Prologue
Shadows danced beneath the branches as the flickering inferno consumed the forest. Smoke swirled around Thyrael as he dashed madly through the underbrush, further blackening his dark skin and obscuring his vision. His legs burned from exertion and his arms were burned and blistered, but he ran on, his pointed ears straining to catch any sound of his pursuer.
Closing in on the drow, the vrock let out a hellish shriek and beat its feathered wings. It was close, so close, almost near enough to reach out and tear the elf's spine from body. Eyes reflecting the dancing flames, the vrock flapped again; it could smell its prey's blood, and its fear.
Thyrael dropped prone suddenly, and darkness enveloped him. Screaming in rage but unable to reverse its momentum, the vrock barreled into the globe of magic darkness, and a sickening crack sounded as its skull collided with a tree.
Even in the impenetrable blackness Thyrael was not blind; he could hear the demon's movements and knew it was not dead. Twin daggers leaped from their sheaths into his hands, and he plunged them into the vrock's back.
A cool wind rushed past Thyrael as the vrock beat its wings, and he twisted his daggers deeper. He felt himself lifting into the air, and in seconds the magical darkness was beneath him. Putting a hand to his brooch, adorned with the seal of House Shen'Baenyan, he called upon his innate magic once more.
Thrashing violently in the air, the vrock dislodged Thyrael's daggers and spun around. Weightless, the drow continued to float, and scored two more hits as the demon flew past.
Thyrael turned to face the vrock again as it flew in arc above the smoldering treetops. He could turn around more easily than the tanr'ri, but he could only levitate up and down. The vrock had the advantage of maneuverability, and Thyrael had no doubt the demon was smart enough to use it.
The vrock came on again, and Thyrael caught a glimpse of its face. He congratulated himself, even smiling as he considered its broken beak and disfigured face. Then it was upon him, and it took all of his skill to keep himself from being shredded by the beast's wicked claws.
A cloud of spores trailed the demon, and Thyrael cursed when they dug into his skin, lighting fires of pain all across his body. He sheathed a dagger and took a glass vial from his belt pouch, drinking its contents to neutralize the spores before they could do any further damage. Tossing the vial away, an idea struck him, and a second container followed the first into his hand.
Again the vrock hurtled toward him, but this time it was met by a vial of holy water sailing through the cold night air to meet it. The glass burst, and the sacred liquid burned the demon's flesh. The damage was superficial, but it distracted the demon long enough.
Thyrael had redrawn his dagger and levitated above his previous position. The vrock flew beneath him, and he released his levitation magic, plummeting like a stone. He landed on the vrock's back, and again twin blades found the creature's back.
The demon screeched, and Thyrael's mind suddenly went blank. His muscles went tight, and he found himself paralyzed by some magic within the demon's cry of pain. The vrock crashed to the ground, unmoving, but Thyrael, immobilized, landed even harder.
Feeling – mostly pain – returned to Thyrael's limbs, and he staggered to his feet. The fire continued to roar around him, the deafening noise assaulting his sensitive ears. As he recovered from his fall, he realized that another sound mingled with the crackling of the flames, a cacophony he hadn't noticed during the skirmish with the vrock.
The baying of hell hounds.
"Veleshk," Thyrael cursed, looking for somewhere to run. Fire blazed on three sides around him, and the barking came from the only open route. He could simply levitate, over both the fire and dogs, but not forever, and doing so would leave him vulnerable to any more flying fiends – not to mention the cultists on their diabolic steeds.
Something large and dark flew above him, and he made up his mind quickly. Pulling his piwafwi about him, he ran through the unforgiving inferno.
He made it out the other side, his enchanted cloak shielding him from some of the heat – not much, but enough. Thyrael almost wished death would take him then, so great was his torment, but he snarled and pressed on. He, Elderboy of House Shen'Baenyan, would not die in Harrowdale, would not be slain by crazed cultists of some heretic demon lord. Such would not befit his station.
"Lolth," he whispered – not that he expected her to come to the aid of a mere male such as he, but more because if he was slain by crazed cultists of some heretic demon lord, he wanted Lolth to be sure of his devotion.
A huge form reared up in front of him, bursting from the dark foliage. A female, humanoid head sneered at him from atop its six-armed torso, its serpentine lower body writhing beneath it. The marilith lashed out at Thyrael, its six blades weaving in a deadly dance he could never hope to match.
Backing up quickly, Thyrael thought his death was at hand, but then the marilith cried out. A black canine form leaped atop it, followed by another, and another. The hell hounds tore at the demon, but the marilith held its ground, slicing the infernal beasts apart.
Thyrael slipped away. Not one, but two cults held power in Harrowdale, and the animosity between them and, on a larger scale, between the demons and devils they worshiped, had saved Thyrael's life.
Something tugged at the edge of his mind, beckoning him in a certain direction. He warily followed the call, but his speed increased as he considered the possibilities. One stood out above the others and filled him with hope. Had his sister finally located him, and was calling to him with a spell?
Thyrael emerged into a clearing, and his heart skipped a beat. An aura of malice overwhelmed him, and he nearly fell to his knees when his eyes fell upon the pit fiend. It grinned at him evilly, unfurling its glistening, blood-red wings.
"Come closer," it bade, gesturing to a brazier set in the center of the clearing. Black flames sprang to life within the brazier, dancing eerily.
Against his will, Thyrael found himself moving toward the fire. He tried to resist, tried to turn away, so that he could at least go down fighting the wretched creature, but to no avail. Closer and closer the fire came, and the blackness of the blaze filled him with a despair he had never known.
"An excellent sacrifice you will make for Mammon, most troublesome drow," the pit fiend taunted.
The last word was drowned out as Thyrael screamed, throwing himself into the fire. The flames consumed him, burning his mind, his body, and his soul.
Thyrael Shen'baenyan knew no more.