Chapter Two

Tarlyn Zaere looked more like a fighter than a cleric: a fine chain mail was clearly visible under his long, scarlet robes; he wore a long sword on his left hip and a one-handed axe strapped over his back. The tall and muscular male would have been an odd sight in any other place than this city, where followers of Selvetarm were at least tolerated. The tips of his long white braids were soaked in blood, a long scar marred his formerly attractive features, his red eyes showed a violent, fierce temper. His god´s holy symbol was embroidered on his cloak: a crossed sword and mace overlaid with a large black spider.

When he entered the temple after his daily weapon exercise, a novice rushed to him and whispered in a somehow frightened voice, "You have a visitor waiting in your rooms, high priest."

Tarlyn scowled and furrowed his brow. "And you just invited this visitor to enter my rooms?"

"I could hardly refuse, high priest," the novice said, and he did not get an answer this time. Tarlyn was curious about this mysterious guest who could obviously frighten a normally fearless worshipper of Selvetarm. Every muscle in his strong body was tense and he had a spell ready on his lips when he opened the doors to his private quarters and stepped in. He was not overly concerned - not in a temple of his own god -, but caution was always necessary when dealing with other drow.

Tarlyn had not known what to expect, but he was more than surprised at the sight of the drow wizard who sat comfortably on a chair, looking calmly at the entering priest. The mage seemed to be young, but his eyes showed wisdom and power beyond the youth of his features. His robes were rich and elegant, and Tarlyn did not even need a spell to feel the magic of his entire gear. One item struck the priest profoundly: an amulet with a green gem, unique in form and colour. A stone of eternal youth, and the trademark item of the probably most powerful station a drow male could hold.

"The Archmage of Menzoberranzan," Tarlyn stated. Gromph nodded silently without introducing himself further - his station was all that mattered, not his name.

Tarlyn shook his head in disbelief and sat down on another chair, coldly staring at the mage.

"To what do I owe this honour?" he asked in an even voice, not meaning his words, but neither with direct sarcasm. The high priest did not know this wizard, but as Menzoberranzan´s mages were known for their impressive power, their Archmage could probably kill him easily.

"I need a priest," Gromph explained curtly, and his words confused Tarlyn even more.

"I do not understand ... The Menzoberranyr priestesses of Lolth are the most powerful drow clerics, why would you ...?"

"I said I needed a priest, not a priestess," Gromph cut him short. "Menzoberranzan´s greatest Weapon Master is dead, killed by a traitorous renegade. No Lolthian priestess will resurrect a male."

Tarlyn wondered why the Archmage cared for the life of a mere fighter, but he was too intelligent to ask for a justification from someone as powerful as the Archmage. "To die in battle is a worthy end - the only worthy end - for a fighter. I doubt that Selvetarm will grant me his life," he explained.

"I have chosen your clergy on purpose - I know that you welcome death in a battle against overwhelming forces, not in a duel that just ... went wrong. This Weapon Master was nearly unequaled with his blades, the incarnation of fighting prowess."

"You ask for much, Archmage", Tarlyn started, but Gromph interrupted him again, "You will accompany me to Menzoberranzan, high priest, and you will do everything that is in your power to resurrect him."

Tarlyn felt shivers down his spine - he understood the Archmage´s hard voice and threatening stare well enough: either Selvatarm would grant him this drow´s life, or his own would end soon enough.

"Do you have his body?" he asked finally, realising that any resistance would be fatal. Gromph did not bother to answer, but rose immediately and began to chant. Tarlyn sighed helplessly as the teleportation spell took them both to Sorcere.

Many rumours existed about Menzoberranzan, her high priestesses and wizards, and Tarlyn looked around curiously as soon as he appeared in the Archmage´s quarters. But the room in which they stood was simple and unadorned, and the most striking sight in it was a slender body on a small bed. Tarlyn went over to it and examined the dead fighter - and he could not deny his fascination for this finely honed body. He saw the only beauty Selvetarm´s followers knew, the beauty of a perfect warrior.

Yet he felt Gromph´s hard stare and asked quickly for the fighter´s name. He believed that the mage´s voice trembled when he answered, "Dantrag Baenre, former Weapon Master of the First House of Menzoberranzan."

Gromph left the room and closed the door behind him - he knew that clerics spent hours, sometimes days in prayer to resurrect someone. He did not find any reverie this night, but paced restlessly through his quarters, often stopping at the door, listening, but he heard nothing except for Tarlyn´s deep voice muttering prayers - he waited in vain for the sound of a second drow´s breathing. Even though it pained him to leave his quarters, he went hastily to Narbondel in the morning to execute his daily duty, and returned just as hastily to Sorcere, where he found the door of Dantrag´s small room still closed.

But he did not have to wait long: Tarlyn left the room soon after Gromph´s return from Narbondel, his scarred face showing exhaustion, but also confidence and elation.

"It will take several days or weeks until his wounds will be fully healed, but Selvetarm gave him his life, out of respect for his skill," Tarlyn said, obviously relieved. He did not even want to imagine what Gromph would have done to him if he had failed. The cleric had not been frightened - fear was unknown to the followers of the Spider Demon - but his clergy´s position in Eryndlyn was shaky, and they could not afford the death of one of their most powerful priests. Which was probably the reason Selvetarm had saved him instead of abandoning him.

The Archmage managed to hide his joy and just handed Tarlyn a platinum ring. The cleric took it and cast a quick identification spell, before he nodded. Gromph had not been stingy - but considering Dantrag´s prowess and looks, Tarlyn could understand the Archmage´s interest in him.

As soon as Tarlyn had left, teleporting back to Eryndlyn, Gromph hastened to Dantrag´s bed and sat down beside him. The wound on his chest was healed, another dark-grey scar marked his black skin where it had been torn by the scimitar. The slash on his belly was still visible and would indeed take time to heal completely. Dantrag´s breath was weak, but steady, and his unconsciousness was not feverish, but tranquil. Gromph let his eyes shift into infravision, to see the warmth that emanated once again from Dantrag´s body. The Archmage, who hadn´t let himself cry when his brother had died, felt a single, hot tear streaming down his cheek.


Dantrag opened his eyes and blinked, slowly adjusting to the dim, bluish light. He tried to identify the strange smell, a mixture of many odours the drow could not discern, some of them coming from the surface or far regions of the Underdark. Yet he knew this mix, and he knew this light - Gromph´s quarters at Sorcere. Dantrag was confused - he tried to remember how he had come here.

His last clear memory was the fight in the cavern where he and Berg´inyon had waited for Drizzt Do´Urden. He heard Cutter´s voice in his head, prodding him, whispering promises of glory and victory. He saw fierce lavender eyes, whirling scimitars - one of them glowing blue -, wielded by a drow who had used Dantrag´s enhanced speed against him - knowing that the Weapon Master could hardly alter a movement once begun.

Dantrag tried to sit up, but the pain in his belly reminded him of Drizzt´s first serious hit, and he sank back. He remembered the moment of shock and disbelief when he had realised that the renegade had overcome his defences, the humiliating words that Zaknafein - curse his name! - would have bested him, and then the glowing scimitar pushing through his chain mail, through his heart.

Dantrag knew that he should be dead, that he had to be dead. What had happened after this lethal hit? There had been blackness, he knew, and something more, but what? It was as if a piece of his memory was missing, removed from his mind. A voice pushing through the darkness was the next thing he could remember, an unknown, deep voice, a drow male´s, his accent slightly different from the one spoken in Menzoberranzan.

Dantrag turned his head but he was alone - Gromph was not here, and neither was this other drow, whoever he might be. The Weapon Master felt weak and his head hurt, and even though he wanted nothing more but to get up and find answers, to restore these missing memories, he fell asleep almost immediately.