any other room in the house, and so was damp and prone to mold.
Drizzt groaned in renewed dismay as he stared at the walls. The stones were
covered with spongy growths of a fungus that exuded a noxious green glow. He
sighed. Procrastinating would only give the fungus more time to grow. Gripping
the spoon, he trudged toward one of the walls and started in on the task.
Vierna had underestimated the power of her enchantment.
As Drizzt scraped the spoon across the wall, a strip of glowing fungus
darkened and shriveled, falling to the floor, where it turned to dust. Not
believing his eyes, he ran the instrument over the fungus-covered wall again.
A swath of smooth, black stone appeared in its wake. A grin crept across the
youthful drow's face. It looked as if the task Briza had concocted for him was
not going to be nearly as horrid and tedious as she had hoped.
With buoyant energy, the young dark elf threw himself into the task.
Concentrating briefly, he rose into the air, using his natural-born powers of
levitation to reach the high walls and ceiling. Soon it became a game as he
whirled and dived through the air, swiping at bulbous patches of fungus with
the enchanted spoon. He imagined each was Briza's homely face as it shriveled
and disintegrated, and soon peals of elven laughter rang out across the hall.
After what seemed almost too short a time, Drizzt sank back to the floor,
摘要：

RealmsoftheUnderdark(partofDemilich'sLairProject,OCR'edby.............)PREFACEAtthePublishingHouseTheofficesofTymWaterdeepLimited,themostsuccessfulpublishingfirminallFaerun,hadbeenfraughtwithtensionforseveralweeks.JustinTym,Faerun'smostsuccessfulpublisher,wasworriedabouttheupcominglist.Itwascommonkn...

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