Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  This probably wasn’t even about House DeVir at all to Matron Mother Baenre’s thinking, Jarlaxle mused, but rather, a warning to any other houses that might consider allying with the wild and wildly ambitious Armgo family.

  “Jarlaxle?” Dab’nay asked, and he realized it was not for the first time.

  “Matron Ginafae DeVir is out of favor with the Spider Queen, or soon will be,” he replied. “Find out why.”

  “A mere male should not be speaking of such favor or disfavor where matrons are concerned,” Dab’nay replied.

  “Mere?” Jarlaxle said with a wry grin. “Why, yes, I would agree with you on the point that no mere male should speak of such things. Need I ask you again?”

  His grin proved infectious, and Dab’nay left the table and the tavern wearing a smile of her own.

  The intrigue of Menzoberranzan was fun, Jarlaxle knew, and it pleased him whenever one of his mercenary band came to recognize that truth.

  It was all a game.

  Always dangerous.

  Often deadly.

  But still a game.

  There was a lightness in Jarlaxle’s step a few days later, after Dab’nay and some of his other scouts had finally discerned the impetus for the coming war. It seemed that Matron Ginafae DeVir, in her desire to please Matron Mez’Barris Armgo, had overstepped her bounds quite sacrilegiously. Anxious to weaken House Oblodra so that her house could pass it—perhaps even eliminating the strange psionicist house altogether if it came to blows—Ginafae had cast blessings upon a group of deep gnomes, the hated svirfneblin, in order to help them on a quest to eliminate a certain member of House Oblodra’s noble family.

  It was a reasonable attempt, Jarlaxle thought. Certainly the deep gnomes were not to be given the blessing of Lolth in normal circumstances, but this was House Oblodra, a Menzoberranzan drow family whose devotion to Lolth was always in question. Nobody liked the Oblodrans, since everybody feared them!

  A reasonable risk, but apparently, Matron Ginafae had lost her bet. For the gnomes had been destroyed, the Oblodran noble secured, and now House DeVir had shown its hand.

  “They are holed up their compound, huddled in fear,” Jarlaxle’s psionicist friend, Kimmuriel Oblodra, informed him. “Matron Ginafae understands that she has lost the favor of the Spider Queen and so her house is vulnerable. The Armgo forces will not defend her unless she regains that favor, and without that alliance, there are several houses that can likely overcome DeVir.”

  “Like House Oblodra,” Jarlaxle dryly replied.

  “We have no interest in inter-house warfare,” Kimmuriel replied, as Jarlaxle had expected.

  It was true enough, obviously, given the history. This was a strange time in Menzoberranzan, as both the second and third houses had ascended rather swiftly (none ever more swiftly than House Barrison Del’Armgo, surely), and with minimal battles along the way. Unlike the Do’Urdens and most other climbing houses, these two hadn’t clawed their way one battle at a time. When House Barrison Del’Armgo had at long last fully revealed their power, it became clear that only Baenre was greater, and that it would take two, probably three, of the other great houses to combine their strength to have a chance against them.

  For the Oblodrans, they had been given the status demanded by Matron K’yorl simply because no one had any desire to do battle with them. Their psionics had the Lolthian priestesses wholly unnerved. K’yorl had demanded a high seat on the Ruling Council, and they had given her the third rank, with Matron Mother Baenre and Matron Mez’Barris Armgo leading the vote.

  It was a secret deal, Jarlaxle knew, though surely one that would not hold forever. K’yorl would be content with the third rank, and the two greatest houses would be glad for the strange buffer between them and the rest.

  But now House DeVir had potentially upset all of that, and so, Jarlaxle knew, Matron Mez’Barris would wash her hands of them. She wasn’t about to risk her coveted seat right behind House Baenre for the sake of a house like DeVir, which was too highly ranked in the first place.

  “Does your brother even know that he was the target?” Jarlaxle remarked.

  “He is not my brother,” the impassive Kimmuriel replied, and it was technically true, as Kimmuriel was not the son of Matron K’yorl. He had been taken into the noble family as a son, however, because of his extraordinary intellect and his growing prowess in the art of mind magic.

  “Hazaufein is a noble son of House Oblodra, as is Kimmuriel.”

  “If Matron K’yorl was the rumored sire instead of the obvious mother, no one would believe that heritage.”

  Jarlaxle laughed, knowing that to be as close to a joke as he would ever hear from this passionless one.

  “And now it all makes sense to you,” Kimmuriel said—quite astutely, Jarlaxle thought. “Matron Mother Baenre is pleased, Matron Mez’Barris fearful. Some house will overwhelm House DeVir, and so Matron Mez’Barris’s budding alliance will meet a swift end.”

  Jarlaxle snickered but didn’t reply. He thought—not for the first time and certainly not for the last—that someday he would be thrilled to formally induct Kimmuriel into Bregan D’aerthe as a full member, beholden only to the band and not the dangerous Matron K’yorl.

  “And how do you know that?” he asked.

  Kimmuriel arched a thin white eyebrow. “I know many things.”

  Indeed he did, Jarlaxle understood. Interrogation was never more fully served than in the act of mental possession. Kimmuriel could thread his thoughts into the mind of another, weaker intellect, with practiced ease.

  With that unsettling thought, Jarlaxle adjusted his eyepatch, as he had the previous night when talking to Hazaufein.

  It’s becoming a bit of a tell, he thought, and promised himself to work on not reaching for the eyepatch every time psionics was discussed.

  “What else do you know?”

  Kimmuriel stared at him, unblinking.

  “The Faceless One?”

  “The birth magic,” Kimmuriel replied.

  “You should show more respect. It is quite powerful.”

  Kimmuriel snickered, which rarely happened. “It is, I suppose, as near to the mind magic as mundane wizards and priestesses can approach.”

  Ah, yes, the haughtiness of the Oblodrans, Jarlaxle thought, but did not say.

  “Underestimate it at your peril,” he did say.

  Kimmuriel snickered again.

  “I ask, then, if you are so sure of this, why aren’t the Oblodrans, or Odrans, or whatever name your house currently wears, sitting atop the Ruling Council?”

  “Have you ever watched a lizard race?”

  Where was this going? “I have wagered more than the treasury of House Oblodra on such events.”

  “When they run in the higher tunnels, where the air isn’t still, the wise rider keeps his mount behind the shoulder of the lead runners,” Kimmuriel explained. “He lets them do the work in breaking the press of the wind until it is time to glide past them.”

  “Matron Mother Baenre would pay me well for such information,” Jarlaxle slyly replied.

  “She would, but you won’t tell her.”

  His certainty bothered Jarlaxle, mostly because the mercenary leader knew that Kimmuriel was right.

  Chapter 3

  Seeds

  Dinin Do’Urden rolled out from under the swirling cloud of conjured wretchedness, his vision blurry, eyes burning, throat thick with bile and mucus. He realized immediately as he executed his second roll, putting him clear of the conjured cloud, and started to stand that he had chosen the wrong exit angle.

  Magical webbing grabbed at him as he began to rise, clinging and holding fast.

  Nalfein had thrown this second dweomer to the left of the cloud, while Dinin had expected it on the right.

  He tried to pull free, half turned and slashed with his drow blades—except these were blunted practice swords and not the fine-edged magical weapons the drow warrior usually carried.

  Dinin turned to face h
is adversary and tugged hard against the stubborn webs, and indeed, he felt as if he was making progress and expected to break free.

  Not in time, he realized, as Nalfein’s waggling fingers completed the next spell, a bolt of lightning leaping out to slam against poor Dinin, throwing him backward. The webs behind him burned in the blast, so he wasn’t trapped, at least.

  But he was surely stung by the lightning bolt, and he tried to keep his muscles behaving and following his commands, but they—some of them, at least—seemed to have developed minds of their own. His legs trembled and a step forward became a slide to the side, and poor Dinin was down on the ground again, gyrating uncontrollably for a few moments, doing all he could to simply hold on to his twin swords.

  He gradually regained control, tasting blood in his mouth from the damage caused by chattering teeth, and threw himself to his feet.

  And there stood Nalfein, his next spell ready to launch.

  “Yield!” Zaknafein ordered from the side. “The battle is ended.”

  Nalfein flashed that awful grin, one that bit into the heart of the proud Dinin. He hadn’t wanted this fight but had been goaded here by his most powerful Do’Urden sister, Briza. She had taunted him to the point where any refusal on his part would have been more embarrassing even than his defeat.

  “So we have a winner,” said Zaknafein, and Nalfein crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of condescension and superiority.

  “This time,” Zaknafein added, “and I will add, by the flip of a coin.”

  Nalfein’s grin became a frown. “I struck him three times before he got near to me. Had him choking and caught and helpless, and the last strike, the lightning bolt, could have been fatal had this been a true fight and not a sparring match.”

  “You guessed correctly on the location of the web,” said Zaknafein. “Had Dinin come out the other side of your magical cloud of stench . . .”

  “He still would have faced the lightning,” Nalfein argued.

  “Unhindered by the web, though, and so he might have avoided its bite, and where would Nalfein then be?”

  “If you think all of my tricks had played out, weapon master, then you are mistaken.”

  Zaknafein shrugged and let it go, but Dinin did not.

  “It is a ridiculous challenge in the first place,” he argued. “A wizard strikes from range, a fighter up close. How can a fighter succeed when the wizard knows the battlefield and can strike from afar?”

  “You chose to accept the match,” Zaknafein reminded him. “It was not one I arranged, nor one I advised you to take.”

  “My brother is correct,” Nalfein said. “In a fair fight, a mere warrior has no chance against a wizard.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, the timbre of the very air seemed to change. Nalfein bit off the last word, and Dinin fell perfectly silent, his eyes going wide as he looked from Zaknafein to Nalfein.

  For many heartbeats, Zaknafein just smiled. Then he waved Dinin off to the side, walked to the weapon rack across from Nalfein, and took up a pair of swords, waving them easily to test their balance.

  “What is this?” Nalfein demanded.

  “It is a challenge for you to back up your last proclamation, of course.”

  “I have already used my spells.”

  “You are a noble son of a powerful family, a graduate of Sorcere, and one also trained in the arts martial. You have plenty of spells left, of course.”

  “I . . . I do not wish another challenge this day.”

  “But you have found one, Nalfein. For now I am curious. I am a mere warrior, after all, and you a wizard. If your assertion proves correct, perhaps I will toss aside my swords and go study in Sorcere.”

  At the side of the room, near the dissipating web and stinking cloud, Dinin snickered.

  “Are you ready?” Zaknafein asked.

  “No,” said Nalfein.

  “Yes,” said Zaknafein. “Prepare. You may strike first.”

  Nalfein glanced all around, then closed his eyes only briefly, obviously formulating a series of spells to rain over this more formidable enemy. He exploded into motion, arms waving, chanting his arcane words.

  Zaknafein, true to his word, didn’t move, standing easily some forty feet away.

  A pea of flame appeared in Nalfein’s hand. He threw it across the room, then immediately launched into his second spell.

  Dinin gasped in shock. A fireball! In a room in House Do’Urden, Nalfein had thrown a fireball!

  Zaknafein leaped up and back, spinning as he rose, rose, rose—incredibly so! For he called upon his innate drow powers and his house emblem to enact a levitation spell as he lifted from the floor. He was up more than a dozen feet when the pea of fire dropped and exploded into a magnificent fireball, and when the roiling flames had cleared, there was Zaknafein, tucked up into the top corner where the curving wall of the arena joined with the ceiling, his magical piwafwi cloak tight about him.

  Perhaps the flames had reached him and bit at him, but if so, he hardly appeared injured as he unwound and turned, planting his feet against that corner, his magical levitation still enacted. He kicked off, gliding down and away from the wall toward Nalfein, and he reached into his drow powers once more, the magic of the race granted by the emanations of the Faezress, and planted a globe of darkness on the floor before Nalfein.

  Dinin gasped again when Zak’s levitation expired, when he dropped with perfect angle and tucked to land in a roll, one that sent him spinning back to his feet with such force that when he leaped away, such a great leap it proved to be, launching him right over the ten-foot darkness globe.

  A lightning bolt cut through the heart of that globe beneath him, harmlessly.

  And now the skilled Zaknafein landed with grace once more at the far edge of the darkness globe, rolling to his feet and rushing forward with stunning speed and precision.

  Nalfein slashed his own practice sword across to slow the weapon master, and lifted his hand, his fingers arcing with lightning energy. But that electrical slap got nowhere near Zaknafein, who dropped to a slide on his knees, back-bending under the sword swing and the reach of those lightning-crackling fingers.

  Across came Zak’s left-hand sword on a low backhand, Nalfein fast-stepping to avoid getting tripped up.

  Across came Zak’s right-hand blade just behind it, on the same level but in a wider arc, and Nalfein escaped the brunt of it only by stumbling backward.

  Zaknafein let the swords continue around, using the momentum to spin back up onto his feet, rushing forward as he came around.

  Nalfein’s shocking grasp swung down at him, but Zak’s sword was faster, slapping hard against the wizard’s forehand with enough force to draw a yelp of pain. Back fell Nalfein, forward came Zaknafein, his twin swords rolling out and under, then doubly stabbing forward as Nalfein tried to run out of the room in retreat.

  The dulled tips of the blades caught the wizard in the armpits, and Zaknafein bore forward and up, lifting poor Nalfein into the air, where two running strides by Zaknafein slammed him into the practice arena’s wall.

  And there Zak held him, scowling.

  “If you wish to make such boasts of the superiority of priestesses, I have to accept it,” Zaknafein admitted. “But you speak of professions mostly filled by we, the mere males of Menzoberranzan, and that, when it is just we men, I will not abide. A mere warrior, Nalfein? If I take out your heart and hold it beating before your eyes, will you admit the error of such a claim?”

  “Zaknafein,” Nalfein said through a pained grimace.

  “Will you?”

  “I am the elderboy of House Do’Urden!” Nalfein managed to growl out.

  “And I am a murderer with little to lose,” Zak answered. “Will you admit it?”

  “I . . . was . . . wrong,” Nalfein said, Zaknafein twisting a blade with each forced word.

  Zaknafein retracted and Nalfein dropped to the floor.

  “We support each other against them,” Zakna
fein told him, and turned as he spoke to include Dinin. “We men, we lessers. We have enough enemies here in the City of Spiders without battling each other.”

  Nalfein didn’t respond, other than to grab at his pained armpits and stumble aside, rushing out of the room.

  “He will probably run to Matron Malice to cry about the treatment,” Dinin said, walking over.

  Zak scowled at him, too. “He defeated you,” the weapon master reminded.

  Dinin stopped, eyes hard.

  “How did you let that happen? You foolishly chose to attempt an attack instead of backing out of the cloud. You could have easily exhausted his magical abilities, but you got impatient. I have taught you better than that. Did you think to impress me?”

  “I guessed incorrectly,” the still upset Dinin argued.

  “You shouldn’t have guessed at all! He is a wizard.”

  “A mediocre wizard.”

  “Who defeated you.”

  “It is hardly fair to put a melee warrior in an open arena with a caster who can strike at range!”

  “True,” Zak said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What warrior could ever win such a challenge?”

  “That is not . . .” Dinin sputtered. “You are . . .”

  “I am the weapon master of House Do’Urden,” Zaknafein finished. “It is my duty to keep you alive and prepared for all events. I did that, but you failed here, miserably. In a house fight, you would be dead, and I would suffer the wrath of Matron Malice for your impatience and stupidity.”

  “I am a house noble,” Dinin growled back. “Son of a matron.”

  “An angry one, I see,” Zak taunted, and up came his sword suddenly, tapping against the underside of Dinin’s chin.

  The outraged Dinin fell back, then came forward, swords appearing in his hands, a sudden and brutal attack to repay the insult. His left-hand blade stabbed ahead and was easily guided wide by Zak’s already uplifted sword. That was the feint, however, for Dinin’s right-hand blade came under and around the hooked swords, a clever move executed with impressive precision, balance, and strength.