Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Show me,” she told the vampire. “You will take me out there and show me.”

  “Is that what ye’re thinkin’ then?” Pwent asked skeptically.

  “For your king Bruenor, Thibbledorf Pwent,” Yvonnel replied flatly. “I might be able to stop this, and if I cannot, then woe to Gauntlgrym and woe to King Bruenor.” She glanced at the bed. “And woe to Catti-brie and the child of Drizzt Do’Urden,” she added. “For the power of Gauntlgrym alone will not win the day here. You know it. You’ve seen them. How many drow soldiers? How many slave fodder?”

  Pwent growled at that.

  “Show me!” Yvonnel demanded.

  Copetta moved up beside the drow, stealing the bluster from the vampire.

  “Thibbledorf Pwent,” she said. “My old Thibble, it’s me, Penny.”

  Copperhead, Pwent mouthed, and the dwarf lass smiled.

  “Aye, yer own Copperhead,” she answered sweetly. “Ye must do as the drow asks. For all yer kith ’n’ kin.”

  The vampire’s face softened even more as he stared at the woman. At long last, he turned his gaze to Yvonnel and offered a slight nod of agreement.

  “I’m going with you,” Artemis Entreri told Yvonnel.

  “No,” said Dahlia in surprise.

  “I cannot guarantee your safety, or my own,” Yvonnel told him.

  “No one ever has,” Entreri answered. “But I’m coming with you.”

  Yvonnel considered it a moment, then nodded.

  The room began to shake then, so violently that more than one of the gathering stumbled and one of the dwarves even fell over.

  “We’ve not much time,” Yvonnel warned. “We have stolen the explosive pressure from Maegera, but it will build again and quickly. Maegera knows that it will soon escape.”

  Her words, meant to rouse the others, particularly Pwent, to action, sounded hollow to her. They were true enough, of course. She could feel it keenly through her ring. Catti-brie’s ploy had bought them a bit of time, perhaps, but little more.

  Maegera would escape.

  And there was nothing Yvonnel Baenre could do to stop it.

  Chapter 26

  Between the Living and Those Who Have Crossed

  It took Brother Afafrenfere a long while to even realize what he had done. He had melted from the physical world, become an entity of pure spirit—and had done so just ahead of the plunging blade.

  Or had it been after the blade had driven through him? the monk wondered.

  It didn’t matter. If this was death, then so be it, and at the moment, he saw his life’s journey. He sat in the small cottage with his mother and his father—who would turn on him years later when the truth of Afafrenfere became known to him. He remembered—no, “remember” was not the right word! He lived again his journey to the monastic life, his acceptance into the order.

  He saw again the first time he had met Parbid. He walked again his travels to the shadow realm.

  So many memories. Separating. Scattering. Becoming a living part of the multiverse around him, unbound and shared.

  It was beauty.

  He understood now Grandmaster Kane’s warning that he wasn’t ready to transcend, that he hadn’t the discipline or the desire to reverse the journey and return to finish his days.

  That warning rang hollow now, though.

  Of course, he didn’t want to go back!

  He existed in the moment, his senses widening, losing focus, becoming all and everything.

  It was beauty, yes, but it was veiled beauty. The monk felt as if he was swimming in a thick cloud, his senses filtered to all that was around him. Or in a fugue state, a malleable reality, a malleable identity and sense of self even.

  It was only when Afafrenfere encountered another untethered memory that he even remembered what had brought him to Thornhold in the first place, for he knew it to be the residual life force and identity composition of Drizzt Do’Urden.

  He looked more closely, found focus in that sense of duty. How clearly he could see the drow’s journey now, finding bits of scattered memories and piecing them together. Drizzt’s entire journey, and not just this last one, which had brought him from the realm of the living.

  The intimacy overwhelmed him, as intimate a joining as he had known with Parbid—and as joyous.

  But this was different. Afafrenfere felt almost like a voyeur, peeking in on the deepest thoughts and secrets of another who did not know he was watching and listening.

  His last sensibilities of decorum—and truly, they seemed petty now—made him reach out to Drizzt reciprocally, to let the drow know that he was there now, too.

  And yes, he could see Drizzt so much more clearly now that he, too, was in that thin time-space between the living and those who had crossed over, between the physical and the spiritual.

  Between life and death?

  Afafrenfere wasn’t sure those terms applied anymore.

  He reached out to Drizzt. He called to the drow. He told Drizzt to return, to reform to the physical world.

  You are needed.

  Your wife.

  Your child.

  Drizzt couldn’t hear him, or at least, offered no response, no sensation of being affected by Afafrenfere’s calls at all. Deeper went the monk, trying to coax the drow back, but the deeper he went, the further he, Afafrenfere, fell from the physical world and any notions of his body. He was surely losing himself as much, if not more, than he was rescuing Drizzt.

  So be it.

  For the being who had been Brother Afafrenfere could not view his accelerating journey as a loss, not with this beauty and truth all about him.

  He reached further for Drizzt.

  But Drizzt Do’Urden, gone so long, could not hear.

  This is madness, Dab’nay’s fingers signed to Braelin Janquay.

  The forest around them was alive with driders, packs of them roaming wildly, hacking at trees, throwing enormous spears at squirrels and birds—anything to vent their unending rage.

  Braelin couldn’t disagree. He motioned for the woman to follow and led her to a deep hollow beneath a spreading oak tree, a place they had huddled the previous night.

  “We knew that Matron Zhindia had brought driders alone with her,” Braelin reminded her when they were out of earshot.

  “Not like that!” Dab’nay insisted. “You saw them. They were different—I don’t even know how to explain it. Somehow bigger, more feral even than what we have seen of the abominations. That was . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “You may be right, but we still must find our way to Matron Mother Quenthel or Yvonnel,” Braelin replied, but Dab’nay was shaking her head with almost every word.

  “You cannot expect this of me,” Dab’nay protested. “This is larger than my powers, larger than Kimmuriel’s demand, larger than Bregan D’aerthe, even.”

  “We survive because we each do our part.”

  “My part puts me in the face of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre, and with this chaos about us,” Dab’nay argued. “It is not a path to survival. No.” She shook her head resolutely. “I need to know more before I begin to go deeper into this forest, let alone deliver Kimmuriel’s message to the Matron Mother. These driders unsettle me. Something huge is afoot and it seems likely to me that merely uttering that which Kimmuriel has claimed will mark me as an apostate. I do not wish to join this drider force.”

  “If it is Matron Zhindia’s force, then it is at odds with Matron Mother Quenthel.”

  “Before, perhaps. We do not know that now.”

  Braelin blew out a sigh and lowered his gaze, trying to find an answer. “Then we look magically,” he decided, glancing up at Dab’nay. He pointed to the back of the hollow, where some water had collected from a recent rain.

  “You would ask me to magically look in on Matron Mother Baenre? On any Baenres?” an incredulous Dab’nay asked.

  “No, we’ll look over the forest and Bleeding Vines. We’ll find Matron Zhindia. She’s not known for divination, an
d is usually too consumed by her anger at everything around her to even note any magical eavesdropping.”

  Dab’nay didn’t look convinced.

  “It is this or we trek through the forest and try to avoid the driders as best as we can,” said Braelin.

  “No.”

  “You would not like Kimmuriel when he is angry,” Braelin warned. As Dab’nay hesitated, he turned and motioned his hand out toward the pool.

  She followed.

  “You will take me to Matron Zhindia,” the priestess told the enormous drider.

  “Will I?” Malfoosh answered slyly. The woman was out in the forest with a handful of attendants, now fully surrounded by dozens of driders, weaving in and out of the shadows all about.

  “I am Taayrul Armgo, first priestess of the Second House of Menzoberranzan,” the woman replied.

  “The second house?” asked Malfoosh. “Where is the Baenre, then?”

  Taayrul chuckled. “The Baenres would not be pleased with the message I offer to Matron Zhindia. It is clear that Lolth shines upon her. We all know it, but Matron Mother Baenre isn’t sure that she can bring herself to admit it yet. Matron Zhindia should learn all of this before she makes a rash move. Time is on her side, not Matron Mother Baenre’s.”

  Malfoosh glanced about, nodding to her minions. “You may come,” she told Taayrul. “You alone.”

  “That is not accep—”

  “That is all you get,” Malfoosh interrupted. “You alone.”

  A drider rushed up beside Taayrul and held out his hands to her.

  “You will ride,” Malfoosh instructed.

  Taayrul looked around at her guards, then nodded. “Wait here,” she instructed, and as she did, she looked to Malfoosh, who agreed that this would be the place for them to remain. The priestess took the drider’s hand and was hauled up and swung around to take an uncomfortable seat behind her mount.

  Malfoosh skittered up right beside her, and before Taayrul could stop it, plopped a heavy bag over Taayrul’s head. Before the priestess could begin to protest, the driders set off at a tremendous pace, rushing through the forest, arriving at last in the ruins of Bleeding Vines, at the court of Matron Zhindia Melarn.

  “It grows ever more curious,” Braelin said, as they watched the journey of the drow priestess riding the drider.

  “That is Taayrul, first priestess of House Barrison Del’Armgo,” Dab’nay told him.

  “Sent to meet with Matron Zhindia? Matron Mother Quenthel would never agree to such a thing.”

  Dab’nay smirked at him for stating the obvious.

  “Do it,” he ordered her.

  Dab’nay took a deep breath. She had thus far refused to cast clairaudience to go along with her clairvoyance dweomer, as the former was often more easily detected. Now, though, it seemed rather obvious that they needed to know exactly what was going on. As they watched Taayrul Armgo walking forward to speak with Zhindia, Dab’nay cast the spell.

  She was not detected during that conversation, but that did little to assuage her—or her companion’s, she noted with some satisfaction—nervousness.

  As she had earlier insisted—and as it quickly became obvious as they listened in—the scene here was much bigger than her. Taayrul, the voice of powerful Matron Mez’Barris Armgo, was all but offering Matron Zhindia the second seat on the Ruling Council. The drow often spoke quietly about interhouse wars, but the idea here was well beyond that. The two women, a matron and a first priestess of another house, were openly discussing a civil war in Menzoberranzan, a war against House Baenre. And they were doing so brashly, apparently without concern.

  “The way is clear now,” Taayrul said. “The way is Lolth, of course, and Lolth has shown us the glory before us.”

  “Shown us?” Matron Zhindia replied, her skeptical, almost mocking tone, the first hints of a crack in the asked for alliance.

  “We have all seen the gifts the Spider Queen has offered.”

  “Offered to whom?” Zhindia asked.

  “Yes, Matron Zhindia, Matron Mez’Barris does not deny that you were the vessel for Lolth’s desires.”

  “I am Lolth’s champion,” Zhindia corrected. “Is that not obvious?”

  Her question sounded like a threat to Dab’nay and Braelin—and obviously to First Priestess Taayrul, who began shifting nervously from foot to foot.

  “And you will be rewarded like her champion,” Taayrul finally managed to reply.

  “Well, it seems clear to me that Lolth’s champion should sit at the first seat of her table, not the second,” Zhindia declared.

  “The logic is hard to argue,” Taayrul quickly replied—and the speed and smoothness of her response told the onlookers that Mez’Barris had sent her daughter here with the expectation that Matron Zhindia would demand no less. “I will take your answer to Matron Mez’Barris.”

  “Matron Mez’Barris desires the first seat,” said Zhindia, stalling Taayrul’s leaving.

  “Would she be a proper high priestess of Lady Lolth if she did not?” Taayrul answered.

  “True enough,” Zhindia admitted with a mirthless chuckle.

  Even the vicious priestess’s laughter evinced a threat.

  “You understand the power of the army—of my army?” Zhindia said. “An army granted me by the Spider Queen?”

  “I have seen it, yes. Matron Mez’Barris understands it as well.”

  “Then understand this: I will win here. The gathering of Menzoberranzan must join in with me to finally clear the land of our enemies and restore the mighty forge and complex into the hands of Lolth’s faithful. The victory is mine above all others, and that will not be forgotten. Nor will this fight be the last, obviously, unless House Baenre agrees to Lolth’s obvious demands. If they do not—and I do not expect the stubborn and foolish Matron Quenthel to put Lolth above her pride—then I welcome Matron Mez’Barris’s assistance in carrying out the will of Lolth, and thus her seat will be secured as it now stands, of course. But do not misunderstand anything I say to you. I will win. Lolth is with me. Her handmaidens stand beside me. Menzoberranzan will be reformed by the will of Lolth. The perversions of Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre’s foolish daughters will be corrected with extreme effect.”

  Taayrul nodded, and seemed to the eavesdropping Dab’nay as if she couldn’t find her voice for a reply.

  “The actions of Matron Mez’Barris will be properly judged. That is my promise,” Zhindia concluded.

  She waved her hand to Malfoosh and the other driders.

  “Leave me,” she ordered Taayrul. “I have a war to finish.”

  Braelin Janquay slapped his hand into the water of the scrying pool, breaking the connection.

  “This is madness,” he told Dab’nay.

  “This is chaos. But then again, what hasn’t been so of late?” the priestess answered. “The demon surge in Menzoberranzan, the fight with Demogorgon. Matron Mother Baenre using Drizzt Do’Urden as the sword to cleave Lolth’s greatest demon rival—it is all madness. Are we really so surprised now to learn that Menzoberranzan’s very structure and identity is tearing asunder?”

  “We have to get to Matron Mother Baenre, or to Yvonnel, at least.”

  Dab’nay shook her head. “You are welcomed to try.”

  “Kimmuriel gave you your orders,” Braelin reminded her, but again, the priestess shook her head.

  “Our lives—nay, more than our lives, our very existence—rests upon the choices we make in this moment,” Dab’nay explained. “You heard Matron Zhindia, and even Matron Mez’Barris does not refute the ascension of House Melarn under the glory of Lolth. Now you would think to side against that?”

  “And you would think to side against the Baenres?” Braelin returned skeptically.

  “No, I would deign to stay removed from this altogether. There is nothing here that lowly Dab’nay can truly influence. I am less than a speck to them, my voice less than a whisper. I would go to Matron Mother Baenre, and perhaps she would declare me a heretic an
d turn me into an abominable drider. And would she be wrong if I was delivering to her words against Lady Lolth?”

  “Matron Mother Baenre needs to see the truth Kimmuriel has revealed to be able to decide . . .”

  “And if she decides not to fight Matron Zhindia and her growing allies, one of whom might well be Lolth, then what am I?”

  Braelin stared at her but didn’t respond.

  “I am then a drider,” Dab’nay answered her own question. “And so are you.”

  “Jarlaxle would not allow that,” Braelin said.

  Dab’nay’s laugh answered it all, reflecting the absurdity of Braelin’s protest. Still, she felt the need to say, “Jarlaxle? Jarlaxle, too, is a dust mote against the shifting powers battling before us.”

  “Perhaps you are correct,” Braelin conceded. “It is bigger than the voice of Dab’nay, and of Braelin.” He reached under his shirt and produced the whistle. “Perhaps Kimmuriel, too, will have second thoughts with this new information.”

  “If he survived his journey to the hive mind,” Dab’nay said. “What if he did not?”

  “What would Dab’nay suggest?”

  This time the woman just stared and shook her head.

  So Braelin blew hard into the whistle. No sound came forth, but the scout wasn’t expecting any, for he had seen Jarlaxle use this item of communication with the strange Kimmuriel Oblodra before.

  Only a few moments later, Braelin was indeed surprised, though, for he found Kimmuriel right outside the hollow of the tree, with Wulfgar the barbarian standing beside him.

  “I was already on my way to this place,” the psionicist answered their obvious surprise. “Your call was most welcomed, given the task before us. Have you found Matron Mother Baenre?”

  “She’s not hard to find,” Braelin replied, pointing to the southeast. “The whole of Menzoberranzan surrounds her.”

  “Then come along,” Kimmuriel instructed.

  “We also found Matron Zhindia,” Dab’nay said, stopping him in his tracks. “And First Priestess Taayrul Armgo.”

  Kimmuriel looked at her curiously. “Open your mind to me, child, and do tell.”

  Despite his dismissive pejorative, Dab’nay did let him into her thoughts as she recounted their scrying, for she wanted Kimmuriel to see all of it, every terrifying bit. To her surprise and with Kimmuriel’s power, both Wulfgar and Braelin joined the telepathic discussion.