Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Q’Xorlarrin? Of this, too, I know nothing.”

  “It does not matter,” Minolin Fey assured the abomination.

  “You should come and speak with—” Malfoosh began.

  “We cannot,” Minolin Fey interrupted with a snort. “We have much to do. What do you know of the dwarves?”

  “They fight stubbornly, but the demons are upon them. They cannot hold for long.”

  “Good. Now go back to Matron Zhindia and tell her that many are watching her with interest.”

  The drider had no choice but to comply. To disobey a drow priestess was something that had long ago been beaten out of poor Mal’a’voselle, probably long before she had been turned into a tormented abomination.

  To Saribel’s surprise, as the driders fell back and she turned toward Minolin Fey, the Baenre priestess waved to her to be silent, then hustled her along, moving with the entire band back for the tunnels that would take them to the main drow force. It wasn’t until they were well underground before Minolin Fey explained herself.

  “Hundreds of them,” she said, and Saribel’s eyes widened.

  “Hundreds of driders?” Ravel asked.

  “Many hundreds,” Kron Tlabbar replied. “They were all about us, flanked north and south. Huge bands of the abominations, all superbly armed.”

  “Sent from the Abyss to serve Matron Zhindia,” said Minolin Fey, her voice thick with dread. “Released to her cause by Lady Lolth.”

  Why are we opposing her? Saribel thought, but wisely did not say—not to a Baenre priestess, at least!

  “You should have destroyed them! All of them,” Matron Mez’Barris Armgo told the returning scout commanders.

  “I tried, Matron,” Malagdorl insisted, casting an angry side glance at Minolin Fey. “I was prevented from killing the abominable leader.”

  “Silence, child,” ordered Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre, not taking her sharp gaze from Mez’Barris’s adored grandson, not even to offer a glance to Matron Mez’Barris. “You are here only because I allow you to be here, and in this place, in this impromptu convening of the Ruling Council, it is not your place to speak.”

  Malagdorl moved as if to argue.

  “At all,” the Matron Mother warned. She turned to Minolin Fey, but then moved her gaze over priestess Saribel.

  “There were hundreds of them,” Saribel said, aiming the remark as much at Malagdorl as in response to the matron mother.

  “Driders from another age,” explained Minolin Fey. “Malfoosh, who was Mal’a’voselle Amvas Tol—”

  Quenthel silenced her with an upraised hand. The matron mother closed her eyes then, and shut out the many whispered conversations occurring among the other matrons all about her. They were concerned, of course, and why would they not be?

  Matron Mother Quenthel, who had been given the gift of Yvonnel’s own memories, fell into that dark place in her mind now, considering the name. She smiled as her thoughts flew back across the centuries, across the millennia, to the fledgling days of the City of Spiders. Oh, what a grand time, full of chaos but full of hope!

  “The weapon master of House Amvas Tol,” she said, and all conversation stopped, and all waited with bated breath.

  “A woman,” Saribel said before she could stop herself.

  Quenthel and the others stared at her, but the matron mother nodded, and Saribel took it as a signal that she should finish the thought.

  “Mal’a’voselle,” she said quietly.

  “Women were often weapon masters in the early days,” Matron Mother Quenthel explained to them. “We are the stronger sex, of course, and Lolth’s divine gifts of magic were not then fully bestowed upon us. It was a different time.

  “She was much like your own Uthegentel, Matron Mez’Barris,” Quenthel went on. “A great and powerful warrior, fearless and clever, if I recall correctly. She would have had a promising future, had it not been for the sins of Matron Dunna’da Amvas. Alas, Mal’a’voselle was given as a gift to Lady Lolth right before the heretical weeping matron’s wet eyes.”

  She looked at Mez’Barris and smiled widely, then turned about, letting all the others see that grin before finally settling it on Malagdorl, whom she knew was becoming a bit of a troublemaker. “Mal’a’voselle was given over into abomination by my mother, Matron Mother Yvonnel, as one of her first acts after accepting the rule of the city by edict of the Spider Queen. She made of Mal’a’voselle Amvas Tol a drider. Oftentimes it is a waste, particularly with promising but headstrong young women.”

  Quenthel’s smile only widened as Malagdorl shrank back.

  “Hundreds of driders?” Matron Zeerith asked. “Driders returned from the arms of Lolth herself? If this is true, must we assume that Matron Zhindia is in the highest graces of the Spider Queen?”

  “If this is true, we must reconsider everything,” Matron Mez’Barris stated flatly. “We could join with Matron Zhindia and finish what she has started, returning Q’Xorlarrin to Matron Zeerith and subsequently properly rewarding Matron Zhindia for her foresight.”

  “Properly rewarding?” the matron mother echoed sarcastically. “Zhindia would demand the title of matron mother if all that you assume is true.”

  “And any who sought to oppose that would fall from Lolth’s favor and so would be an enemy of us all,” Mez’Barris returned, a clear threat.

  But Quenthel only smiled again, even snorted as if the whole thing was an absurd proposition.

  “Be at ease, Matron,” she answered Mez’Barris’s tightened face. To Minolin Fey, she asked, “Do they know who you are, or under what banner you march?”

  The priestess withered under the glare of the matrons. “I . . . I . . .” she stuttered, trying to find her way to best answer.

  “You are a Baenre, dear,” the matron mother said. “You were sent to lead the group because of that fact. You did well to hold back the impetuous Malagdorl—you likely saved the entire party, to say nothing of his family’s reputation, and thus returned to serve proper warning. Speak freely. Do the driders know your banner?”

  “No,” Minolin Fey replied, straightening herself and forcing strength into her voice. “I told the drider who called herself Malfoosh that we were of Bregan D’aerthe, scouting the land after reports of conflict.”

  That caught all the matrons by surprise and incited many whispers, some nods, a couple of gasps, but most importantly, a wide smile from Matron Mother Quenthel.

  “Clever,” Quenthel replied. “Now Matron Zhindia will be chasing ghosts.”

  “What do you know, Matron Mother?” Mez’Barris demanded.

  “Matron Zhindia is no friend to Jarlaxle’s band,” Quenthel explained. “She hates them above all others for what they did to her house and family. She herself was killed—albeit briefly—by Drizzt Do’Urden, and her favorite child, Yazhin, was murdered by Jarlaxle’s other associate, the human, and in such a way that she could not be restored to life. Jarlaxle was with them in that raid, you remember. Matron Zhindia will not forgive that. Not ever. She will be quick to believe the story woven by High Priestess Minolin Fey Baenre, because she desperately wants it to be true.”

  Mez’Barris nodded, unable to argue the logic.

  “Well done, Minolin Fey Baenre,” Matron Mother Quenthel said, emphasizing that surname, making it clear that Minolin Fey’s quick thinking had brought them advantage—advantage that might have been naught but disaster if Matron Mez’Barris’s grandson had taken the lead and started a war.

  “In any case, Matron Zhindia will know of us soon enough,” Matron Zeerith put in, verbally and physically separating Mez’Barris and Quenthel by gliding her magical disk in between them. “We should plot our next march.”

  “Send only your finest scouts,” Matron Mother Quenthel told Minolin Fey. “Only the finest, and with them means to magically return to us if they become compromised. I’ll not have Matron Zhindia know of our arrival for as long as we can keep the secret.”

  “Even if she is in the grace of
Lolth?” Mez’Barris asked.

  “Yes,” Quenthel answered without hesitation.

  “My scouts will tell you all regarding the lands above and about Gauntlgrym,” Minolin assured them.

  “Q’Xorlarrin,” corrected Matron Zeerith. She turned a stern gaze upon Matron Mother Quenthel. “If Matron Zhindia is in the good graces of the Spider Queen, if Lolth herself sanctions and aids in the march of House Melarn to turn this demon force against our enemies, why is there any doubt remaining, or any hesitation? My wizards will open the deep door and we should sweep through the dwarves, reclaiming Q’Xorlarrin for Menzoberranzan and snatching it right out from under Matron Zhindia’s grasp, that we might share in her glory. The dwarven forces are in the upper chambers battling demons. We can push through and take the place beneath them before they even realize that which has come against them.”

  “We will talk” was all that Quenthel would return, and she looked from Zeerith to Mez’Barris repeatedly, measuring them. “Just we two.”

  Mez’Barris’s expression had brightened at Zeerith’s remarks, but then darkened, Quenthel noted, and expectedly so. Having the two powerful matrons conversing in private was not something the Matron of House Armgo would want.

  Particularly since it was obvious to all that she, Mez’Barris, would be the topic of that private conversation.

  “Bregan D’aerthe?” Matron Zhindia Melarn said, her voice a husky whisper, as if she were afraid that letting her voice get out of control would send her entire being out of control.

  “It is a scouting band,” the drider began.

  “I know what it is, you idiot,” Zhindia snapped, and Malfoosh sucked in her breath. As she let it out, it was accompanied by a low hum that seemed a growl.

  “The priestess said Bregan D’aerthe,” the drider insisted.

  “Where are they?”

  Malfoosh shrugged. “They left.”

  “You let them leave? You did not even follow them?”

  “I am not to question the words of a priestess, Matron Zhindia.”

  “My orders are above hers!”

  “Of course, but I had no orders from Matron Zhindia when I encountered the drow.”

  “I told you to clear the forest.”

  “Of drow? That is a different matter, Matron Zhindia,” Malfoosh reminded. “I, we, are driders, serving penance for crimes against Lady Lolth. We cannot strike at the children of Lolth.”

  “Unless I tell you to do so.”

  “Yes, by your precise words, Matron. But you had not told us to do so.”

  Zhindia threw up her arms and issued a frustrated growl of her own. “Bregan D’aerthe is not allied with our cause. They oppose us in Luskan even now, you idiots.”

  “Who was this priestess?” asked First Priestess Kyrnill Melarn.

  “She did not offer her name, lady,” said Malfoosh. “Nor did the other priestess standing with her.”

  “Two priestesses?” Kyrnill pressed.

  “At least. There were others wearing the robes among those many in the ranks.”

  “Other women?” Zhindia said, catching on and following the reasoning.

  “Yes, and men, and a warrior of great strength who battled me trident to trident until the priestess stood us down.”

  “Zaknafei—” Kyrnill started to remark, but she paused.

  “A trident?” Zhindia asked. “Tell me more about him, every detail.”

  Malfoosh did as instructed, then was dismissed, leaving Zhindia alone with Kyrnill and Charri Hunzrin.

  “That had to be Malagdorl Armgo,” Kyrnill said.

  “They have sent a scouting party to look in on us and determine our progress,” Charri said.

  “Just a scouting party?” Matron Zhindia asked, walking out a few steps and staring toward the east, where the encounter had taken place. “A scouting party all the way from Menzoberranzan with the weapon master of the city’s second house? I cannot imagine that Matron Mez’Barris would put her cherished Malagdorl at such a risk as that.”

  “Then what?” asked Charri.

  “They see that our victory is at hand, perhaps,” said Zhindia. “They have rushed to steal my glory.” She spun about to look sharply at the other two women.

  “It will not be so.”

  “Rein in your ambitions at this time,” Matron Mother Quenthel told Matron Zeerith when they were alone soon after the gathering with the scouting party. “We know not how this will play.”

  “We know not?” old Zeerith scoffed. “An army of driders? Hundreds? A horde of demons continually gating in more monsters daily from the Abyss? The dwarves are doomed, the city of Luskan has already fallen. It is as you predicted back before we departed Menzoberranzan: Matron Zhindia will win.”

  “If she is to win, then we must be a large part of it,” Quenthel replied.

  “Indeed! So let us beat her to the prize, and take the Great Forge of Gauntlgrym and depose King Bruenor with all haste and with no mercy.”

  But Quenthel Baenre shook her head. “If she is to win.”

  “How can she not?” Zeerith asked.

  Quenthel was beginning to sort for those exact answers but wasn’t ready to explain further.

  “What is there then to know?” asked Zeerith.

  “Everything. When all seems plain and clear, it cannot be. Have you not served Lolth, the Lady of Chaos, long enough to realize that? Do not be blinded by your ambition to return to Gauntlgrym. That will not happen. Our position on the surface in any case is too compromised now. The lords of all the lands have no doubt turned their eyes to the northern reaches of the Sword Coast, with demons roaming free and Luskan in flames.”

  “The flames will quiet quickly, and few have ever looked to Luskan for stability, and fewer still, by all of our scouting, have formed any real alliances with King Bruenor.”

  Quenthel didn’t disagree. “It does not matter,” she replied. “We cannot be planning the return of Q’Xorlarrin at this time, whatever the outcome of Matron Zhindia’s war or our march. No matter how the will of Lolth plays out, neither of us can even think of sending your family back here. The dust will be long in settling here and, more importantly, in Menzoberranzan.”

  “You mean that you will need me there in Menzoberranzan to support you against the rise of House Melarn,” Zeerith stated flatly. “Matron Mez’Barris won’t stand with you, of course, not if she believes Matron Zhindia in the highest graces of Lolth and sees a chance, at long, long last, to be rid of subjugation at the hands of House Baenre.”

  “Subjugation? A curious word. Is it a notion Matron Zeerith, whom I have rescued from shame and defeat, shares?”

  The old Zeerith wasn’t often shaken, or at least never showed it, but at that moment, she nearly tumbled off her floating disk, her jaw hanging open.

  “Of course not,” Quenthel said, taking the pressure off Zeerith. “You have ever been wise enough to see House Baenre as a benefit, and as the house that rewards its allies. You would do well to remember that with every word going forward in this transitional time. No more mention of Q’Xorlarrin. Even if King Bruenor Battlehammer and all of his dwarves are obliterated, even if Gauntlgrym is emptied of all living things and the Great Forge remains there for the taking, Q’Xorlarrin is not to be mentioned.”

  “Surely you would not leave such a treasure unused?”

  “Surely,” Quenthel replied. “And surely the magical movement of wizards, of which you possess many of the finest, will be critical in our using it without drawing attention.”

  “And without weakening your order in Menzoberranzan,” Zeerith added.

  Quenthel nodded.

  “So I will remain at House Do’Urden, and you will secretly use my wizards to bring smiths to the Forge of Gauntlgrym?”

  “And you will be well rewarded,” Quenthel promised.

  “I wish to be elevated within the Ruling Council. I want my place back, and with an eye, always an eye, to becoming the penultimate house of Menzoberranzan.”
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  Quenthel gave only a slight nod in reply.

  “Assure me that House Xorlarrin will not be taken for granted when the victory here is secured and House Baenre holds its position,” Zeerith demanded.

  Quenthel paused, forcing herself to remain tactful in the face of a demand from another matron. “House Do’Urden,” she corrected, “until I determine otherwise.”

  “Of course,” Zeerith agreed, but not without a clench of her jaw, as if the name itself insulted her.

  “We will see how it plays, but your house remains my most important ally,” said Quenthel. “I assure you that I will not forget, should it come to that.”

  “Can there be any doubt?”

  “We worship Lolth, the Lady of Chaos, dear Matron Zeerith. There is always doubt.”

  Matron Zeerith Do’Urden gave a helpless snort at that, then willed her magical disk out of the extradimensional chamber the matron mother was using as her audience hall. No sooner had Zeerith departed than First Priestess Sos’Umptu and Quenthel’s daughter Myrineyl entered through another magical portal.

  “I do not trust her,” Myrineyl said. “Her ambition is greater than her loyalty.”

  “Then she is a fine matron,” Sos’Umptu said.

  “Her daughter, the priestess Saribel, would be more easily persuaded and held in thrall,” Myrineyl said bluntly. “Matron Zeerith is old and too endeared to . . .” She stopped and cast an awkward glance at her mother.

  “To Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal,” Quenthel finished for her.

  Myrineyl sucked in her breath.

  “It is good and honest reasoning,” said Quenthel, calming the woman. “But do not speak of such things yet.” Her tone made it clear that she wasn’t scolding Myrineyl as much as warning her not to get too far ahead of herself.

  Depending on how things up here fell, Quenthel knew that Zeerith might have to be replaced. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she reminded herself often that Zeerith was old, very old, and though she remained an ally of House Baenre, her real loyalty was indeed to Matron Mother Yvonnel. And no matter how Matron Zeerith tried to parse her words, ever were they filled with a level of condescension toward Yvonnel’s daughters. Zeerith had known Quenthel and Sos’Umptu since their youngest days—indeed, she had been Sos’Umptu’s first tutor.