Beginnings
Beginnings
Prologue: Amalagh
"Fan out and attack at will," the drow priestess commanded, and the male nobles under her authority eagerly complied, always willing to kill anyone. Such was their way; this hunt – the Beggar's Nightmare, many called it – occurred once a year and the nobles relished it. V'elddrinnshar's slums were filled with rivvil: slaves and commoners who did not deserve to live. To the nobles, the slums were a pestilent cancer in the city that needed to be cleansed, and they were all too happy to carry out this duty.
Phaere Godezynge wrapped her fist around the reins of her mount – a massive abyssal drake – and turned to her subordinates: three dark elves of varying degrees of skill and temperament, one female and two males. The other priestess – Phaere's younger sister Baelothel – also sat atop a drake. Her otherwise fair countenance was defiled by an angry scar that ran across both cheeks, the result of a higher ranking priestess' knife, which created the appearance of a permanent smile. Her eyes, cold and dark, did not reflect her ever-present smirk.
The two males, both on foot, stood to Phaere's right in silence, waiting for their specific commands. While Phaere was sure that they would have rather joined the others in the pillaging of the slums, they had been assigned to be her bodyguards. One of them, a master of Melee-Magthere called Ralak-Nûl Zumud who possessed a strong build and many scars but had lost his left arm, kept his one hand loosely on the hilt of his bastard sword. The second male, a young apprentice by the name of Zand only in his second year in the academy of war, cracked his knuckles and fidgeted out of boredom. He was still green, as anxious to get into battle as any soldier even if it was against helpless common fodder. The fingers of his other hand drummed a tattoo into the hilt of his handaxe.
"I guess it's time for us to join in the festivities, mistress," Baelothel said after a few moments of silence. "We wouldn't want those foolish males to get all the credit."
"Or all of the fun," Zand muttered just loudly enough for both of the females to hear.
"Silence, jaluk," Phaere snapped. Tugging again at the reins of her mount, which stirred with anxiety as the smell of fresh blood filled the huge cave that made up the slums.
V'elddrinnshar's poor sector was truly a horrific place where anarchy and penury ruled. The laws of the Matrons were only enforced when raiding parties like this one were sent to temporarily frighten the commoners into submission. The streets were usually lined with decaying corpses of those who died in the raids or the mass riots that occurred almost daily. Gangs ruled the area, and were only dispersed when trained soldiers were sent to root them out. Disease spread rampantly, and food was so scarce that people killed each other over what was available and usually ended up resorting to cannibalism.
It was the perfect place to go looking for a fight.
"Let's go," Phaere said, hints of a smile playing at her lips as she drew her trusted twin-headed flail in one hand and pulled back the firing mechanism of her crossbow with the other.
The saddle-mounted crossbow was truly a spectacular invention, she had to admit. A massive weapon the size of a small ballista, it fired arrows the size of javelins that could pierce heavy armor with ease. Particularly when enchanted, the weapon had the power to down almost any opponent. And since it was mounted on the saddle, it had no recoil and could be used with only one hand. Blending such power and convenience into one weapon was quite magnificent, making it exceedingly popular with the drow cavalry.
Phaere dug her heel into the side of her mount and urged it onward. The drake flexed its wings and lifted it and its rider into the air. Baelothel soon joined her, and the two hovered low over the tumbledown shacks and lean-tos. On command from their riders, the drakes unleashed blasts of dark flame from their mouths. The fires roared as they lighted the small homes made of clay and scavenged stones, soon creating an inferno that the peasants fled from in terror.
Phaere readied her crossbow and took careful aim, loosing one of the massive bolts. The projectile lashed out and struck an orc slave in the small of the back, knocking him flat to the ground. Zand followed up this assault with a throw of his handaxe which cut down another of the commoner scum, this one a drow covered in plague sores. The young warrior moved to the corpse and wrenched his axe from its flesh. After several tugs, it came free with a sick squelching sound and Zand wiped the blood off on his cloak dismissively.
"Are there any more, mistress?" Baelothel asked, and Phaere touched her hand to her forehead to activate the mind meld to House Godezynge's magus, Akgar. Akgar was quite skilled in divination magic, and was acting as their eyes and ears from his chambers in the Godezynge compound.
There are three rivvil in the alley to your left, mistress, Akgar said through the telepathic link established by the mind meld. Phaere's mount responded to her instruction and unleashed its breath weapon, and the curling flames engulfed said alleyway. Three more slaves – one goblin and two kobolds – ran out and franticly tried to extinguish the fires before being cut down by a volley of arrows from Zumud and the priestesses. Zumud tossed his hand crossbow to Zand, who obediently reloaded it before pitching it back to the master.
One more in the shack below you, mistress, Akgar added. Baelothel's mount launched a fireball from its maw, setting the house alight. The dark elves watched it burn for several moments until, satisfied that there were no survivors, Phaere turned to move on.
"Mistress!" Zumud warned.
"What is it now?" she demanded, her tone possessing an icy, biting quality that indicated her impatience was growing swiftly. Turning to look back at the burning house, her jaw slackened when she saw a figure emerging from the blaze. Wrapped in a heavy black shroud, the figure appeared to be burning, but moved with a slow and sure pace. Once it had stepped into the middle of the street, it cast off the mantle, revealing one of the largest drow Phaere had ever seen. Six feet tall and easily two hundred pounds of solid muscle, the elf wore only a set of ragged breeches that were torn into ribbons by the ankles. His feet and upper body were bare, but it did little to detract from his regal bearing. His finely chiseled features and long shock of stark white hair were clear in spite of the layers of sweat, grime and soot that covered him.
"What are you?" Phaere implored. "How did you survive the attack of the drake?"
The elf's lids opened, and his bright crimson eyes bored into hers. They seemed to positively glow in the darkness of the caves, and reflected an intelligence one would not expect from a commoner.
"Enough of this!" Zand shouted. "I will kill him." The warrior charged forward towards the newcomer and slashed down with his wicked handaxe; the other drow stepped to the side, and ducked underneath to evade Zand's forthcoming sideswipe. The mystery drow countered with a punch to the oblique muscle right under the apprentice's armpit, and the warrior doubled over in pain as his rib cracked. Zand dropped his handaxe, and flexed his wrist to cause a combat knife to drop into his hand from the leather thong that held it.
Getting back on his feet, Zand rushed the commoner and thrust with his large, saw-bladed knife. The other male dodged, and Phaere was astounded by the fluidity with which he moved for someone so massive. His grace and strength were superior even to those of many females, and the priestess was impressed by his abilities. He fought with a form that was extraordinarily crude and simple, yet at the same time effective. As Zand thrust upwards towards his neck, the other drow stepped again to one side and grasped his arm. Crushing the wrist in one hand to slacken the apprentice's grip on the knife, the other wrested it from his grasp and stabbed for the heart. The knive, having been issued from Magthere, was of good make, and the young drow's strength made it slice effortlessly through the student's armor.
Blood dribbled from Zand's mouth as he collapsed to the stone. The other drow in his party watched his death impassively; he had been an unskilled fool and a pawn and his death was of little consequence. His family would be notified, but casualties in Melee-Magthere were hardly uncommon.
Ralak-Nûl Zumud put his hand to the hilt of his blade, but ceased with a raised hand from Phaere.
"Do not kill him, Zumud," she instructed, her eyes not leaving Zand's killer.
"You," she said to the new elf. "What is your name?"
"Amalagh…" he replied, turning his eyes downward in deference to the priestess. "….Shaiith."
Phaere's eyes narrowed and Baelothel shot her a look that echoed how she felt; Shaiith was the surname automatically designated to any drow without a house. It meant 'Nameless' and was a sign of shame among their race. So he was a commoner after all…
Then what was so special about him? Perhaps the Matrons would know.
Phaere gestured to Zumud, who promptly shot Amalagh in the neck. The dart's poison took effect quickly, and the young drow slumped, sound asleep.