by Mark Anthony
Realms of the Underdark
( Anthologies - 4 )
Mark Anthony
Ed Greenwood
Elaine Cunningham
Roger E. Moore
Brian M. Thomsen
Mark Anthony,Ed Greenwood,Elaine Cunningham,Roger E. Moore,Brian M. Thomsen
Realms of the Underdark
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 that 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.
&
nbsp; 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 his piwafwi, 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 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 kobolds, 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 e
xpected 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.