Chapter 10
The Drow tribes could never touch their domesticated kin on appearances and dress. As Iune looks over the survivors of the House Trun'zoyl'zl's treachery, she notes that the must look like vagrants. They gather in a single room with passages leading east and south. Half of them are wide-eyed and suffering from shock, the other half are rabid. Their eyes narrowed in fury, looking for any threat to vent their anger with.
"What is this place?" Iune asks after she is forced to crawl through a crevice in the wall.
"We don't know for certain," Alakruen doesn't answer until he's through the other side. He holds out a hand to help her up but she ignores it. "It's old, ancient, and archaic. Maybe even primordial. Lorawk thinks it might be ancient Telantiwar, a forge or foundry of some sort."
"We have taken up with colnbluth?" The non-Drow name sours her tone.
"You'll see," he glances at the two Drow guards just within the hollow. They give her a flat look for a moment before they resume their duty. On another day, such reckless disregard of her station would result in immediate retribution. Unfortunately she doesn't recognize them or have any clue as to their capabilities. Worse, her recent defeat at Hamezaar's hands has leaves her hesitant. She scowls as she heads into the main room.
Uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, while an Orog studies a fire simmering in what looks like a fountain. The Deep Orc is as foul and ugly as the rest of his kind, muscular and well over six feet tall. Unlike his surface kin, he stands tall, confident even among his betters. Another deviation from surface Orcs, he wears heavy plate that's maintained and oiled. On his hip is a great club, a brutish weapon covered in spikes and knobs. Several throwing axes hang on his hip. He towers over the Drow, utterly unimpressed with what he sees.
She recognizes those gathered but notes that most are vassals, not leading members. The sole exception is the brother and sister at the head of the crowd. "You! This is your fault! If you had not failed, our houses would not have suffered the matron mother's retribution."
"Let us not begin this discussion by diminishing what little respect I have for you. The troops attacked before we reached Eartheart Kaellene. That is why the Matron Mother requested the best but supplied none of her wizards, sorcerers, or priestesses. We were sent to die. The death of our target would have been a bonus, nothing more."
"That's the best justification you could come up with for failing to slay your target?" Her brother scoffs.
"In your case Naellene, Neither justification nor explanation is required for someone so far beneath my notice. Some of you want to flee but consider this. Thousands of slaves died. Hundreds of Drow fell and others fled. We were so close to defeating what's left of the Dwarf infestation, a mere decade in all likelihood. Now who knows what will happen. Our victory is no longer assured. Whether the matron mother is insane or an idiot is beside the point, her self-defeating decisions are an existential threat to Telantiwar and to all Drow."
They didn't clap or cheer; they are not some low born rabble. Many nod in agreement and give her their full attention. That's more than she can expect or hope for after such a disaster. Kaellene refuses to relent, "Your mother led us into this situation and I do not feel comfortable following you. Our sacrilege is at the core of our losses. We must return to the proper ways if we hope to overcome our enemies. As the only remaining priestess, I am the natural choice to lead this endeavor."
Perhaps it is her exhaustion or repeated shocks she has suffered over the course of the day. She snickers. It escapes before she could resist the urge and suppress the sound. Kaellene's eyes widen in fury, her lips peel back with a spell on her lips, "Lloth-ugh!"
Alakruen punches her in the throat. She gags as she grasps her neck, unable to breathe or speak. Her brother reaches for his blades only to have his legs swept by the monk. Iune draws an arrow and levels it on the rest of the Drow. Several of them reach for weapons and freeze in place when they meet her eyes. Iune stares them down one by one until they lower their hands, "Is there anyone else that believes they have a claim to leadership?"
"Oh yeah, you Drow settle things much better than us Orcs," the Orog rumbles. Iune turns and finds the deep Orc behind her. With both hands wrapped around his club, his eyes glances at her but quickly returns to the rest of the Drow. She doesn't feel comfortable with him behind her but the rest of the Drow didn't know that. "Alak hired me, I'm with them."
"Who is this?" She asks.
"This is Lorawk," Alakruen introduces him. "He's a mercenary that offered his services."
"I'm also the only metalworker you have," he adds with a grin.
"Why is he alive? Why is Hamezaar Wyrmforge walking out of my Citadel?"
Karrvice remains still and ignores the urge to rub her forehead, despite the headache forming between her eyes. Calmly she explains, "If I gave that order we would be in a full-fledged civil war. Although undeclared, Gloomguard stands with him, Moradin knows why. More importantly mother, he was not bluffing about undermining the Citadel."
High lady and matriarch Karrivva of the Simmerforge clan, former queen of the Gold Dwarves, waves dismissively. She hisses, "Wyrmforge men are given to grandiose claims,"
"That's what you said when he offered to retake the Gates," she replies evenly. "He retook those gates and decimated the Drow caught between the army and the lower levels."
"I cannot depend on you for the simplest things!" She shrieks. "I'm surrounded by fools! I am the queen! You fail me, just like the wretched council that stripped away my crown!"
Karrvice waits patiently for her rant to wear down, after a few minutes her sputtering ends. The former queen was once beautiful and lively. Now all that remains is the hunched Dwarf, whose flesh has wasted away over the century since the Spellplague.
Karrivva continues as if her outburst never happened, "Much like his namesake and grandfather, Hamezaar is a testament to the clan patriarchs. Every victory, every accomplishment reinforces their belief that we can continue as we have before. It must end. We can no longer endure the divisive and self-destructive nature of the Deep Lords and their archaic structures. Eartheart must unify as it has never before, under a singular authority, without the infighting inherent in the clans. Hamezaar is an obstruction to our ascendance and he must go."
"Well spoken, as always my queen," from behind them a cloaked lord compliments her.
"I did not summon you lord Twiststeel!" Karrivva snarls.
"No, you did not my queen," Sullun Twiststeel has always made Karrvice's skin crawl. "I came as soon as I heard about the attempt on High Lord Wyrmforge and the subsequent death of High Lord Amplewrought. How do you want me to work this? Do you want me to suppress the story about the Drow and emphasis Wyrmforge's murder of Amplewrought?"
"No, I want you to emphasis the fight in the citadel. I want your men to spread two additional stories along with the first, one where Hamezaar fought off an assassination attempt from within his own ranks and another where a Deep Lord challenged him to single combat."
"The people won't know what to believe," Karrvice argues.
"So they won't believe anything," Karrivva shares a smile with Twiststeel. "We cannot have Deep Lords slaying each other any more than we can have people thinking the Citadel is less than impenetrable. In a day or two another Lord will take a commoner as her husband or some Patriarch will get caught with a foreign mistress. Gossip will put this scandal to rest as it has every other one. Karrvice, prepare the mirror, I must speak with…her."
"Again!"
"Matron Mother," the priestess appeals to her. "We've tried three times!"
"For my son, we will try a hundred more if the hundredth is successful," Matron Mother Jesthflett Trun'zoyl'zl would never cry. Such emotions are for slaves and the weak. Her lovely face contorts angrily, with rings around her eyes and dilated pupils. Her white dress is stained with blood, now drying brown and crusty.
Her son stares lifeless from the altar she's placed both halves of him on. The largest altar in Telantiwar and her personal shrine to Lloth, it is a focal point of her goddess' power and hums with it. The Matron Mother begins by chanting under her breath as the spell gains power. She motions off to her side and her Bugbear soldiers drag another slave forward. She studies the slave before she announces, "We've tried slaves before, and they weren't enough."
The Bugbears tense but remain still as she draws her sacrificial dagger. Jesthflett moves around the table towards them. The priestess assisting her chuckles in sadistic delight, following a step behind as she studies the Bugbears to suggest the best one. Then the Matron Mother drives her dagger into the priestess' heart. The woman screams as the force of the dagger pushes her onto the Altar. Jesthflett twists the blade, "No one argues with me!"
The priestess trembles with agony until she finally dies. The room throbs with holy power, the Bugbears cowering beneath it. The Matron Mother holds her arms open as she turns to the towering statue of the Spider Queen, "Great and exalted Lloth, I beseech you. Raise my fallen son so that we can continue your glorious work together."
Power erupts in all directions throwing her back. The Bugbears are blasted against the walls and sag to the floor. Above the altar floats a half spider and half Drow woman, a handmaiden of Lloth. Fangs protrude from her lips that drip with venom. The greenish ichor trickles upon the altar, disintegrating stone and flesh alike, hissing and popping as they melt.
"Your son is unworthy of HER attention," the handmaiden's voice is soft and light but thunders through the room. The floor shakes and the air vibrates, warping before her. "Your son was never an adherent or pious. He was riddled with weakness and infected with compassion. His death was a result of your weakness, your inability to enforce your will upon your house."
"I have served faithfully for centuries."
"As required, as is your responsibility, not a choice you're allowed to make."
"I have imposed my will upon thousands of Drow and tens of thousands of slaves. I have raised Telantiwar from the ashes of dead Dwarves and crushed a center of worship for HER enemies. Underhome was a bastion of Moradin, now it is HER domain."
"Your accomplishments are many," the Handmaiden admits. "Still, let's not forget your failings, and your loss of Undrek'Thoz to males. On top of that, you did not defeat Underhome. You happened upon them opportunistically after the Spellplague left them weak. You capitalized on their weakness, which is glorious, but you have failed to complete their destruction. You treachery was based on fear, not sound strategic judgment. You've weakened your position and the other Drow consider you erratic. All of which is beside the point, your son will not be raised, as he is unworthy of HER attention."
"I will not be denied!" Jesthflett hisses.
"You DARE!" The Handmaiden roars, hurtling Jesthflett back. She smashes into the wall, several feet above the ground, and remains pressed there by an unseen force. The Handmaiden's spider legs snatches up both bodies and she disappears in a vortex of darkness.
"No! No!" Jesthflett howls. "NOOOOoooo!"
She huffs and puffs for some time, staring at the altar. Distantly she is aware of the stirring Bugbears, as they creep fearfully from the room. For a long time she is alone. Then a knock comes at the door and she screams, "What?!"
"The Dwarf requests you Matron Mother."
Her lips recede in a mixture of fury and disgust. She rises to her feet and moves to her personal chambers to change her clothes. She makes certain she is immaculate before she travels to another chamber and steps before a mirror. An ancient and hunched Dwarf waits for her.
"Feeling petty Matron Mother?" Karrivva asks. The Dwarf dares to smirk at her. "You kept me waiting all this time after such an utter and complete failure."
"Silence you wretched fool!" Jesthflett snarls in a rage, initially thinking the Dwarf had knowledge of her son. Then she realizes Karrivva is referring to the assassination attempt. She takes control of herself. "My assassins slew all save one of your targets."
"He was the only target and you know that. The rest were convenient. I told you how capable he was. Yet for some reason you chose to ignore it. Frankly, I am filled with doubt at your ability to fulfill your end of this bargain. This agreement is becoming more and more one-sided. Your inability to control your raiders is giving me serious reservations."
"I realize that you are ancient and infirmed," Jesthflett replies coldly. "I will forgive your failing mental faculties as long as they remain rare. I think you need to remember that I can flood your city with assassins and soldiers. Your people will be slaughtered like sheep."
"You couldn't kill a single Dwarf trapped in a room with five of your best," the former Queen retorts. "I'm beginning to wonder if I overestimated your abilities."
Jesthflett simmers as the anger she can barely keep control of bubbles from within her. They stare at each other through the magical mirror until Karrivva relents, "There is a way you can make up for your failure. Hamezaar Wyrmforge has been banished from Eartheart."
What fool would banish such a weapon from her arsenal? Jesthflett keeps her thoughts to herself and suggests, "Naturally you still desire his demise? Very well Queen Karrivva."
She ends the conversation and returns the mirror to nothing more than reflective glass. Her servant asks, "Should I tell our forces to stop the raids?"
"No, tell them to increase them, I want daily attacks. Once we control the night we'll control Eartheart."