Chapter Thirty Five: Defcon One
Commander Mirada Keyes kept her gaze level as she walked through the corridor and headed for the Dawn's secure armories. Behind her were Sergeant Johnson and a number of Faerunian natives, Wulfgar and Dove Falconhand among them. Both of them were the representatives of their people at the moment, and they wanted to be on hand to help with whatever it was that was being retrieved. Miranda just hoped they knew what they were getting themselves into.
Ordinarily, she would have gotten a few Neo-Covenant troops to assist with this, but the specially made carrying cases for what they were about to retrieve had been designed specifically to make it hard for the Covenant's races to carry them. Among these were a biometric scanner that would deliver a shock to any Human not authorized to carry it, which had enough power to knock a man across a room. It would be necessary to enter them into the system, something that Cortana's subroutines would have to do when they arrived.
The UNSC officer let out a sigh as she rounded the final corner and before them was the secure armory. The thirty millimeter cannons jerked to life, watching her every move as she walked over towards the door. The rest of the natives held back as she approached, no doubt nervous about the auto-cannons. They'd seen what those things could do to a person. Just as well, the Commander thought to herself. While the carrying cases for the Dawn's special weapons could be programmed to allow for more people to carry them, only she and the Master Chief had access to this particular room.
Miranda approached the myriad of defensive locking mechanisms and got to work. First she inserted her hand into a small box like protrusion, that quickly sealed itself around her wrist. Once that had been done, a needle came out, taking a blood and DNA sample. It confirmed her identity, and indicated the next step of the clearance process. More scans followed, her UNSC standard issue neural links were analyzed, retinal and fingerprint scans, voice analysis, and finally, she entered a twenty digit alphanumeric code. At last, the doors opened, though the cannons still tracked her movement.
Miranda passed through half a meter of solid Titanium-A to reach the small room. A series of slots opened up in front of her, and out came several small objects. She placed them onto a cart, and carried them out. As soon as she was past the doors, they hissed shut, and the locks reengaged. To her right, next to the lockers, another series of hatches opened up and extended outwards, revealing a number of carrying containers, each of them cylindrical and about six feet long. They were gunmetal gray on the outside, while the interior was filled with shock absorbing foam and padding.
"You can approach now," she said to the others.
They did so cautiously, most of them following behind Sergeant Major Johnson as he moved up towards his commander, and immediately began helping her load the objects.
"I remember this area," Wulfgar said. "The Master Chief said that it was to contain 'weapons of mass destruction.'" He got his first good look at the objects. There were two different types. The first were six small oblong devices, which reminded Wulfgar of the mortar rounds they'd used to defend Mithril Hall. The other three objects were larger, about foot across and bullet shaped.
"That's exactly what these things are," Commander Keyes said. "I need you to get entered to the biometrics system, so you can help carry these things back to the dropships, and then to the Hall. Otherwise the defense systems in the containers will engage. Cortana, walk them through the process"
"Aye-aye, Ma'am," the construct said,
"What exactly are these things?" Dove asked as she walked over.
"The instrument of our success," Cortana said as she started taking blood samples. "We're not just going to show the Dark Elves that we can stand against their armies and drive their forces back into the darkness, we're going to do something no army has ever done before: take the fight to them. We will show them that they cannot hide from us, cannot run from us, that their civilization will exist at the whim of the surface world. It'll send a message that if they raid, attack, or otherwise invade the surface, they will die."
"But what are they?" Wulfgar inquired as the needle slid into his wrist. He looked down at the instrument with mild curiosity. If it pained him at all, he did not let it show.
"The mortar rounds are chemical delivery systems, Novichok derived," Sergeant Johnson said as he placed one into its holder and secured it. "Each hundred and twenty millimeter round has six canisters in it. Each canister has a cocktail of components in it that are harmless on their own, but when they mix, they combine to create TH-138, codenamed 'Cold Silence.'"
"Which is?" Dove asked, standing over them and gently picking up one of the mortars.
"It's a nerve gas," Johnson started. "Think of it as a highly toxic poison, more potent and dangerous than anything you've ever seen before in your life. It was originally designed to be used against Humans, but with some tweaks and a few more chemicals, it was adapted to work on Covenant biology as well." He and Keyes closed the first carrying case, locking it and activating the biometric defense systems.
"A poison," Wulfgar frowned. "How dangerous is this 'Cold Silence' when it is used."
"Depends on the vector," Keyes said. "A spoonful of its liquid components, mixed, dropped on the floor…" she paused. "Probably enough to kill everyone in a thirty to fifty meter radius."
There were quiet gasps, and the natives exchanged glances as the two UNSC soldiers began to load up the second tube with mortars.
"The same amount of components mixed, launched, detonated and aerosolized in the air?" Johnson picked up, and then paused, looking up at everyone present, staring at them behind his visor. "That shit'll kill sixty, seventy, maybe even eighty-"
"That's not too bad," Wulfgar muttered.
"-thousand." Johnson finished. "Up to eighty thousand dead." The Plainsman gulped as the Sergeant Major finished. "Each mortar has enough of the binary components to wipe Waterdeep off the map. It's odorless, tasteless, colorless, heavier than air, and by the time you realize that it's killing you, it's already too late."
Every face in the room was ashen gray, and they backed away from the mortar rounds.
"They're harmless right now. The components are kept separated in chambers that need microdetonators to break. Those require special command codes to activate. You will not trigger these things by banging, dropping, or otherwise manhandling them." He closed the second case. "Nevertheless, and I want everyone to hear me very carefully here, you treat this shit as if it were armed, and the slightest jostle could set it off. You treat it, as if the very secondyou stop respecting it for what it is, that it will kill you."
"And how does it kill?" One of the other Faerunians said, a Neverwinter officer by the name of Bevil.
"Gas works in several stages. A little bit simply makes you... stop. The gas primarily acts as a nerve inhibitor, stops your brain from sending messages to your muscles by making them contract continuously. Most importantly, your diaphragm, which is how you breathe. The spasm would be incredibly painful, but by the time you'd feel that, you're already unconscious, because the oxygen flow to your brain's been cut off completely." Johnson strapped another mortar round into its case. "Higher concentrations... think of all your muscles clenching at the same time, only very hard. You spasm so hard you break your bones and rupture your guts. Then you start puking them up. The gas also has a corrosive component designed to eat through traditional protective gear. That'll cause your skin to melt off. It's a very agonizing fifteen seconds before you die."
There was silence. No one spoke for several seconds as the two finished loading up the last of the mortars.
"Tyr's Lost Hand," Dove whispered softly.
"My thoughts precisely. This is some of the nastiest stuff Humanity has ever invented. We used it to save ourselves from the Covenant, but it is not a good a way to die." Johnson said. "Your only consolation is that from the time you come into contact from the gas, either by inhaling it or by absorbing it through the skin, is that you're going to die very fast."
"And the other devices?" Wulfgar asked.
"Havok class thirty megaton tactical fusion bomb." Cortana spoke up. "TH-138 is good, but in the war with the Covenant, it wouldn't stop Hunters, combat shielded Elites, vehicles or aircraft. Likewise here, we don't know if Demons will be affected by it. Certain other creatures that we may run into, like the Illithids or Dragons, may be immune to this stuff, either by having radically different physiology, or simply being too large for the agents to effectively cripple them. That's where these come in."
"We're bringing multiple bombs so in case one or two of them get knocked out, it isn't game over. Either we leave them behind when we withdraw, or we set them off as we all die," Johnson said. "Either way, Menzoberranzan gets a nice little dosage of instant sunshine." The natives looked at him in confusion, and he realized they probably didn't get the concept of fusion. He frowned for a moment, trying to think of how to best explain it. "Look, long story short, when we detonate these things, for a very brief moment, the Drow are going to have a sun form in their city. You guys know what a ton is, right?" They nodded. "You know what a blast globe is?" Another set of nods. "Okay, well this is going to be like setting off ninety million tonsworth of blast globes down there." he pointed to the ground. "Just like the mortar rounds, they're harmless right now, and you could do everything up to an including running them over with a tank without hurting them. Nonetheless, you treat this thing as if it were active and ready to blow. Am I understood?"
A series of nods and quiet affirmatives met his inquiry as he and Commander Keyes loaded up the last of the devices. "Good. We just need to get some antidotes for our strike force, and then we're moving out of here."
"Gods have mercy on us all," Dove whispered quietly. She found herself wondering what Drizzt would think of this device. He had been uncomfortable enough with the UNSC's and Neo-Covenant's 'small arms.' And now to discover that their allies had weapons that could scour entire cities from the very face of Torril.
She looked around to the face's of her fellows as they carefully picked up the cases, now that they had been loaded up with the weapons. Everyone's visage was ashen, or pale beneath their tanned skins. What made it all the more unnerving for the young woman was that Sergeant Johnson and Commander Keyes were treating this like it was routine, as if they had often employed such weapons.
She had seen how the UNSC and the Covenant had battled in their recordings, but this… this was still so strange. The idea that such a small device could have so much destructive power. Not even Elminister, or her sister, or any wizard that she knew of could boast of such power. It was as if they held the very power of the Gods in their hands, the ability to 'smite' a foe at will, and destroy them utterly.
No one spoke on the way back to the Pelican, but everyone was thinking, and wondering just what they were about to unleash.
The ceaseless sound of dripping water filled the cavern, grating on the Mercenary Captain's nerves. Jarlaxle growled softly as he looked around the area. Barely half of Bregan De'arth had escaped the battle for Mithril Hall alive, and more than three quarters of its spell casters were dead. The mighty mercenary company, which once had the power of some of the strongest houses in Menzoberranzan, was now a shadow of its former self. In this time, they looked to their leader and commander, but Jarlaxle was not certain what he could do.
Returning to Menzoberranzan was out of the question. Word had reached him of his Mo-of Matron Baenre's death, of Triel's ascension to power. Triel would likely be able to deduce, with Lolth's help if necessary, that he and his troops had fled the battle before the retreat was sounded. He could imagine what horrors the new matron would unleash upon the men and women under his command, trying to show that she was 'strong' and that such weaknesses would not be tolerated. No, he would never subject his followers to that kind of end. But he needed to do something to raise morale, and it needed to be done fast.
Food and water may not have been an issue, thanks to the magi that hadmanaged to avoid getting blown to pieces by that armored giant, but an army could only mull on defeat so long before it began to affect their performance. He needed a miracle.
At that thought, he frowned, and his one visible eye almost began to glow with malevolence. How could they have been forsaken like this? Where were the warnings from Lolth? Where were the alerts from the Matrons? They had walked blindly into a trap the likes of which he would have never before thought possible, and their entire civilization had paid the price. He knew that tens of thousands of his people were dead, and so many slaves that Menzoberranzan and the surrounding cities would likely have revolts on their hands and a severe likelihood of the power base simply collapsing without anything to support it.
Why? The question continued to echo in his mind, and he felt it fester in his soul. He was angry, his hands trembled in rage as he sought to think of something to do, so he didn't feel so powerless.
"The answer to your question is one that is simpler than you know." He heard a voice speak.
He knew it was not one of his soldiers, and in the blink of an eye, Jarlaxle had exploded into action, leaping up off of his feet and drawing his blades. The action was mirrored by every single one of his troops as they swarmed to protect their leader from this intruder.
It was a Dark Elf, a female, clad in a silver robe with a blade belted on at her side. Jarlaxle frowned, knowing that he had seen this woman somewhere. Then the unearthly beauty of her struck him. He was reminded of Lolth, but this was not her. It was Eilistraee, forsaken daughter of the Spider Queen, Matron of the 'goodly' Drow. He had been raised from birth to hate her and everything she stood for, and were he any other Drow, were his soldiers anything other than what they were, they'd have launched themselves at the Avatar seeking only its destruction in Lolth's name.
Centuries of skulking about in the shadows, however, had made Jarlaxle nothing if not pragmatic, though he was still suspicious. The Goddess would not have come to him if she didn't want something. At any rate, charging headlong at her would likely just result in an unacceptable level of casualties. He had lost too many of the loyal men and women under his command as it was, and he was not about to send more of them to their deaths if he could possibly help it, especially over such a fruitless goal.
"What do you want?" he asked, narrowing his exposed eye.
"As you suspected, to ask something of you," she said, and Jarlaxle immediately clamped down on his thoughts, raising mental walls and slamming the doors to his mind close. She smiled as he did so, and the Dark Elf felt a pulse rage fly through him. The Goddess was mocking him! "My sincerest apologies," she said with a bow, something that surprised the mercenary captain. "It was not my intentions to offend the great Jarlaxle. I came to offer you a chance to pick yourself back up, to join the winning side, avenge your fallen brethren, restore your pride, and make a tidy fortune in the process."
Inwardly, the Goddess of the goodly Drow hoped that Helm knew what he was doing. She did not fully trust these renegades. But, she had to admit, there was something to be admired about how they remained loyal to one another when their entire society was built around back biting and betrayal. She was trying to appeal to all the things that she could think of right now, the things that she knew would spark within Jarlaxle's heart. A chance to restore the pride of an outcast who had once rivaled all but the greatest of Houses, to avenge the men and women so loyal to him, and, of course, fatten the wallet of his organization.
"Presuming that I am interested in whatever lackey like task you would have us perform. What would you have us do?" He lowered his blades, but kept them drawn.
"I would have you join the winning side of this battle," Eilistraee spoke softly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I know the thoughts that have gone through your mind, Jarlaxle Baenre," the gaze of several of his followers snapped to him in that moment. "I know how your own mother disowned you and reduced you to nothing but a houseless rogue, doomed to skitter about in the darkness to avoid being slain. I know how that has festered in your heart and never left you." She took a step forward, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I saw the Battle of Mithril Hall unfold from on high. I saw how your men and you were led blindly into a trap. The scores that died trying to carry out your orders."
"The fault was not mine," he hissed. Without thinking he raised his arming sword up to the Avatar's throat. Only later did he realize how badly things might have ended in that moment. But rage demanded that he respond. The blood that had been shed was on the Matrons hands, on Lolth's, not his own!
"No, no it was not," Eilistraee whispered softly. If the blade at her throat bothered at all, she did let it show. Inwardly, she knew she was making progress. When it came to his men, Jarlaxle had a righteous fury that was so rare in his people. To die in battle was expected, but to but slaughtered without the slightest bit of forewarning or aid after it happened? That was something else. He felt betrayed once again. Betrayed, without cause or reason. Betrayed for the sake of betrayal.
"The fault lies with the darkness your people serve. Why do you think Lolth did not come to your aid?" She started to walk around, looking to the others, seeing that she had gotten their attention as well. She had them interested in the lure, now it was time to hook them. "You were not worthy of survival, in her eyes. The same way you were not worthy in the eyes of your mother. You and all your troops were nothing more than fodder in her mad bid for power over the other gods. I am truly surprised that more of your people have not figured it out. You have been given a deck rigged against you, and you wonder why you cannot win." The Goddess looked straight into the eyes of Jarlaxle. "For you it was even worse: you were a threat to her. You may not realize this, Jarlaxle, but in your heart, you have always been flippant about Lolth, and have all but forsaken her cause. You and your fellows made your own paths. You refused to play Lolth's game. She could not control you, and so, as ever, she sought to destroy that which she could not control."
"As for the whole of the forces Lolth send out and lost, why did they lose? You cannot look objectively at the society in which you have grown up yourself, nor can you see the machinations of Gods. But did it ever occur to you that perhaps she is notas powerful as she says? Had the invasion of the upper world succeeded, ah, well…? But that's an opportunity she lost."
Eilistraee could see it in their eyes. They were listening to her. All of them were outcasts who had barely managed to survive in their early days on the streets. Jarlaxle had taken them in. Given them shelter, a 'family' of sorts, camaraderie, and something that was missing from the Dark Elven society as a whole: allegiance to a higher cause. While such unity made them better fighters, as they could trust who would have their back in a scrap, and not have to worry about friend becoming foe the moment it became convenient to do so, it jeopardized Lolth's agenda.
Eilistraee could see the gears working behind their eyes, and moments later, almost to a one, they realized the further awful truth of what that meant. Their fallen comrades could be viewed as traitors in Lolth's eyes, and if the Spider Goddess still held anything resembling power over their souls, it meant that they were now suffering unspeakable tortures at her hands. More so, it meant that that might also be their fate, if things did not change. Was that it, then? Was this some trick sent by Lolth, one final act to see if she could forever sink her fangs into him and his followers?
"So you would offer us salvation, then?" Jarlaxle sounded indignant and disbelieving. "Save us from the toxic pits, eh?"
"I have always tried to be your salvation, Jarlaxle…" For a moment, there was something immensely sad within the eyes of the Goddess, an agony that Jarlaxle couldn't quite place. "For you, for your comrades, for all your people…but you have never asked for my aid." She shook her head. The seeds had been planted, though. The rest would be up to them. Time to get down to the rest of the business at hand. "I am here to offer you a job. The enemies of Lolth will strike once more, at the very heart of her cancer. They will require reliable transport into the city, though. And none know the city better than your mages."
Jarlaxle cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. Had the Avatar seriously just asked them to help mount an assault on Menzoberranzan? At the same time, he could not deny that the idea was a pleasing one. Vengeance was ever present in the Drow, and part of Jarlaxle's being demanded that he try and get revenge on the ones who betrayed him so.
"Go on…" he said quietly.
Matron Mother Triel paced back and forth within the great hall of House Baenre, her hands clasped behind her back and her brow furrowed. Every now and then, her eyes would drift over towards the throne in the center of the room. She had always known that the day would come when she would ascend to her mother's place, but she had hoped that it wouldn't be for some centuries hence. At this time of crisis, with her entire civilization vulnerable, and everything depending upon this ritual to free Demogorgon, a ritual that she suspected her foes knew of.
There was an attack coming. She knew this much. Scouting reports indicated that the Deep Gnomes were abandoning their cities all over the Underdark, their people evacuating and heading for the surface at all possible speed. Even primitive 'creatures' like the Myconids were leaving. It would simply be a matter of time before a massive surface army marched down those tunnels and came on the offensive.
She was determined to be ready for them, and had prepared her defenses, concentrating them in rings throughout the city, under orders to fight a slow retreat and lure the surfacers in when they showed up. But until she had the Demons behind her in full force, there was so much that could go wrong. They were far too vulnerable for her liking. Not helping things was Jarlaxle's absence. While the outcast had always been a rogue to them, and had never been welcomed back into the House unless their mother had needed some dirty work done that could not be traced back to House Baenre, she had expected to be able to call upon his four hundred crack troops and magi during this time period.
But there had been no word of him or any of his followers after the battle, leaving Triel to conclude that either they were wiped out to a man, or that her brother had shown his true, cowardly nature and fled from the field, too ashamed to return. She glared at the thought, and honestly wished she could see him at this moment, so she could tear into his mysterious head and find out exactly what was going on in there all the time. She also couldn't help but remember all the slights that her brother had done to her since he had been thrown out. From petty insults to his flippant lack of respect for her since she was naught but a 'mere' High Priestess of Lolth.
So many times she had wanted to punish him for his arrogance and his impudence, but something had held her back. Fear, she supposed, fear of what his strangely loyal followers might do to her if she were to try anything. She had been powerful then, but not powerful enough to withstand the full might of Bregan De'arth. That, and her mother would likely not be pleased at the slaying of a potent 'ally' that she could rely on.
Shaking herself out of fantasies about revenge on her brother, Triel looked back toward the throne, examining the workmanship from afar, and the new addition she had had installed just yesterday. Triel had always been a little challenged in the height department, even among Drow Females. She was barely four feet tall, a half foot shorter than her mother had been-another thing that Jarlaxle had always mocked her about. There was now an extra step on the throne, along with a slight increase in the size of the armrests and the seat, in order to make her appear to be taller than she really was.
She tossed her insecurities aside as the door to the throne room opened. Her guards said nothing, but merely bowed and retreated back outside, leaving her and the new arrival alone. Triel let a vindictive smile come to her face as she stared at the other woman. She had been looking forward to this meeting for some time.
"Step forward, Captain Talra," she extended her hand.
The other woman did so, but remained silent. Matron Triel could see the gleaming, adamantine fist of the Captain's newly crafted arm, and knew that one of her legs was now similarly constructed.
"You sent for me, Matron Mother?" Talra asked, bowing her head low in respect.
"Indeed I did," Triel said. "I understand that you fought alongside Matron Hesken during the battle, and managed to survive the strange demon that Bruenor has managed to enscroll at his side." The Captain nodded her head, and Triel smiled again. "Tell me what you know of the creature. I have read reports and a few papers, but," she let her smile widen, "I am someone who prefers firsthand knowledge."
The room was empty and cavernous, devoid of both Dwarven troops, and the confounded 'technology' of Helm's personal shock troops. Just the way he wanted it now. Mephasm sighed as he leaned back against the wall, the cool rock doing little to offset the burning rage within the Pit Fiend's heart, or the fiery temperature of his body. He hadn't bothered with his disguise, and stood exposed to all who would happen upon him. He was one of the personal servants of Asmodeous, among his kind he had virtually no equals, and throughout his millennia long existence, he had done much to advance the cause of his master. It had paid off, and there was a reason that few had ever plotted to supplant his power and position.
He had often thought about trying to vie for a higher place within the ranks of Hell, but he had just as often discounted it. The great Pit Fiend had reached a place within the ranks that he was happy with. He had power that nearly rivaled an Arch-Duke of Hell, but not nearly so many responsibilities or as many people trying to plot his fall down a social ladder where the higher one went, the longer (and more deadly) the plunge became.
But then, nearly forty five years ago, something had changed. He had been summoned into the world by a sorceress who knew his true name. Such things were bound to happen every few hundred years, and unlike some of his kin, Mephasm had come to accept such inevitabilities. Where his kin would be more apt to try and search for a way to tear free of the summoning circle and paint the room with the blood and innards of the one who had dared to rip them from their home, the great Devil instead sat back and listened to what it was that the mortal wanted of him. Their souls would find their way to his domain quickly enough, and they might even be turned to allies as well.
This woman, though, had wanted something else. Oh, true enough she had wanted power, but she had also wanted a child. For what purpose, the great Pit Fiend could not possibly imagine. Half breeds were not unheard of, but he was unfamiliar of any woman actually asking for one. He had obliged, and then forgotten all about the event, some decades later. He had been looking over reports for another great victory his troops had won in the Blood War, when he had felt something in his blood tingling. Something tugging at his infernal heart. He recognized the call's location, and had half a mind to ignore it. The call was weak, puny, not worthy of his time.
But it had kept up, and felt different from a magi's summonings. Curious, he had put the report aside, and appeared upon the Prime. What he found shocked him to the core. The snows of winter were deep, and steam hissed almost immediately as it began to evaporate around him. But that was not what held his attention, nor was he bothered by the otherwise numbing cold.
It was what was twenty paces in front of him. Huddled under a tree, clad in the robes of a Helmite, was what appeared to be a young girl, no more than ten if he were to hazard a guess. Curious as to how such a small thing could have possibly called to him, he drew close. Then he saw the horns and the tail, and upon the child's shivering forehead, a series of dark, mottled markings.
She was of his blood. His eyes had widened as he remembered the summoning those years back. This girl, though, was no half-breed. She was a Tiefling, probably a descendent of the original child. Something of the sorceress' plan had obviously gone awry, especially if this girl was clad in the robes of one of Helm's priests. He saw her lying there, and he could see her freezing to death in the snow. That was what the call had been. An instinctive cry for help.
Most of his kin, their curiosity satisfied, would have returned to the warmth of the Hells. Something compelled him to stay. He walked towards the small Tiefling, and she glanced up at him, as if she was finally becoming aware that she was not alone. She scrambled away from him, the robe falling open as she dug for a small dagger, holding it in front of herself. Her eyes gleamed a fierce crimson, another sign of her infernal heritage, and he could see sharpened fangs in place of her canine teeth.
There might not have been the power of a true Cambrion in her, but this child had inherited much of his blood, Mephasm had realized. He also saw the very full coin bag belted onto her clothes, and the fearlessness on her face and in those crimson orbs. She obviously knew what he was, if not quite who, and still was not afraid of him. Something had awoken in the Pit Fiend then. Mephasm recognized pride, and something else, something he didn't fully understand at the time. His blood ran strong indeed in the veins of this girl.
With a gesture, he cast a spell, and she struggled for a minute, before falling asleep. He shifted his form, appearing to be a normal human with dark hair and sharp features. Scooping the girl up in his arms, he teleported himself and her to a small town just south of Neverwinter. Emerging from an alleyway, he walked into a tavern, and paid for a room for the evening. A simple spell, and no one thought anything about the presence of this strange human holding a Tiefling girl in his arms.
He had watched her throughout the night, having no need for sleep. Her condition had steadily improved without the need for any of his magic. Again, he was impressed, again, pride and something else filled him. The child was strong. He had stayed with her until she had awoken. Then, he knew he could put off his duties no longer, and he had to return. He had stayed just long enough to find out her name: Neeshka.
Normally, that would have been the end of it. But something kept calling him to her. From time to time, he would scry the young Tiefling, find out what she was up to. He watched as she learned the art of thieving, lock breaking, trap disarmament, pocket picking. He watched as she learned the way of the sword and the bow, of striking from the shadows. And always, there was that unquenchable strength she had. She strove to be the best at everything she did, and she never settled for anything less. No matter how hard things got. At the same time, life was hard for her, as it always was for a thief, a Tiefling one especially.
Her infernal blood made her the object of prejudice and distrust. Many Tieflings never managed to master their devilish or demonic urges, and were hunted like animals. He supposed that was one reason why she'd always distrusted him, or outright stated her hate.
How many times could he have been there for her, Mephasm wondered to himself. How many scars did she carry that she might not otherwise if he had been there? How much more could he have done to help her learn to control her powers, and the power that he suspected was still locked away in her? Then there was that whole matter with Black Garius and the King of Shadows.
The transformed mage had used her own blood against her, trying to turn her against her companions, torturing her when he was unable to do so. By the time he had felt her pain and acted upon it, it had been too late. Were it not for her own inner strength, the binding would have succeeded, and her companions likely would have been forced to kill her.
He had failed her as a grandfather, as any kind of blood relative. His only consolation was that while he had not been in time to help his granddaughter, he had arrived just in time to see Black Garius' soul come crashing into the Hells. A slight smirk teased at the edge of the Pit Fiend's mouth as he remembered standing over the pathetic shell of a man, now utterly powerless, and all the tortures that he had put him through.
Technically, there were other Devils that should have gotten his soul, others whose claim to him were better. None sought to dispute Mephasm's 'right' to break the man upon his personal fires and tortures. Garius' screams had been quite delightful to his ears, and he still had not tired of putting the man through a very literal hell.
As his thoughts drifted to Neeshka, and what the Drow might be doing to her now, or after they freed Demogorgon, his hands clenched into fists. He vowed that he would make the tortures that he had put Garius through, the tortures that Lolth put her damned through, seem a tender mercy compared to what he would do to House Baenre's "interrogators." They would learn true knowledge of that art. First hand.
As he thought of the myriad of ways he would extract vengeance, Mepahasm was suddenly aware that he was not alone. Surprised, he turned and looked over to the other end of the room. There was a Dwarf sitting there, still partially covered in bandages and staring at him intently. Even without looking at the Dwarf's robes or the symbol of Tyr that was around his neck, Mephasm knew who it was. Khelgar Iron-Fist. The Dwarf had spent many months traveling with his granddaughter, and had been one of her closest allies. They'd even met in person a few times.
The Pit Fiend nodded slightly to acknowledge the presence of the Dwarf, and then went back to his brooding. To his surprise, though, Khelgar didn't seem content to leave it at that.
"Lass fought well, she did. Must've taken nearly two score Drow to the pits of the Abyss before they got her," he said, looking up at the Devil. Mephasm remained silent, but cocked his head at the Dwarf. "That's the good thing about Neeshka. You can always depend on her to watch your back in a fight. Didn't use to think that way, but after Garius' little bit of witchcraft, well, she showed us just how strong she was. She was the one who killed him, you know. After Ammon Jerro read out his True Name. Smashed that flaming skull of his into a thousand pieces."
"Are you going somewhere with this?" Mephasm growled. "I know she's strong. I may not have been present in her life when she needed me, but I watched her often enough to know that she's hardy in both body and spirit."
Khelgar groaned and sighed. "My point to you, Fiend, is to have some faith in your own granddaughter. I know things are bad. I knowwhat those damned Dark Elves are capable of doing to someone when they feel like having a little bit of fun. But your granddaughter took the worst that the King of Shadows and his vile slaves could throw at her, and she came up swinging. If they couldn't break her, even binding her with a geaes like they did, what hope to the Dark Elves have of breaking her?"
Mephasm opened his mouth, but no words left it. There was truth to the Dwarf's words. His encounters with Khelgar Iron-Fist had been brief, but the Dwarf was much like his kin, short, to the point, and brutally honest. Finally, he sighed, and his wings slumped slightly.
"It is that I fear her breaking under theirways, Dwarf," he spoke, looking up at the ceiling. "I fear what the Drow may do to her, yes. But I also fear that if Demogorgon is loosed, what their allies may do." He looked at the Dwarf, and narrowed his eyes. "You know of the Balor, Errtu?"
"Heard the name, know he's a nasty sort, even among his own kind." Khelgar nodded his head as he spoke.
"Errtu and I have waged war against each other for eons. Sometimes he manages to outmaneuver me, but most of the time I prove myself the better. The last time we engaged in combat, I destroyed most of his army and forced him from the fields of Hades, utterly humiliated. Combined with his banishment at the hands of Drizzt, a 'mere' mortal, and I worry that he will look for anything to soothe his bruised pride with."
"I think I can see where this is headed…" Khelgar muttered, frowning and stroking at his beard.
"The worst part is that Lolth may actually give Neeshka to him when she no longer has a use for her. He could drag her into his layer of the Abyss, and," the Pit Fiend paused and let out a roar of fury, the flames around his body flicking up to their full fury, causing the stone around him to start to glow. He slammed his fist into the wall, causing the stone to crack, before lowering his head. "And right now, there is nothingI can do to stop them. I am not…. not strong enough to challenge the Drow, even in their weakened state. I could kill many of them, hundreds perhaps, but they would wear me down and destroy my body before I could even reach her. Even if I took my troops with me, it would end in failure. I've failed her again!"
Khelgar's eyes widened as he looked at the mighty devil in front of him. Mephasm, one of the most powerful creature's to ever walk the realm of Torril. A Pit Fiend of nearly unrivaled power, seemingly trapped and berating himself for his own weakness. His own inability to protect something precious to him. The irony here was thick indeed. He honestly wasn't certain what to say that might comfort the large creature. Then he contemplated the further irony of him actually wanting to 'comfort' a Devil, and a Pit Fiend no less. He was a Monk sworn to serve Tyr as well as the Dwarven Gods, who were all the very polar opposites of the Devil that was standing not thirty feet away from him.
How very strange, these times were. How very strange indeed. Khelgar rubbed a hand along his bald head, and then looked up again.
"Suppose he does drag her off. What do you do then?" He asked.
Mephasm stared at him for a few moments, and then blinked. "I… I'm not sure."
"What do your instincts tell you that you should do? What does your mind, your heart, say that you should do?" He pressed.
The great Devil growled softly, and the flames around his body crackled and popped. "They tell me that I should gather my forces, storm his slimy home, take her back, and rip his black heart from his body before shoving it down his throat."
"That's the instinct of a parent in you, right there. You may not have always been there for Neeshka when she needed you, but you did give it a damn sight better try than most of your kin." He looked into the glowing, golden eyes of the Pit Fiend, forgetting for a moment that they were supposed to be enemies, forgetting for a moment that this was a creature born of the Hells, and everything else he knew about Mephasm. "You cannot change what you did in the past. You can change what you're going to do in the future." He rose up from his seat, and started back out of the room. "Think on that, why don't you. Look back, see what mistakes you've made, and don't do them again. Believe me, I know that better than anyone." He looked up at the Devil one last time. "I also know that it's never too late to fix things."
With that, the Dwarf left the Pit Fiend alone to his brooding. Over and over again, the mighty Mephasm contemplated the words of the Dwarven Monk. He knew some of the Dwarf's history from when he had scryed Neeshka during her travels with him, and knew what he spoke of. He had been exiled by his clan, and while it had certainly not been an easy thing, he had eventually reconciled with them, and he was once again accepted within their halls.
There was wisdom in the advice that he had given, the Devil realized. He also realized that his little rant had drawn something else as well. Peeking around the edge of the door were a few faces, half covered in otherworldly equipment. Mephasm recognized several of the smaller 'aliens' that had come to this world recently. They probably wondered what was making all the racket, and to his surprise, they entered, chatting amongst themselves in a short, gibbering language of barks and yips. They all wore different color armor, but two of them seemed to look to the one clad in white, who was larger than both of them, and seemed to give off an aura of confidence and command.
The apparent leader crossed his arms over his chest, as if he were sizing the Pit Fiend up. Mephasm said nothing, wondering if they would leave him alone if he didn't speak. It was unnerving being under their gaze. He felt like one of those captive animals on display in mortal 'zoos.' Of course, he knew better than to chalk that curiosity up to child-like ignorance or lack of knowledge as to what he was. From what information he had been able to gather regarding these things, he knew that they were dangerous, especially if they were on the warpath and operating in their typical 'pack' arrangements.
"Hard to believe what they're saying," the white one said in Faerunian Common, crossing its arms over its chest, and taking a deep, gurgling breath. Mephasm wondered what it was breathing through that thing. Whatever it was, his heat vision told him that it was quite cold. "You don't look much like her."
So the thing was curious as to how he was in fact Neeshka's Grandsire. What did it matter to this offworlder?
"What does it matter?" He put his thoughts into voice. "Whether you see a family resemblance or not is irrelevant. The fact is that I am her grandfather. Why are you so infatuated about the subject?"
"My apologies, I meant no disrespect," the thing shook its head. It was hard to tell, with the way its voice was, and the thick accent on the language, but Mephasm believed it was a male. "You should be proud of her, you know. She fights well, and learns quickly. She'd be a great soldier, even in our wars."
Something about the tone in its voice made Mephasm frown. "May I assume that last statement was meant to be a compliment?"
"Yes," the thing nodded. "She showed great potential as both a soldier and as a commander. She sought to understand everything she could. Even the soldiers involved," the thing stood a little straighter, and Mephasm found himself trying to remember the creature's name. He could swear that this white one had been at the meeting with Helm's Avatar. Something about its tone though, confused him slightly.
"What do you mean, understanding the soldiers?" the Pit Fiend cocked his head to one side.
"What I mean is that in the wars fought where my kin and I come from, we are viewed as cannon fodder and little else. Our equipment is not the best, and our casualties are always high. We die while our commanders take the credit for the work. We shed our blood, and they get all the glory. Neeshka sought to understand why, and to understand what motivated us to fight as we did in our wars." the thing paused, and blinked a few times. "She was the first to ever ask, to ever care. For what it is worth, mighty one, know that we care about our own, and we will be at your side when the time comes."
With that it adopted a stance that Mephasm believed to be a salute of some kind, and withdrew from the room. The great Devil found himself further confused. For the moment, he ignored the military implications of what the creature had said, and instead focused on the elements dealing with his daughter. Once more, pride, and the emotion he had come to understand was love filled his heart. His eyes narrowed, and began to glow dangerously.
Silently, he vowed that this would be a new beginning. He would not fail Neeshka again.
That's it for now, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you again for taking the time to read this story, and as always, take care and be safe. May the holidays treat you well, and your time spent with friends and loved ones create memories that will last a lifetime.