Prologue
The creature moved like a shadow, not lingering on any surface or pausing to drink from the small spring on the floor of the pitch black side-cavern. Its walls were rough and wild, not crafted by gnomish or Drow tools or mined for its rich adamantine striations. No, this was a place of monsters and vermin, unchecked growths of mushrooms and algae dotting its moist surfaces and dark corners. This was far outside the outskirts of Menzoberranzan and civilization. This didn't matter to Crosaad Do'recranopol, however, who rode his Underdark lizard mount on past the rats and spiders of the deep places so silently and swiftly. Stealth was paramount to the success of the mission with which he had been charged, and silence was as commonplace as breathing to any dark elf as endangered and competitive as Crosaad of house D'a'racraspernion.
He rode on, clutching a beating amulet to his robed chest. The frequency was increasing; not far now.
Crosaad's red eyes scanned the dark cave for the umpteenth time in the ten seconds it had taken to get halfway across on his quick mount, infravision illuminating the whole place in infrared light. The key was not to hug the darkness, any knowledgeable Drow knew, but to hug the heat. Here and there, the hue of a small shifting fault or a swarm of infrared moss showed to the eyes of the intrepid dark elf, and the lizard skipped from one to the next like a water-strider on a churning lake, hiding their heat signatures from any unwanted eyes.
He saw the heat of a swarm of black arachnids brighten the corridor beyond and he urged his ride to the right. The steed extended the enumerable barbed hairs on its padded feet and mounted the wall of the cave, its tail whipping up into a copse of fungus and hiding them from the oncoming spawn.
They surged past with much thumbing of huge, hairy feet and clicking pincers, and though they seemed savage, Crosaad saw the distinct red glint of infravision in their eyes as he reverted to the visible spectrum for the shortest of instants.
When they moved on, so did he, keeping to the wall this time and entering the next corridor with care. These had not been scouts, but perimeter guards, though not on blood-rampages. These were not aware of his presence, but merely under the psionic control of the Drow elves within the compound which was his destination. As he entered the next corridor, the frequency of the amulet now indicating that he was only some hundreds of metres away from the compound, he did not reflect, but merely recalled a prior reflection so as to devote as much attention as possible to the space before him. This contemplation had been based on the strangeness of finding a compound of Menzoberranzan this deep in the wilds. He supposed that it was sensible to base a psionic house in such a place to control the surrounding monsters, such as the passing spiders, or other such things, to their advantage, but the usual pomp and pride of the black-skinned elves generally demanded a place in the cavern of the notorious city. It seemed, however, that these were pragmatists, and did not require the onyx towers and web fences common to the more ostentatious houses.
The beats of the amulet were now so close together that they nearly merged into one soundless hum against his muscled torso. At this signal Crosaad brought his steed to a stop on the stone ceiling and, enacting an innate spell of levitation, dismounted.
He grabbed a small stalactite handhold with one delicate hand and held the amulet out with the other, rotating himself and sensing the fine changes in frequency through his digits. East.
He pushed off and glided along the ceiling before coming to a stop before the door.
He drew a small crest from the folds his silk robes. On it was inscribed a simple head with pointed ears and a pickaxe impeded in the region of its brain's frontal lobe, which was the crest of Cendobrananon. It had taken time to master the use of this crest, as that of his own house had been with him since the time of his birth and was like an organ to him. To transplant it had taken some getting used to, but it was essential that he learn to levitate with it and establish a link that would allow him entry to the house. And, sure enough, when he pressed it to the stone before him, a shining outline of infrared light dazzled his eyes before a slab of stone the size of a large tombstone slid out of sight to admit him. Though he was tall for a male drow, he had no trouble slipping through the opening before it hissed closed. He cringed at the sound.
Beacons of light at regular intervals along the walls made it difficult to see as he strode forward into the house, so he converted his vision to the visible spectrum again to find that dim candles had been lit in the entrance corridor of the eccentric house's compound.
He activated psionic wards in his mind. Though he was only trained in arcane magic, he had also prepared these spells for this specific occasion. However, if he were faced with a full-on encounter with a psionic mage in their very own house, he would have to enact much stronger wards to keep his heat.
He advanced through the halls and winced every now and again as he passed by the candles. They were not a customary addition to any edifice in the lightless Underdark. Compounds were not places of light, and thus the eyes of dark-dwelling creatures were dangerously susceptible to such things as candles, even muted ones like these. Here and there he also saw a servant kobold with a glazed expression on his face, maintaining the candles, but not noticing the intruder either because of his wards or the fact that they were totally brainwashed by their masters. He also noticed meditation chambers branching off the hallways that he traveled, always keeping the amulet in his hands. They seemed to contain Drow who were either sleeping or in trances.
Finally, lucid beings began to appear. The first entered from a hallway to Crosaad's right, and he had to draw his piwifwai, a long cloak of concealment, around him and shrink into the shadow of a corner, but after that he was on his guard. He dodged and ducked, and even levitated into an upper tunnel to avoid five patrols simultaneously meeting in an intersection. Swinging down from this tunnel ten metres farther, he realized that he was face-to-face with two Cendobrananon Drow. They looked to be nobles, clothed in dark robes, each with the crest of their house on their chests, and they were standing before a door which bore that same crest.
Their eyes showed no alarm, merely satisfaction, as they raised their hands, palms out, and sent out a psionic blast each.
Crosaad staggered under the power of the blows, and had barely begun to cast wards before a third came from behind.
Fool, he thought to himself. The patterns of those patrols were not coincidence. This is an ambush.
He was on his knees. He had abandoned magic altogether and was clamping his hands over his temples as a second wave of mental energy stunned him and sent his concentration spiralling within his skull.
He was face-down before he perceived that it had all stopped. He craned his neck and tried to focus on the guard now in front of him through his migraine. He recognized the sneering face now; it was Larolos, a fellow student at Sorcere. He had befriended Crosaad once, or at least, as he had found out later, had formed a temporary alliance, and aided him against the others in their year in the Final Magic, the summative competition at the end of his magical schooling, but his betrayal had come when he had left him to a cave-fisher in the wilds. Now his satisfaction in overpowering him so completely was abundantly evident.
He grabbed a fistful of his white hair and, evidently after psychically ordering the door to open, walked into a great cavern.
The first and only thing Crosaad saw was the reflective floor, which showed his chiselled face to be bruised from the exposure to psionic power, and his red eye had been blacked, a trickle of dark blood running from its corner.
Larolos released his hair roughly, causing him kiss the onyx without ceremony, and stepped back. He thought he knew why as his amulet stopped beating.
He got to his knees, then attempted experimentally to put his feet under him. Finding equilibrium easily enough, he stood and surveyed the cavern with a broader eye.
It was not all onyx tile, as the bitter-tasting floor had been, but it was polished to the same reflective sheen nevertheless. A million-million muted candles spat and wavered on the rock and stung his eyes before he looked directly in front of him. A beautiful Drow female looked on him with eyes full of distaste and experience. He sensed psionic, magical, and physical wards around the throne upon which she rested, and her robes were artfully scant, with a depiction of a splayed, black spider on its front. A matron mother, eleventh in the city.
She cocked her head to one side and spoke. The form of communication seemed alien after the long duration of silence preceding this moment.
"Our houses have shown few hostilities in the past, and yet you have stormed my citadel with your mind set on me. Do you now seek war?"
He showed no emotion as he replied, "I follow the orders of my matron. Seek council with her if you wish to know the intent of my house, Slania."
"In that case," she responded, "You are quite as dispensable as my kobolds, son of D'A'racraspernion."
She lifted her hand from the arm of her throne, which became pliable immediately, and drew a long psionic wand from the muddy, black depths, which she pointed directly at him. "Cendobrananon takes no prisoners."
Thought had finally returned to him in the face death, and he used it. This was a moment in which Crosaad was profoundly thankful that Lolth had granted him the gift of sorcery, for only they had the power to perform multiple magics at once. Though the strength of each task performed lessened steadily as the number grew, it did not matter in this case, for they were minor effects only. The first melted the surface of the amulet and joined it to the house crest, the second enacted a strong psionic barrier, and the third readied three magic missiles.
"Wait," he yelled, as this was being done. "I won't be needing this." He casually tossed the welded amulet masquerading as the crest at the matron mother who lowered the physical ward for an instant in order to catch it.
Her eyes narrowed with mirth at the sight of the amulet. "So that is why my fourth son was killed-"
She broke off, perceiving the harmless pulse of magical energy emanating from the amulet half of the item. Her eyes widened with horror just as what appeared to be a superheated arrowhead melted through the miles of hard rock between house Do'recranopol and Slania and impacted on the wards around her, causing them to disband immediately. Psionic attacks assaulted him from all sides in a cacophony of violent thoughts and ricocheted off his barrier, but he took no heed. Crosaad loosed all three missiles at once, two of them killing two of the guards who had pulled him into the room, and the most concentrated flying to impact spectacularly on Slania, now standing and pointing her wand at him once more. She and the magical projectile exploded satisfyingly in a shower of dazzling blue sparks, but not before the wand had gone off, and a missile ten times as powerful as his had shot towards him.
Having used his quota of magic for the day, Crosaad grimaced and dove aside as the missile burned past and impacted on the door to the audience chamber, sending a tremor through the rock and melting the door shut on what must have been the whole house come to investigate the sudden commotion. He was not worried, however. He dashed to the throne and shoved his hand into its arm, then, after a few moments of poking around the various items within its extensive inventory, extracted his hand clutching a small square of cloth. He then jogged to the side of the large room and levitated to the place where the arrow had entered, which had cooled to a small tunnel just barely broader than his shoulders. He gripped the edges of the tunnel and slid his body in, then propelled himself swiftly out of the compound, and, after miles of tiring travel, into the cavern of Menzoberranzan with his treasure.
He sank to the ground and began to walk freely through the streets and past the various compounds of the city's hierarchy; including survivors of the disastrous invasion of Mithral Hall: Baenre, Autro'pol, SentraCaln, and Plolnira, to name a few. Arach-Tinilith loomed in the distance, a gigantic, jagged heat-shadow in his re-activated infravision. As he got closer, he saw two titanic spider obelisks at the towering entrance to the school of Lolth. They were outlined with glowing red faerie-fire, and they bore an unnerving, animated resemblance to the actual thing; just more evidence of the Drow's constant allusions to the Spider Queen.
Lolth, the Spider Queen, was the deity around which the entire Drow civilization revolved, the centrepiece of chaos and malice in the evil depths of the Underdark. She encouraged pragmatism and selfishness and the lust for power which drove the uncounted thousands of feuds that had ravaged Menzoberranzan from its first day of existence. The Drow flourished in the conflict and intrigue and loved war. It gave their lives purpose.
And such was the feeling in Crosaad Do'recranopol's heart as he strode confidently towards the two symbols of evil which parted before the Drow respectfully.
Before they closed, two beings joined him in his stroll; Kishtoni Baenre and the small viper, Sisuu. Crosaad bent down to receive the snake and it curled around his ebon-skinned hand with apparent relish. She performed flawlessly, the snake imparted through their empathic link as she slithered up his wrist.
Kishtoni's fingers bent and twisted in his direction, forming words in the intricate Drow sign language. You have it, then?
Crosaad drew the cloth and threw it to her. She caught it and, flicking her shock of startling, controversially black hair out of her slender, almost gaunt, face, looked it over. She seemed satisfied.
I applaud your aim, he signed, smirking as he noticed the bow slung across her back beside a quiver of arrows.
She smirked too. It was an unusual thing to see her show happiness of any kind. The unfortunate story that was reflected in her stooped stance began when she was fourteen.
A noble, then just barely capable of the high Drow language, she should have shown signs of Lolth-granted magic, but no such gift made itself evident in those early years. She also lacked physical dominance over the males in the house, and was bullied accordingly. Within months, it was evident that she had not been favoured by Lolth, as all other Lolthite females were. Her nobility was the only thing that separated her from the ranks of houseless street-urchins, who died quickly, so her house made the only decision they could: she was to be trained in melee combat.
Kishtoni's days in Melee Magthere had been rough, but she was stronger for them, and had come out second in her class with her deadly longbow behind Drizzt Do'Urden, who had turned rogue and joined the surface-dwellers, and good riddance. But their paths were yet to cross again.
In the invasion of Mithral Hall, Drizzt had battled her line of fighters, had even wounded her in the fighting, but he had left the fray quickly and killed Matron Baenre, halting the invasion and decapitating her house. She was now a cursed female with no house and no nobility to keep her alive. Crosaad had taken her in purely for her unparalleled talent as an archer, and she had performed spectacularly since.
Their way to the chamber, one of many in the vast academy of magic, was unencumbered, and all three felt a heady sense of climax as Crosaad pushed the door open.
A tall, muscled priestess, Pirchtasa by name, stood waiting for them by an emerald scrying glass, and beckoned them forward when Crosaad had closed the door behind him. He proffered the square of cloth and she immediately snatched it, saying harshly out loud, "Is it done?"
He tried not to roll his eyes at the redundant question as he replied, "Yes," in a very clipped tone.
"Subtly?" was the interrogative, though not unjust, response.
The edges of his mouth quirked up as he caught Kishtoni's eye, while the priestess examined the cloth. "Somewhat."
Haughty Pirchtasa raised her eyebrows , but did not inquire further, instead flattening out the material on a small table. She placed the tip of her forefinger on its centre and murmured, Naecrislu revlacra. Reveal your contents. The divine magic drew out infrared ink, illuminating a maze of intricate lines and icons. A map.
"Well, male," she intoned condescendingly, looking up at him with unreadable eyes, "I give you the Tor of Hightower."