A/N:There's not much to say this time. I've been experimenting with breaks, and this is once again a long chapter: I hope that you enjoy it. Thanks for reading. Without further ado, I present you...

The price of knowledge

A portal opened somewhere in the city of Lost Souls, unnoticed by the many eyes that lived there and that were too busy to stray out of their own business. The fragile surface of the dimensional door shivered, and the speckled silver oval undulated before letting through a most unusual threesome: a tiefling, a drow elf, and a human.

They were a well prepared group, and it could be assumed that, under most circumstances, it would be slightly imposing to look at their ready stances and assertive demeanor, but this time around there was something special – a huge aura of power seemed to surround them almost pulsing with its intensity. It spelled out doom to whoever dared to so much as gaze at them, and it seemed to radiate from the smaller figure of the trio, the human girl.

She was a magic user, as it was apparent from her lack of armor and her weirdly assorted clothes, and it seemed as if her anger had taken over the arcane channels she used to cast her spells, because a steady steam of vapor enveloped the group as the powdered snow at her feet frizzled with heat.

When a spark of fire flew off the small sorceress' hair, the other two companions crossed their gaze: apparently deciding that their own well-being – and their success – was ultimately worth a bit of their pride, the two males did their best to put their differences aside and stepped forward as one to lend their support to their clearly upset arcane caster: the tiefling and his strength, acting as an anchor for the onslaught of rage; and the drow and his calmness, acting as a buffer where all the boiling emotions cooled out.

Little by little, Yria Ingerd managed to rein in her magic – if not her ire – and simply stood there, breathing deeply, her face hidden by her hair and her fists shaking by her sides.

But beneath her somewhat calmer façade, she was still furious, and it was terrifying because no one could have ever wondered that the laid-back, easygoing girl had it in her, that enormous killing intent.

Valen looked over at the drow, and for once he surprised a worried look on the ebony face. He lifted an eyebrow, but decided against teasing the spellsword: partly because he didn't fancy antagonizing him, partly because he wasn't that kind of person anyway, and partly because he truly feared the potential truth within the dark elf's hypothetical answer.

"What a fit," he settled for saying. "We need to calm her down a bit; we cannot take her to the Gatehouse like this."

Rizolvir frowned at Valen's choice of words, but couldn't help but agreeing with their intent.

"Mistress Yria is in dire need of regaining her senses. She could hurt herself like this."

"Herself?" Valen snorted at the mere thought. If anything, Yria knew how to keep alive. "I'm more worried about the innocent bystanders in a three-mile radius."

The unsteady truce was violently endangered when Rizolvir's body tensed, ready to pounce, as his right hand closed upon his thrice-damned sentient sword, Enserric. His ruby eyes darkened to a garnet shade as he hissed out his next words.

"You shall show the appropriate respect to Mistress Yria."

Even as, predictably, the tiefling responded in kind, a small part of his mind noted that, when not talking directly to her, the former drow smith always referred to her by a title. He found it bothersome and cumbersome, and he knew that he should also find it annoying, though at the moment he didn't remember why.

"Who in the Abyss do you think you are to speak for her, anyway?"

Whatever answer Rizolvir had in stock was cut short by a small, delicate hand that appeared on each of their shoulders.

"Hey, it'd be great if you stopped talking about me like I'm not here."

Her voice was a bit strained, but there was some amusement in there too. Valen was relieved to see that she could still smile after the huge emotional trauma she had just underwent.

Coming from no one knows where, a swell of pride for her bit him in the ass.

Eyes wide open in surprise, yet another realization crawled forward and gave him a punch to the gut when he saw in his peripheral vision how the harsh elven features softened and how the vindictive glint disappeared of the drow's ruby orbs: he remembered why he should be annoyed at the drow's extreme politeness.

When white lashes came down, and the former smith fixed his defiant-turned-humble gaze upon the floor, Valen had no choice but to acknowledge that in his own, dark elf, twisted way, Rizolvir was actually courting Yria Ingerd.

He felt… no, it couldn't be. It was just surprise.

The tiefling looked again out of the corner of his eye, just to make sure… No, the sorceress was completely oblivious. Better for her not to get involved: it would be uncomfortable, and it would be wrong – because nothing ever was right when dark elves of his ilk were involved.

But just in case, he decided to keep her attention off the drow.

"You weren't there for a moment," Valen snorted.

"Nonsense!" Yria snorted right back. "I've been here all along. And anyway, you should allow a lady her distress, after this awful experience!"

The weapon master was about to comment on how Yria had brought said distress upon herself, but he smartly decided against the direct approach: the sorceress didn't seem calm enough to handle a straight criticism yet.

"Well, if it was so harsh, we could have found another way…"

Valen felt more than saw Rizolvir staring daggers at him for questioning the girl's decision, and Yria herself smacked his shoulder – again forgetting the existence of his cuirass. She sure was silly sometimes.

"Ouch! Hey, a bit of gratitude here! I got this special power to save your behind!" she said, in mock indignation.

"And yours, too," Valen retorted.

"Why, of course. Why should I have bothered, otherwise?"

After getting to know her, Valen would have thought such a statement to be just a joke, but after recent events it shot a shiver up his spine. He would rather not stop to ponder over it.

"Well… better not to dwell upon it, yes?"

"Sure!" the sorceress chirped and started to wander off. "Let's go and find Reaper. Now, he won't be able to just say no! And then we'll see if there is something we can do about Mephistopheles. And then… well, THEN we'll definitely do something about this new situation!"

o O o

Commander Imloth squinted his teary eyes against the twinkling candlelight and studied the parchment that was lain before him. One of his aids had just traced a few new lines and blotches on the already saturated surface: although it would make little to no sense to an outsider, Imloth's expert gaze saw a detailed representation of troop positioning, supply routes, enemy sightings, battles fought, and casualties had.

Casualties. There had been too many of those.

And lately, he had been entertaining the thought that no matter what he did, the toll would keep raising and raising until it swallowed all of his boys.

For a moment, he felt like he had in his younger days, a fly caught up in a web, being inexorably reeled in and cocooned by a huge spider that preyed on the world at large.

He shivered and reached up to touch the symbol of Eilistrey that always hung from his neck, under his mail, driving from his mind the memories of Lolth that still plagued him on occasion in spite of the decades that had passed since he had embraced the light.

"Commander Imloth," Nathyrra interrupted his thoughts, stepping out of the shadows, allowing her boot to scruff against the stone floor to alert of her presence.

The weary male sighed and rubbed his tired face.

"Well met, Nathyrra. Do you bring good news? The goddess knows we could use the respite."

"Don't I know it," the scout smiled grimly and placed a hand to Imloth's shoulder, showing both sympathy and support. "But I'm afraid that I bring you no miracle."

One of Imloth's hands found its way to rest upon his lieutenant's, and he leaned his weight against the strategy table where the carefully sketched map rested.

"You bring more small miracles than I could possibly ask for. It's just that we're in dire need of a huge one," the drow commander sighed yet again, trying to push the darker thoughts from his mind. "Anyway, do tell me what you've found out. We'll have to make do."

"It's going to be difficult. If we take the turn north here," the former Red Sister leaned over the map, and started pointing out different spots and tracing various lines with her fingertips, "then we'll be facing a pretty much straight march that will leave us backed up against the sea. From what I've heard and seen, it is a dead end, because I haven't found any tunnel adequate to keep going from there.

"But if we keep going," she said, straightening up and looking Imloth in the eye, "then we'll be braving Undermountain, and we'll be backed up against the World Above."

Imloth had been fearing those news. They knew that they had stumbled upon the route the late Valsharess had used to assault the surface, and they had followed it out of sheer necessity, but the need to get away hadn't diminished one bit and each mile that the remnants of Lith My'athar's army covered left them with fewer possibilities.

"The surface is not much better than a solid wall holding an ocean at bay," he said, at length. "You said that Undermountain is entered from a city: those surface dwellers will likely kill any dark elf on sight, no matter what goddess they worship."

Nathyrra bit her lip, understanding and sharing the other's fears. Unfortunately, as she had thought it over and over while returning from her scouting trip, she saw no other choice.

"There might be a chance," she ventured.

Imloth arched one finely shaped eyebrow, willing to hold onto whatever slice of hope she could offer him.

"I've been through Undermountain before," she elaborated on her plan, "and it's a huge maze of tunnels and stone, full of traps and secret passages. Our numbers have dwindled dangerously, and the enemy's have grown just as much, but these narrow places should allow us to hold our ground or to prepare ambushes… I know that those we kill will probably be raised again, but it could buy us enough time to reach the surface."

Imloth nodded, for as much as he loathed to admit it, she was right: their were too few to survive another direct confrontation with Mephistopheles' army.

"But it doesn't solve the problem of the surface dwellers. Once we get there, we will be caught between two fronts," and that was the precise situation any military leader worth his salt would try to avoid at all costs, he thought.

"I'm sure the surface dwellers right out of Undermountain would recognize the hero who stopped the attacks on their city not that long ago," she said, trying to appear as calm as unsure she actually felt.

"I'm sure too, but she's dead," he answered, almost letting out a bitter laugh at the thought. The prophesized savior had killed the Valsharess, but at what price!

"Yes, she is; but her companion is not."

This time, Imloth raised both eyebrows. He thought of Deekin, the kobold bard who he regarded more as a pet than as a companion, and the idea of entrusting all of their lives to his diplomatic abilities almost made him dizzy.

However, they were truly desperate.

"Have you told the Seer?" he asked.

"No, not yet. I wanted to check with you first."

The drow commander carefully blew out the candles and straightened his things upon the table before turning again to Nathyrra.

"Let's go. I'll endorse your plan." Far-fetched as it was, he saw no other way to save the lives of his boys.

And neither did the Seer see much choice in the matter, because in as short notice as possible, the eilistreans makeshift camp was up, and a ragtag throng of dark elves, sprinkled with the odd representative from the other Underdark sentient races, started to march towards the most infamous dungeon in all of Faerûn.

As Nathyrra led the way, she realized that the place where they had chosen to make their last stand had been the grave of as many powerfully armed adventurers as exhausted, battle-weary dark elves comprised their force; probably, even more. All the scout could do was hope that the recent turmoil and near destruction of the place had left it harmless enough, and that Madwizard Halaster hadn't had the time to worry about reconstruction.

It was a meager hope, but it was better than nothing at all.

Not even the Seer could keep track of time as the wounded, pained and defeated drow made their way towards the surface. They kept a pace as steady as the physical condition of the weakest among them allowed, they stopped to rest briefly every ten miles or so, and they still sent small groups in rotation to keep the enemy monitored and attempt to hinder their advance; but the Seer could not fool herself: they were a defeated army in full retreat, and it pained her to think that, in truth, they had nowhere safe to retreat to.

Still, the wise old lady did her best to heal her followers and to instill in them the drive to go on just a little bit further, just a little bit longer, even as she prayed and asked her goddess for a solution – even for a reason why this all was happening.

But the goddess didn't answer such questions, either because there was no answer or because her silence was the answer, and the tatters of the once proud Lith My'athary rebel army kept crawling forward into the heart of Undermountain, fighting like devils to reach the surface and fighting like demons to defend their rearguard.

And all the way, the Seer prayed and hoped for a miracle.

It was half a league away from surfacing to the City of Splendors that her miracle caught up with her.

"Mother Seer!"

She startled in her meditations and looked up to see a young drow bowing respectfully to her and trembling with a mixture of sheer exhaustion and excitement.

"What is it, my son?" she asked, and the owner, barely a boy whose name she couldn't remember, visibly fought with himself to keep his composure and prevent his emotions from overwhelming his voice.

"They are not getting up again, Mother Seer!"

The Seer shared a confused look with Nathyrra, who was there in the 'command campfire' discussing the next steps with Imloth, and the commander, who had been frowning at the brusque interruption made by his underling, stepped forth.

"Adaur Pharn, second rotation of scouts, am I right?"

"Yes sir," answered the kid, surprised that his commander actually bothered to go and learn his name and assignation.

"Well, Adaur, perhaps you can explain just exactly what you are talking about? Otherwise, I suggest you take your leave and return to your duties."

"I have just come back from scouting duties in the eastern tunnels of the second level of Undermountain," Adaur explained. "My instructions were…"

"I am aware of your instructions, boy," Imloth sighed. "I issued them. Now please, can we get to the point?"

"Of course, sir," if the kid was bothered or intimidated by the interruption, he didn't show it. "The point is that the area is full of corpses. Of dead corpses, I mean."

Nathyrra almost jumped up at the news.

"Do you mean to say that the Archdevil's troops are no longer being resurrected? We must check!"

"I… I took the liberty of advancing to the northern section and to the entrance to the third level, Lieutenant Nathyrra," now, Adaur did seem nervous. After all, he had taken initiatives of his own accord. "I saw nothing. Just corpses."

But Imloth slapped his shoulder, for a second loosing his stern face as he smiled truly.

"Praise the goddess! Nathyrra, we might just be able to make it!"

The female was just as static as the Commander himself, for if the enemy could be defeated, then they would defeat it. There was still the Archdevil to think about, but once they reached the surface, allied with the humans, their clerics and their wizards, perhaps they did stand a chance.

Only the Seer remained confused.

"But why has the resurrection stopped? What has happened?" she wondered, more to herself and her goddess than to her two suddenly spirited seconds-in-command.

However, the voice that answered her was not that of Eilistrey.

"He was powering his undead with Cania's souls. I've cut that supply line."

There, in the mist of the drow, coming from no one knew where, stood an apparition.

Because Yria Ingerd was back, and she was not alone.

The Seer felt her knees go weak, and if she hadn't been sitting on a rock, she knew she would have fallen. Through a haze, she saw the prophesized savior of Lith My'athar, and the bright red and toxic green drowned by lively cyan that identified Valen anywhere, and a dark shadow streaked with off-white and deep ruby, whose features she managed to put together and identify as the late smith that had served her and her army, and who had died during the firsts assaults of the Valsharess.

"Valen! And.. you! But you are all dead! I… I saw it! How… How can this be?" Nathyrra was the first one finding her voice, and she voiced the Seer's own questions.

Yria waved her hand dismissively. She had changed, the Seer noted with dismay. She seemed darker, furious; her very soul seemed to be screaming bloody murder.

"Long story, really. Let's just say, I've got pending business with Meph here."

She stared out the exit of the chamber where they were resting, into Undermountain. Everyone who was close enough to have noticed her appearance glanced there as well.

"I don't see anything," mumbled a newly worried Imloth.

"No, you wouldn't," said the sorceress, her eyes never leaving the doorway. "But he's coming, and fast. Move along, and quickly: this is personal business."

Imloth understood an order when he heard one, so he looked to the Seer for confirmation. The old drow was about to ask something of the human and her companions when a low, shaking rumble was heard.

That was about all the warning they needed, and the drow abandoned everything and made a mad rush towards the one other exit – towards the surface, and to a new chance.

The last ones were still visible in the tunnels when the wall closing off the side of the chamber closest to Undermountain's heart crumbled to pieces, and the terrifying, imposing figure of Mephistopheles would haunt the dreams of that handful of drow for the rest of their long lives.

The Archdevil stood as tall as he was, his horned head touching the roof of the chamber-like cavern, his eyes glowing with contempt and his red skin giving off the heat of a lava torrent.

"My, isn't this quite the reunion. But I thought I had left you in a place called Cania for all eternity?"

Usually, a witty comment – most likely, a complain about the heater system – would have ensued, but Yria was too far gone to care for such pleasantries.

"You want to know why I'm here?" she ground through clenched teeth and a tense, fake smirk. "Let me inform you, and listen carefully to the tale of how I acquired your True Name, because I'm going to narrate it only this once… Thra'axfyl the Ambitious…"

o O o

Snow, stone and iron mixed together to make a clear milestone in Cania's steady landscape. It was a purely military outpost, a fortress meant to protect the boundaries of the eight layer of Hell, served by a host of devils and manned by an ice giant clan. It was a place of ruthlessness among the ruthless, a place of strife surrounded by eternal conflict. It was the door to the raging Blood Wars that were fought endlessly upon the planes beyond.

It was not a good place to sleep, but the three figures huddling against a rocky slope didn't seem to mind.

Or at least, one of them didn't.

As Yria, Valen and Rizolvir got whatever rest they could grab, shrouded in the unforgiving cold and the whipping wind, unable to light up a fire for fear of discovery, two pairs of eyes stared unblinkingly upward, attempting to measure time and to keep track of the minutes upon minutes scurrying by. Periodically, the celestial vault came ablaze, lightened by the battle that stormed on just a few yards ahead.

If one could forget the situation, even if it was only for a moment, it was a beautiful sight; almost breathtaking, almost enough to be deemed even romantic.

Pity that beauty and romance were the furthest things from the mind of both Valen and Rizolvir as they waited for the reddish glow that passed for dawn to arrive – or for a certain sorceress to wake up and declare the day inaugurated, whichever came first.

The tiefling's eyes, tired and wary of the inner demon and its reaction to the Blood Wars being fought so close, ended up wandering over to his silent companion: many miles had passed since they had encountered the dwarven monk who called himself Grimgnaw, and even though they all had lost count, many days had come and gone since that fateful confrontation took place.

In all that time, the weapon master hadn't come any closer to trusting the elf – not even closer to understanding him. The drow had encouraged Yria to take over the Hells, and, as a mage, he surely had known the implications from the very beginning. How he had just pledged his soul to the sorceress' capricious whims had been either extremely stupid, or extremely cunning. Valen sighed. Or perhaps the former smith truly was too much of a drow male and there was nothing else to it.

"Rizolvir of House Zarosta," the weapons master mused aloud, as if speaking the other's name would give him any clue to figuring things out.

The silent drow, ever so stoic when it came to dealing with the tiefling, didn't move, didn't bother to look at the other male as he corrected him.

"Rizolvir of no House worth Mentioning," he said, as if discussing a sword's quality and not his former life. "House Zarosta was annihilated; it exists no more, therefore I no longer have any affiliation."

The voice answering Valen's statement was cold. Once again, it was difficult to understand how that voice could belong to the same smith who had forged his armor back in Lith My'athar, who had been always compliant and humble… those adjectives seemed alien to Rizolvir's person now. The drow was aloof, detached, and kept a hint of cruelty hidden in his ruby orbs that only abated when Yria addressed him.

Not for the first time, the planar wondered whether it had been a good thing or a bad thing that such a clearly two-faced individual had joined their quest for resurrection.

"No affiliation whatsoever?" Valen decided to press on, since the drow seemed to be in the mood for answering. "What about the Seer?"

"Not to a drow House," Rizolvir tsked, bothered by having to point out obvious things all the time. "As for the Seer, the purpose that made her the leader of Lith My'athar has been fulfilled: the Valsharess is dead. Because of this, it is safe to assume that, for the moment, I do not count myself among her allies: how could I, when I ignore what her next endeavor shall be? Furthermore, I – we – ignore whether she lives yet."

Valen frowned in the dark. He didn't follow the Seer because of their shared goals, but because she was the Seer. The ancient elf had saved him from the demon and had set him free, and, more importantly, she had forgiven him. She had a way to make the good in everyone surface, and she was a beacon of hope to everyone around her. The tiefling actually found it difficult and unsettling, the thought of not following the Seer, and he found it hard to understand how the others could not feel the same.

"If not for the Seer," he ventured, "why are you coming with us?"

"Because I want to." Absolute deadpan.

"If you really are a wizard, you must know that our chances are slim at best," Valen insisted.

"Not a wizard; a spellsword," Rizolvir sighed, correcting the weapons master again and clarifying his occupation for what felt like the umpteenth time. "And I have the distinct impression that slim chances are our specialty."

Ah, yes. That would be correct. The impossible seemed to be rather probable when they were involved, didn't it? Was that the reason behind the elf's support? As far as reasons go, it was a meager one and it didn't explain the drow's initial reluctance to get resurrected, nor his siding with the whole taking over Hell thing.

Usually Valen didn't need reasons, for he tended to follow his gut, but his gut had proved to be wrong before, hadn't it? Surely, without the plane's evil influence, Yria wouldn't have hesitated in crushing down whoever offered her a directive position in the damnation business – he was positive that the small sorceress would be able to see the wrong of it as soon as they left the damnable Cania. He wasn't so sure about Rizolvir, though.

Still, Valen had to admit that the drow's twin sword fighting technique had come in handy when things had soured, and the rotation of the ring between the dark elf and Yria had reduced the strain on both magic casters to a minimum, so he probably should be considered a useful companion. But just in case…

"Yes, the impossible is our job. Still, we can't lose focus: our goal is to get out of Hell, and we have to cooperate."

"Of course," finally, Rizolvir's gaze left the blazing skies and locked pointedly with Valen's. "Anything liable to endanger Mistress Yria's goal must be eliminated."

Then the drow stared upwards again, breaking eye contact with the tiefling and leaving him wondering whether the thinly veiled threat had ever been actually there.

In fact, Valen was still pondering over it by the time Yria Ingerd emerged from her comforters. Bright, noisy and energetic as always, if she felt something weird going on between the males she made as if everything was in order and proceeded to push them forwards: the smell of success was hanging in the air, and the closeness of the end gave the trio all the strength they needed. The Knower of Names was just across the battlefield.

Or so had said the Knower of Places.

The only unsettling fact was that the Knower of Places was a rambling fairy like croon head over heels in love with the Snoring – erm, Sleeping Man, and who had given the information, not only rather reluctantly, but mixed up with some nonsense about a guy called Molikrock impersonating Mephistopheles who had fallen in love with a pixie or a nymph or something like that, being key in a plot where three other guys attempted to kick her ass but then his warning put her on guard, and her twelve tugs beat someone to a pulp. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Or perhaps it was some other foolishness that the group totally failed to put together, because, in all honesty, they could care less about Infernal trivia.

One could only hope that they had gotten the location of the Knower of Names right, given how long it took them to reach a consensus on the delicate matter.

The gist of the directions seemed to be that, in order to reach the encased Knower, they had to cross the icy plane where at the moment a strike force of Tanar'ri clashed against the defending garrison of Baatezu.

It did sound epic, but in truth, the forces of evil were too busy bashing each other in to truly notice the trio of intruders running forward as inconspicuously as they possibly could, and the valiant heroes only had to worry about the occasional flying tree being hurled from one front to the other.

The demons and devils went so far so as to ignore the three people standing still in the middle of a circumference marked by twelve icy tombs and arguing heatedly about something or other while pointing at different points in the circle.

The mighty beings didn't even pay attention when one of the figures grew weary of discussion and blasted away one of the tombs with a fireball, and of course they were totally unaware of the small fairy-like creature that emerged from the melted snow.

If they had noticed, and they had gotten just an rough idea of the kind of power it granted, possibly history would have been irrevocably changed.

But alas, the immortals kept to their eternal bashing of each other, and the three souls could engage the Knower of Names in conversation unmolested.

Right up until the moment where a dreadful sound could be heard, a scream that rode over, and for a slight moment in time, drowned out the Blood War's wild drums, and then its sanguinary fighters couldn't help but notice it.

The outraged cry resonated throughout the icy rings of Cania, and beyond.

"HOW MUCH!?"

o O o

The towering figure of Mephistopheles dominated the battlefield, but it wasn't his power what could be felt. Building up and up, coiling tighter and burning brighter as her tirade rolled off her tongue, Yria Ingerd's unleashed rage washed over the entire cavern like the waves of Umberlee's unholy storm.

She didn't seem to mind that it was the Lord of the Eight ensnared to her will by his True Name; she didn't even seem to realize that probably the struggle against the unbreakable binding was preventing him from listening to what she was actually saying.

All she seemed to care about was the amount of money that the accursed Knower had charged her for a True Name.

As her tantrum approached an end, both Valen and Rizolvir took a cautionary step backwards.

On top of being expensive, the damnable Knower had forced Yria to buy two names, because it – or she, or whatever it was - had refused to tell the name of her 'beloved' without being ordered to do so.

The drow and the tiefling shared a worried look, and they reached an unspoken understanding: they had done their bit, now it was time for Yria to stand her ground.

Because somehow, even after being ordered to tell Mephistopheles' True Name, the unsightly Knower had dared to charge Yria for it.

Rizolvir threw up a magical shield of force just in case as Yria finished her diatribe and an enraged roar made Valen wince, and his own delicate ears bleed.

"YOU ARE GOING TO PAY!!"

The sages say that demons and devils are, thanks to their inherent evil and their eternal lifespans, the masters of pain and retribution. However, also because of their nature, their imagination pales when compared to the inventive ways of the shorter-lived races.

And the Lower Planes knew no fury like that of a penniless Yria Ingerd.