“I need it?” the matron asked, skepticism displayed openly on her face. “The dwarves are in their hole with no way out. The halflings are . . .” She paused and swept her hand across, to invite them to look upon the gutted buildings. “Luskan has fallen to Brevindon Margaster, by all accounts, and Port Llast is gutted. I have all but won the north, and so swiftly.”
“All but,” said Yiccardaria.
“Should we tell Lady Lolth that you refuse her great and generous gift?” Eskavidne added.
“No, of course not,” Zhindia blurted.
“Where are your demon hordes?” Yiccardaria asked.
“Down below, fighting in the upper levels of the complex the dwarves call Gauntlgrym, but one that I will soon rename in tribute to the glorious Queen of Spiders.”
“The upper tunnels,” said Eskavidne.
“The dwarves are a stubborn foe,” Yiccardaria added. “I have been told by more than one demon lord that a hundred demons are being destroyed for every dwarf falling. Perhaps more than a hundred.”
Zhindia Melarn shrugged. “The demons can be replenished. They open their gates to the Abyss and more stream through, even many of the same reconstituted lesser fiends that were destroyed the day before.”
“But you have fewer major demons now who can perform such portal magic than you had in the beginning of your adventure,” Yiccardaria reminded her.
“Of course. And so I have ordered the major fiends back from the fighting,” Zhindia replied. “It is not an easy command to enforce, I admit. They do so love killing.”
“Tell us, child, what will you do when the first armies of the humans show up to do battle with you here?” said Yiccardaria. “When the lords of Waterdeep arrive with their thousands and your demon armies remain underground in mortal battle with the dwarves?”
Matron Zhindia’s face tightened.
“And when you recall the demons to fight up here, do you think the dwarves will remain in their hole?” Yiccardaria went on. “They are not cowardly.”
“Luskan will—”
“Luskan will do nothing to aid you here,” Yiccardaria insisted. “The city teeters and will do so for months, if not years. There remain other forces up there more formidable than those of Brevindon.”
“The Hosttower,” Zhindia muttered.
“Others,” said the handmaiden.
“If you speak of Jarlaxle’s mercenaries, then go to Menzoberranzan and demand that Matron Mother Baenre leash him and lash him!”
The yochlols both chuckled. “The world is wide up here, Matron Zhindia,” said Eskavidne. “There are many forces with which you must contend. You are vulnerable up here, with the demon hordes engaged below.”
“But I have the blessing of Lolth, the retrievers—” Zhindia started to argue.
“One of the constructs failed and was destroyed,” Yiccardaria interrupted, and the blood drained from Zhindia’s face. Yiccardaria stared at her hard, letting her know that she was taking the loss of the retriever personally.
“How can that be?” Zhindia asked, a rare stutter in her voice.
“The other returned to the Abyss, victorious,” Eskavidne added, “and so Drizzt Do’Urden is destroyed. And for that, you are rewarded. Your reward is Lady Lolth’s gift, unless you are so certain that it is not needed that you refuse it now.”
Matron Zhindia verily beamed at the news, elated that she would forever be known as the matron who defeated Lolth’s mortal enemy. She heard their words, however, for she quickly replied, “I accept any gift from the Spider Queen, with gratitude and reverence.”
The yochlols looked to each other, then stepped back from Zhindia. Each held her hands far out before her, left hand up high, right hand lower. They touched fingers and began to chant, then slowly moved back and apart, sweeping their hands as they let go of each other, trailing lines of black smoke.
They shaped that smoke into a tall and wide doorway, then moved aside, chanting still, as the smoke curled inward, filling the area inside the formed rectangle.
Their chants grew louder, now compelling obedience from within. Through the gate came a huge spider leg, then a second, and a large drider stepped forth, quickly moving to the side.
Then another, and a third after that, and on and on, a hundred driders, another hundred and more, spilling forth, moving around into predetermined formations, filling the whole of the ruined halfling town and more, and the gate pushed out the Melarni drow and the drider escorts they had brought from Menzoberranzan.
“What is this?” Matron Zhindia breathed, barely able to get sound past her quivering lips.
“Lolth does not dismiss the driders from her service when they are killed,” said Yiccardaria. “Behold an army of long-dead driders, the heretical drow of millennia lost. Now they are yours, a greater army still.”
Zhindia fumbled for words that would not come. Hundreds of driders at her beck and call? She had hoped to come forth and fulfill her destiny to destroy the heretics—a goal that seemed at least half-completed at this point—but now, with this new power given to her, what else might she accomplish?
“The demon army is not permanent,” Yiccardaria said, as if reading her mind. “No demonic army ever is on the Material Plane. When they are gone, the north will be captured, but not by you, not for long. No, your allies here will hold Luskan and Port Llast and all the lands of the northern Sword Coast. But your place is not here.”
“Gauntlgrym,” said Zhindia.
“Think bigger,” Eskavidne replied. “Matron Zeerith, now of House Do’Urden, will be happy to strike out and retake the great complex and the magical forge for the children of Lolth, as Gromph Baenre will be reined in by the dominance of your allies in Luskan to choose a side—and he will undoubtedly choose you.”
“Menzoberranzan,” Matron Zhindia breathed. “I am the destroyer of the prime heretic, and my armies will return Zaknafein to his grave forthwith. Even House Baenre will bow before me when I return to Menzoberranzan with this army at my back.”
The yochlols looked at each other and smiled, then stepped through their gate and were gone, the smoky portal diminishing behind them.
When the yochlols disappeared, Charri Hunzrin, the first priestess of the powerful drow house that had allied with House Melarn, moved up tentatively to stand beside Matron Zhindia.
“What was that conversation?” she asked in a halting tone. “From where and how have these driders come?”
“Drizzt Do’Urden is destroyed.”
Charri sucked in her breath. “But still, is this?”
“This?” Zhindia replied with a chuckle. “This, my dear High Priestess Charri, is proof that your matron chose wisely in allying with House Melarn.
“This, High Priestess Charri, is victory.”
The word hung in the air for a few moments, and Zhindia liked the sound, so she said it again.
“Victory.”
“Me queen, by me yellow beard, it’s good to see you well,” said Skiddiday Thunderclap Widebelt, a burly dwarf with a beard so badly captured by an ill attempt at braiding that it more resembled a clew of worms thrown across a floor than anything that should be sitting on a living creature’s face.
“And to see you, as well, Skid . . . Thunderclap,” Queen Mallabritches Battlehammer replied.
The dwarf, who had given himself that middle name and very much preferred others use it, beamed a gap-toothed smile at the lovely queen of Gauntlgrym. “I just thinked that, as ye been up in the fightin’ front . . .”
“I been taking me share of hits, as’ve all up there,” she answered. “Ne’er seen so many demon critters altogether. Ne’er not close.”
“And they keep coming,” Skiddiday murmured, nodding.
“And down here at the low gate?” Mallabritches asked.
“Quiet, me queen.”
“Ye seen ’em? Any of ’em?”
“Not a stinkin’ drow, me queen.”
Mallabritches stepped through the large iron door, t
hen moved to the parapet beside Skiddiday, staring out over the half wall and down the long corridor. “We know they be out there.”
“Aye, me queen, I seen ’em in the crystal ball afore King Bruenor sent me down here.”
“But nothing?”
The dwarf shook his head.
“What say ye that we go out lookin’?”
“Me queen?”
“Get yer boys together, twenty o’ yer best, and let’s go have a look.”
Skiddiday’s eyes widened at that, and he seemed as if he were trying—and failing—to stop his head from shaking.
“Come on, then,” Mallabritches told him with a wink. “Yerself can stay if ye’re not up for it.”
“Never that, me queen!”
“Ye’re hesitatin’.”
“Me orders put me here, just here, with a door to shut to seal Gauntlgrym.”
“Yer orders from King Bruenor, of course.”
“Aye, me queen!”
“And who am I?”
“Err, me queen, I mean, ye’re me queen. One o’ me queens!”
“Aye, I be. So get yer best twenty. We’re goin’ out.”
“Yes, me queen!” Skiddiday replied with great enthusiasm, and he bounded back through the open portal, rushing past the side rooms, shouting for his boys, telling them to stand to.
Mallabritches kept staring down the long hallway, one filled with magical light spells beyond her vision. She wasn’t surprised that Skiddiday and the others hadn’t seen anything at this gate.
But the drow were out there.
And they were plotting and planning.
He saw the drow from afar, not daring to get close despite his incorporeal, gaseous form.
Hundreds of them milled about the Underdark corridors below Gauntlgrym, setting up their chapels and barracks in natural chambers, sending patrols out every which way. Among their ranks were many wizards and even more priestesses, he knew, for Thibbledorf Pwent was no stranger to the emblems and ways of the dark elves.
Those he avoided with care, as the wizards and priestesses could find him even in this form, and likely destroy him.
He returned to the lower entry corridor, floating high up along the corner where the worked stone wall joined the ceiling, just as a troop of dwarves unexpectedly came forth.
Pwent studied them curiously, not beginning to understand why they would leave the defensive position. There were just over a score of dwarves.
Hundreds of drow.
The vampire dwarf grew more concerned, indeed, when he recognized one in particular: Mallabritches. Queen Mallabritches.
It took all Pwent could muster to hold himself in that gaseous state, to resist the urge to become corporeal before these dwarves. It wasn’t their reaction he feared, but his own.
For the temptation was stronger now, a nagging itch, a constant hunger, and one that grew nearly overwhelming with a simple glance at the beautiful Queen Mallabritches.
Perhaps I’m strong enough now to make her me love fore’er . . .
He felt his form growing more solid, the gas contracting.
She’ll be me own queen . . . Bruenor’s got another . . .
A silent growl shut out the voices in his head. Pwent forced the gaseous cloud to widen once more.
Ah, but she’d love me, and I’d be givin’ her life forevermore!
The wispy cloud that was Thibbledorf Pwent flew off down the corridor, moving far ahead of the dwarven troop, far ahead of the temptation of Queen Mallabritches—and of all the others, for that matter, for Pwent now could look upon no reasoning, living humanoid without the desire to feed, and worse, without the desire to dominate, to enslave, or, now, even to elevate another, several others, perhaps, into the full un-death state of vampirism.
I could make me own clan . . . Clan Pwent . . . nah, Clan Gutbuster! And aye, but what a powerful clan we’d be! We’d save Gauntlgrym, aye! And chase these durned drow back to their hole.
Pwent slipped through a crack in the floor and materialized in a lower, empty corridor. He would have been gasping for breath, he knew, if he still drew breath. Simply overwhelmed, the vampire stalked back and forth along the hallway, trying to sort out rational thought from evil-inspired fantasy, trying to separate conscious desire from the demands of blood and murder that would not let him go.
He didn’t know how long had passed when the first sounds of battle came to his ears with his enhanced hearing.
“Queen Mallabritches,” he mumbled with alarm.
Before he was conscious of the transformation, the gaseous cloud of Pwent slipped through the ceiling cracks and flew along the upper corridor. Even in that form, he could smell the blood.
The sweet, sweet smell of blood.
He moved as if on the winds of a hurricane, though the air this deep was still. Through the walls, through cracks in the ceiling, through some more walls to cut the corners of long, bending corridors.
He found the dwarves engaged with a force of several drow and a host of goblins and bugbears. He spotted Queen Mallabritches at once, the powerful woman executing a vicious slash with a double-bladed axe, opening the chest of a charging bugbear.
Stopping that charge as surely as if the creature had run into a stone wall.
The bugbear flew, and the bugbear’s blood flew, and the latter seemed to Pwent to be moving slowly, every droplet flying distinctly, clear to see—too clear to see.
And the smell flooded into him. A droplet even spattered far enough to pass through the gas cloud.
Pwent could taste it! Coppery. Sticky sweet.
A dwarf went down, tripped up by a goblin, stabbed by a second, with a female drow leaping in to finish the task.
Pwent’s rage overruled his vampiric needs.
The cloud swooped and thickened, and Pwent landed on his feet right beside the dwarf, right before the drow, who pulled up in surprise.
Pwent punched his right fist across, hand spike slamming the goblin that had stabbed the fallen dwarf, driving right into the creature’s chest. It fell back, sliding off the bloody spike, yelping and gasping its spurting blood.
As the drow retreated, the vampiric battlerager leaped up and back, his powerful legs propelling him high into the air, above the goblin, the one who had initially tripped the dwarf, as it lunged forward in an attempt to stab him in the back. Down crashed Pwent, burying the goblin beneath him, although unfortunately atop the fallen dwarf.
Pwent grabbed the goblin and yanked it aside, rolling to his back and pulling it right over him, then rolling farther to be back on top. There, the dwarf began to shake and shudder, his entire body twitching and rolling, his ridged, sharp armor cutting the goblin apart.
The blood!
But not goblin blood, no! Pwent hated the taste of goblin blood. But here was dwarf blood, right here on the floor before him.
No! his thoughts protested.
“No!” he screamed, and he saw the retreating drow, and he focused on her. His legs began to pump wildly, propelling him forward, slipping in the blood, tripping over the groaning dwarf. He caught his balance by stepping on the stabbed and writhing goblin heavily, planting his boot and leaping away.
The drow’s swords came at him in a blur, too fast for him to block.
So he didn’t try.
He just put his head down and bore forward, blasting the huge spike set atop his helm into the torso of the drow, then pressed on more, driving the lighter and weaker elf backward—back, back, back, to slam into the wall. Pwent thrashed about, like a wolf killing a rabbit. He punched and kneed and kicked long after the drow had stopped moving, then yanked back, extracting his head spike, and watched the drow sink to a sitting position against the wall.
Still alive.
And the smell . . .
Oh, that sweet smell! Pwent dove on her and bit her in the neck.
The sounds of battle receded, replaced by the pumping of the drow woman’s heart.
That’s all he heard. That’s all he care
d about.
The blood.
He drank and drank.
“Pwent, by Moradin’s beard!” he heard suddenly, sharply, and his eyes popped open. He felt as if a child had just walked in on him making love, but the moment passed equally quickly.
He spun and looked at the speaker, Queen Mallabritches, her face a mask of horror.
Horror.
Revulsion.
Shamed, the vampire scanned the room only briefly enough to discern that the dwarves had won, though several looked wounded. Goblins and bugbears littered the room, along with this one torn drow.
Thibbledorf Pwent never feared an enemy, never feared a fight. But now he ran, and heard Mallabritches calling to her charges as he left, instructing them to gather up the dark elf woman and get her back to Gauntlgrym: “Before the curse can take her.”
The curse . . . you are a curse . . . an abomination . . .
The vampire fell against a wall, needing to brace himself with something tangible, else he’d simply collapse. He was surprised by the tears that came to his eyes, thinking that effect had been lost when he stopped drawing breath.
“Me king,” he whispered, trying to remember all those old times beside Bruenor, the good times in Mithral Hall, the hunt together for this place, Gauntlgrym. Pwent’s last actions had been in defense of King Bruenor, and always had he been ready and willing to give his life for that wonderful, wonderful dwarf.
But now . . . to hear the words of Queen Mallabritches, Bruenor’s wife. The words which led to an inescapable conclusion.
He was an abomination, and for all his willpower, all his inner heart and strength, all his loyalty to Bruenor, he knew then beyond all doubt: the curse was stronger. He couldn’t control it.
It was only a matter of time before he murdered a dwarf and brought it into un-death beside him.
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