Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  No, Kimmuriel was angry, outraged even.

  That silent confession struck him hard. When had he ever let his anger overrule his sensibilities? Even when Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre had dropped his home, his family, his mother, into the Clawrift, obliterating all that was House Oblodra, Kimmuriel had tempered his rage beneath his good judgment. He had fully joined with Jarlaxle, with Bregan D’aerthe, which served as a strong ally of that same Matron Mother Baenre!

  Many times he had thought of revenge, and many times he had put those desires aside, exacting what little punishment he might secretly inflict upon the Baenres whenever he could, but never anything risky. It had always been more of an amusement, a little bit of whimsy, than anything important.

  Now, though, he burned with anger. Now he wanted Brevindon taken down in no uncertain terms, the demon within the Margaster crushed before him. He had told himself that his plan, dangerous but possible, was for the good of Bregan D’aerthe, and there was perhaps enough truth in that for him to continue the self-deception.

  Not at this moment, though. At this moment, Kimmuriel realized there was much more here, much more personal anger driving him. He wasn’t certain why. He was missing something, he thought, some element right there before him that he had not connected, a memory deep in his mind, a hint he had heard elsewhere . . . something.

  “If you do not renew the flow of magic to Gauntlgrym and the primordial, the beast will escape and lay waste to the region,” he said to Gromph one last time.

  “And if I do as you ask, I will be picking sides, and that side will not be the one favored by Lolth.”

  “Jarlaxle is in there, in Gauntlgrym, as far as I can discern.”

  “Then Jarlaxle will have to be clever, or Jarlaxle will be dead.”

  Kimmuriel stood and stared for a while longer, but he really couldn’t do anything, he understood. He was more powerful than Gromph in psionics, but if he tried to use any to convince Gromph, he would be facing off against one of the most powerful wizards in the world.

  He wanted to satisfy his anger, but he didn’t want to make it go away by dying.

  He returned to Illusk and the secret drow enclave. Gromph would not be swayed.

  Chapter 10

  Web Weaving

  “The surface,” the excited drow scout reported when he returned to his commanders.

  The strange-looking warrior standing beside High Priestess Minolin Fey Baenre gave a grating and guttural, almost feral, growl. He was large and muscular, particularly for a drow man, with his white hair spiked like the plume of a war crown along the middle of his otherwise shaved pate. A mithral ring hung from his nose, gold pins had been shoved through his cheeks, and he had painted garish white rings about his eyes.

  For all his outlandish eccentricities, though, no one glancing upon this warrior would think him anything but formidable. He wore black plate mail, fitted perfectly, and carried a magnificent trident in one hand, with a net awaiting his grasp on his right hip.

  “He is trying too hard to be Uthegentel,” the priestess Saribel Xorlarrin Do’Urden whispered to her wizard brother, Ravel, nodding her chin toward the unusual warrior, Malagdorl Armgo.

  “Warriors try too hard at everything,” Ravel replied. “That is why they usually and thankfully die young.”

  Malagdorl looked over at the siblings then and growled again, and Ravel winked at him, drawing a slap from Saribel. “Fool,” she whispered. Then, shielding one hand and using her fingers to sign at him in the silent drow code, she added, He is Matron Mez’Barris’s favored grandson. She sees her beloved, lost Uthegentel, in Malagdorl.

  She sees her lover in her grandson? Ravel silently responded, his face crinkling in disgust.

  “Not like that,” Saribel reflexively replied, but in truth, she wasn’t so sure of her claim. In the silent code, she added, Look at his hands. He even wears Matron Mez’Barris’s gloves, making him even stronger.

  “Did you see anyone to kill?” Malagdorl asked the scout as he stepped a bit in front of the Baenre high priestess. “Elves?”

  “Know your place,” Minolin Fey scolded, shifting to stand a bit ahead of the uppity male. To the scout, she added, “You may answer.”

  “There was only silence,” he said. “We have found nothing alive. Not a bird, not an . . . elf.”

  Malagdorl growled.

  Ravel snorted and flashed, I hope the ugly fool dies quickly. Perhaps I’ll aid the first elf we see.

  Saribel elbowed him. Do not discount the great honor Matron Mother Baenre bestowed upon us by ranking us as under-commanders of the scouting group, with only her own high priestess and the weapon master of the second house above us.

  Interesting. Two spells for us to become the commanders, said Ravel’s fingers. One if I aim cleverly.

  Saribel tried not to giggle at her irascible brother’s incessant joking—at least, she hoped it was just that, but she knew that with Ravel, she could never be certain. She led the way to join the other leaders of the party.

  “We go out to see what we might learn under the land that has no ceiling,” Minolin Fey Baenre told the assembled group. “Spread the word among your underlings.”

  Malagdorl and the four under-commanders all nodded their assent. When Ravel turned to go, Saribel took him by the arm and held him back, directing his gaze to the other two who shared their rank in this group, Kelfain Mizzrym and Kron Tlabbar. It did not escape Saribel’s notice that these latter two under-commanders were the patrons of their respective houses, the third- and fourth-ranked in the city, nor that both of those houses had been bitter rivals of House Xorlarrin, an enmity that had not likely ebbed now that Matron Zeerith and her family had assumed the surname of Do’Urden. The Xorlarrins had stood as the city’s third house before abdicating their seat at the Ruling Council in order to strike out and claim this very area as a satellite city for Menzoberranzan. Much had changed for House Xorlarrin after the disaster within Gauntlgrym, when the Delzoun dwarves had pushed them out, but Saribel doubted that those changes, including the elimination of House Xorlarrin altogether and the reincorporation of House Do’Urden, though lower in the rank than Xorlarrin had been, had done much to lessen the rivalries.

  Now on this grand march of Menzoberranzan, considered the most important one of the era by Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre, the matrons of those third and fourth houses were hedging their bets, clearly. They had sent the patrons, two men eminently replaceable, instead of their more valuable house wizards or weapon masters or high priestesses. The matrons of Houses Mizzrym and Faen Tlabbar had kept their true power close at hand, back within the safety of the main battle group.

  What did it mean Saribel wondered. Anything? Matron Mez’Barris Armgo, no friend of either the Xorlarrins or the Baenres, had sent her valued weapon master—but Saribel had considered that a reflection of Mez’Barris’s desire to see Malagdorl elevated to rival the legend of Uthegentel. Matron Mez’Barris could never see her grandson to such glory if she shielded him from dangerous missions, and so she would not protect him—nor did Mez’Barris herself need the protection of Malagdorl, surely, with the vast resources of House Barrison Del’Armgo surrounding her.

  Matron Mother Baenre had sent a high priestess, but she had little choice if she wanted to ensure complete control of the scouting party. And it was merely Minolin Fey, after all, who had joined House Baenre only because she had married Gromph and birthed a very important daughter.

  A daughter who was likely in this very region working against them all, Saribel thought. She kept that dangerous notion very private.

  Still, she could not shake the feeling that this was an odd collection on an odd expedition, whatever it might be. Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre was pulling the strings here, but did anyone know what the puppeteer had planned?

  “We are not to engage,” Minolin Fey was saying when the priestess turned her attention back to the parlay. “We are not to strike at anything we see, not human, not dwarf, not even elf. And su
rely, neither drow nor demon, unless we are attacked. We are here to learn, not to fight. You have all been warned.”

  It seemed to Saribel that Minolin Fey was aiming that warning of patience and temperance at one person in particular, and if anyone needed such a warning, it was Malagdorl Armgo.

  Twilight had fallen across the land by the time the full scouting party had reached the entrance to the surface world. That was a good thing, as few among the ranks had ever seen the surface, and the eyes of a drow did not easily adapt to the glare of the fiery orb that haunted the overworld of Toril through half of each day.

  They moved into their traveling formations with exceptional precision, for even though these hunters had come from a myriad of drow houses and few had ever fought beside the particular drow forming about them, the children of Menzoberranzan shared martial training and knew their place in a small group, and knew the place of their small group in the larger formation.

  Silent as shadows, they filtered through the deepening gloom, leapfrogging the point position in systematic order, some climbing trees as easily as squirrels to gain a wider view of the area before them. They moved north for a short while before turning back to the west, then slowed as one when a treetop scout reported activity a short distance ahead.

  Drow hands flashed signals to cover and defend when the lead scouts came rushing back to signal the approach of some unknown entities.

  On first glance of the large shadows moving through the trees far ahead, Saribel thought them a horde of demons, but as they neared, as the rhythm of their scrabbling legs took on a familiar pattern, she—and those around her—came to know the truth.

  She glanced over at Minolin Fey, who crouched with Malagdorl behind a low berm to her right. The Baenre priestess flashed the name: Driders!

  Saribel wasn’t surprised. Matron Zhindia Melarn was up here, and it was well known that she kept many driders in her house (and that she quite enjoyed inflicting that ultimate punishment on heretics).

  The identification moved through the drow ranks, but before no more than half had seen the signals, the opposition force became evident, a host of the giant half-spider, half-drow creatures pushing through the underbrush, revealing themselves fearlessly in all their horrid glory.

  Whether the apparent leader, a gigantic brute with fiery red eyes and weblike braids in her long hair, knew the identity of those before her or not wasn’t clear, but she acted as one would expect of a drider: she hurled a heavy spear at the berm. It skipped off the top, between the two leaders, only narrowly missing both.

  Minolin Fey reacted with her voice, commanding the beast to halt, but Malagdorl, predictably, wasn’t satisfied with that.

  “With me!” he roared, coming up over the berm. A second spear flew at him from farther to his right, but he spun around it deftly, completing the circle in a straight charge at the gigantic central drider.

  Clicks of drow hand crossbows sounded, a swarm of darts striking out.

  Apparently caught up in the excitement of the moment, Ravel jumped up and began a spell, but Saribel jumped up beside him and slapped his motioning hands aside.

  She and Minolin Fey began shouting then, at driders and at their own drow, calling a halt to the fight.

  “Dare you desecrate gifts to Lolth?” Saribel yelled at her fellow drow, for the drider abominations were considered exactly that.

  “Dare you challenge the priestesses of Lolth?” Minolin Fey yelled at the driders.

  Most of the would-be combatants, both drider and drow, eased back, but not Malagdorl and not the behemoth before him.

  In charged the drow weapon master and up reared the drider, her front two chitinous legs kicking at him. The drider matched the drow’s trident with a larger one of her own, and thrust down powerfully as she dove forward in pursuit, as Malagdorl fell back from the kicking legs.

  Malagdorl took a wide-handed grip on his black trident and presented it diagonally before and above him, catching the descending trident between the tines. It seemed ridiculous to Saribel and the other onlookers, who expected the drow to be crushed beneath the powerful press of the much larger and obviously well-leveraged drider, but to her astonishment, and to the gasps of many others, the weapon master of House Barrison Del’Armgo caught that descending trident and the full weight of the monster coming down behind it, and held them there.

  With a roar of utter defiance and denial, Malagdorl spun to his right and forward, turning the drider’s trident above him and not releasing it until he was too far under the beast for her to bring the weapon to bear.

  Like a spider, the drider jumped, straight up, barely avoiding Malagdorl’s attempt to impale her abdomen.

  She landed to the side, turning in her short flight, spinning her trident back to the ready, and rushing at the drow even as it landed.

  And fierce Malagdorl did not shy away, charging back in eagerly.

  A ball of flame appeared in the air before the approaching combatants, roiling for just an eyeblink before shooting down a line of divine fire, causing both drider and drow to skid to an abrupt stop.

  Minolin Fey came over the berm fearlessly, striding forward with long and determined steps, her robes, those fitting a high priestess of good standing and the grace of Lady Lolth, flowing around her. Saribel’s jaw dropped open in surprise—she had known this woman when she was Minolin Fey Branche, first priestess of House Fey-Branche, which was widely considered the least of the ruling houses and not even as strong as most of the houses ranked from ninth to twentieth. Only the long and storied history of House Fey-Branche, along with a tight alliance with House Baenre, had kept Matron Byrtyn Fey on the Ruling Council. That Minolin Fey, the one Saribel had known, the one whose only claim to station was as Matron Byrtyn’s eldest daughter, had been the butt of many jokes among the other women aspiring to attain the rank of high priestess.

  But this Minolin Fey, Minolin Fey Baenre, seemed much more self-assured, indeed, and much more powerful in every action.

  What a wonder to be a member of the Baenre nobles, Saribel thought, with more than a bit of envy. She grabbed her brother by the arm and tugged him behind her as she hustled to catch up to Minolin Fey, determined that House Do’Urden—nay! House Xorlarrin!—would be properly represented!

  “Who are you, abomination who dares to attack a disciple of Lady Lolth?” Minolin Fey demanded.

  “We did not know,” the drider croaked, easing away a bit, clearly intimidated.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Malfoosh!”

  “Malfoosh?”

  “Yes, priestess,” she replied.

  “What kind of name is that?” Minolin Fey demanded.

  At that moment, Kron Tlabbar ran up to Minolin Fey and whispered something in her ear, and the drow priestess seemed to sway for just a moment before composing herself. Saribel cast a questioning glance at the patron of House Faen Tlabbar, but the man just shook his head and stepped back.

  “Malfoosh of what house?” Minolin Fey asked, a question that set Saribel back on her heels. These were obviously Zhindia’s driders, were they not? “I do not know the drider Malfoosh among Matron Zhindia’s troop.”

  Saribel didn’t understand. Why would Minolin Fey know any of the driders of the Melarni? Why would she bother to hear their names?

  “What house?” Minolin Fey insisted.

  The drider’s face twisted as if she was in pain. “It was long ago . . .” the abomination started to reply, then halted, shaking her head.

  “It . . . wasn’t . . . Malfoosh then, priestess. Mal’a’voselle . . . I think.”

  “Mal’a’voselle?”

  “Lady, priestess, I do not know.”

  “Mal’a’voselle of what house?”

  “House Amvas Tol!” the drider said, summoning some pride.

  Minolin Fey turned a confused look to Saribel, who could only shrug, for she had never heard of such a house in Menzoberranzan.

  “It was a long time ago, priestess,” the drid
er explained. “In the time of the birth of the City of Spiders. My house did not survive.”

  Saribel and Minolin Fey exchanged another confused look, but Saribel nodded her acceptance of the claim. Mal’a’voselle was an almost unheard-of drow name now, but long ago, it was much more common. Still, driders did not live for millennia.

  “Why are you here?” Minolin Fey demanded.

  “I do not know why the great Queen of Spiders released us back into this world, priestess.”

  “You were in the Abyss?” Saribel asked, then bit it back and bowed to Minolin Fey for speaking out of turn. The Baenre priestess didn’t seem concerned, however, for that was the obvious question.

  “Serving, yes. We all were.”

  “But why then have you come? Why are you here, Malfoosh?” Minolin Fey reiterated.

  “We are tasked with clearing the wood and the hills of all enemies.”

  “And we are your enemies?” the Baenre priestess asked with obvious incredulity.

  “We did not know, priestess. We did not expect to see children of Lady Lolth. Who are you and why have you come? I must tell my matron, Zhindia.”

  Saribel swallowed hard at the mention of the matron of House Melarn, and for a moment, she thought they might be in big trouble here.

  “We are of Bregan D’aerthe,” Minolin Fey lied.

  “Bregan D’aerthe? I know not this house.”

  “It is not a house, but a scouting band available to all the matrons of Menzoberranzan,” Minolin Fey explained. “We collect information and give it to the Ruling Council.”

  The drider seemed perplexed, but in the end simply shrugged.

  “We have heard of trouble in the area and have come to see if the dwarves are exterminated, that Q’Xorlarrin can be given back to Matron Zeerith, as it should be,” said Minolin Fey.

  Saribel smiled at that, surprised by the Baenre priestess’s mental quickness and at the tribute she had just given to her beloved Matron Zeerith. She looked to her brother, who was nodding, obviously impressed.