Chapter Six
Eventually the grueling pace that Aglarel had set for himself began to take its toll, and though he knew his business was of the utmost importance he made himself pause to rest when he felt his reflexes at last begin to slow. He tracked down an ideal defensible location after a mere half hour's search, a narrow opening in the rough stone that was easy to overlook at first glance; it was small enough that even he had difficulty wedging himself in at first, and he would be able to rest easier knowing that any larger predators would be unable to pursue him while he was so vulnerable. The alcove within was more spacious than he'd guessed, large enough for his weapons and traveling effects to be cast off and even accommodating of his six and a half foot frame; he tended to his gear with his customary diligence, dipped into his travel rations, and with his pack serving as a pillow he settled in for his first real rest in…
The days blurred together in his mind – time had no meaning down here, where the movements of the sun and moon and stars could not be used to mark the passing of hours. Too exhausted to be overly troubled by this, Aglarel closed his eyes at long last.
When he awoke some time later, he sensed he was no longer alone before he even opened his eyes.
Keeping his breathing pattern and facial expression as relaxed as he could manage, Aglarel allowed his keen senses to further take stock of his predicament. He could hear the faint thud of his quarry's heartbeat, a little quicker than his own, indicating that his unknown visitor had either just arrived or was mildly agitated. There was a soft tapping upon the floor of the alcove, rhythmic and repetitive – the tapping of a toe? – that suggested the other party was growing impatient. And lastly, so quiet that he almost did not hear, Aglarel perceived the sound of a somewhat bored sigh; he guessed based on the timbre that the intruder was female, but that fact mattered little to him. A threat was a threat.
Considering all the knowledge he had surmised, Aglarel arrived at one conclusion with relative confidence – this unknown party had been pursuing him, but had no intention of attempting to harm him. It they'd wanted him dead he'd have been killed in his sleep, for in the Underdark not a single advantage was ever left unexploited.
Briefly he deliberated whether he should draw a weapon and attack while the intruder assumed he was still sleeping – he'd stacked most of his weapons against the wall before nodding off but he kept a dagger concealed at the small of his back at all times – but dismissed the idea almost at once. If the unknown party had sought him out seeking a nonviolent confrontation and nothing else, he supposed he could grant them a few minutes of his time. After all, it wasn't every day he was caught at unawares.
Aglarel opened his eyes and sat up, immediately putting a wall at his back as he locked eyes with the intruder.
He wasn't certain what he'd been expecting, but he found himself to be quite taken aback by the creature facing him. She was petite and somehow childlike with an untamed mop of fiery red hair and poorly applied lipstick to match; her simple white gown and ballerina slippers nearly matched the pale shade of her skin, which was faintly luminous and made her appear almost ethereal. Despite her unkempt appearance and the pout twisting the corners of her lips perpetually downward she watched him warily with wild, deep blue eyes, and immediately Aglarel came to understand that her girlish appearance was a carefully maintained façade likely used to lull others into a false sense of security. She then opened her mouth wide in a theatrically long yawn, and the heavy black wings affixed to her back brushed the sides of the close cavern as she stretched.
"Now you," the little gloaming girl began in a lilting, simpering voice, "are a tough man to find."
Aglarel blinked, rather taken aback by this reception. He had never met a gloaming face to face, for they were Underdark dwellers who almost never ventured to the Surface World, but he knew enough of their kind to understand that he was undoubtedly speaking to one. It was incredibly odd, he thought, that this one had sought him out, for one of the reasons sightings of their species was so rare was due to their secretive, almost reclusive nature. He couldn't imagine why she had come looking for him, for he had no dealings with the gloaming race and couldn't recall any of his brothers encountering them in the past.
"I go about my business quietly," Aglarel offered at last by way of explanation, "and rarely alert those around me to my passing."
"You traveled for a long time before stopping to sleep," she pointed out, her sapphire eyes widening with awe. "I followed you for days and days."
"My business is urgent," the Fourth Prince insisted, "and affords me no time to delay. If you have something to discuss, you should have made your presence known."
The little gloaming scoffed and even rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Like you would have just dropped everything to talk to me. You don't even know who I am."
Aglarel laughed softly and darkly, a little amused when the gloaming's ears perked up interestedly, for he had meant the sound to be intimidating. Just what manner of creature was he dealing with? "I likely would have killed you if you had approached me," he admitted, further stymied when the girl showed not a hint of fear at these words. "Of late I do not find myself in much of a conversational mood."
She nodded sagely in agreement, saying, "Yeah, you've killed an awful lot of monsters since you came down here."
"That number may presently increase by one," Aglarel pointed out idly, in a mild tone that somehow managed to seem more menacing than his earlier threats, and the little girl uttered an annoyed huff and sat up straighter.
"Fine. Hells." She glared at him pointedly as she finished, "You know, you're a lot less fun than your brother."
Aglarel was an astute man, and that seemingly offhanded remark gave him an idea as to the identity of the creature sitting before him. "Dethud's mysterious informer," he guessed with some confidence. "Of course."
For a moment her face froze in an expression of complete bewilderment – clearly she hadn't anticipated she might be identified so soon – but she recovered herself quickly with a girlish giggle. "Call me Illyria," she said by way of introduction, though she did not offer a hand to shake – which was just as well, for Aglarel would simply have ignored it.
"Illyria," Aglarel repeated blandly. "And I presume, since you've been following me for Shar knows how long, that you know who I am?"
She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged her skinny legs with her arms, balancing her chin upon one knee as she observed him; her posture made her appear even more childlike, but Aglarel doubted she was anywhere near as young as she attempted to seem. Her answer was blunt and it sent a spasm of shock through the always-stoic Fourth Prince. "You're Telamont's favorite – the devil-prince."
"Lord Shadow," Aglarel snapped automatically, more to cover up his surprise than to reprimand her informality, and Illyria scoffed but did not argue. "How do you know what I am? Dethud couldn't have told you – none of my brothers know the truth of my heritage."
"I know things," Illyria confided, her voice pitched conspiratorially low. "I see things."
Aglarel laughed again, hardly concerned when Illyria fumed at the sound. He had never been the sort of man to blindly or fanatically accept superstition or religion, and had been deeply skeptical of Phendrana's prophetic visions even after the first one came to pass. Fortune telling and divination, as far as he was concerned, were phony arts used to prey upon the innermost fears of the impressionable and weak-willed, and Aglarel considered himself neither of these things. He wasn't about to take Illyria at her word without substantial proof.
"Very well, little psychic," he chided darkly, still chuckling at her audacity. "Tell me something you shouldn't know, something you would have no other logical reason to know."
At first, Illyria protested. "How else would I know what you are?"
The Fourth Prince thought first of his mother, the erinye Ocamel whom he had killed two years prior, then of Aveil Arthien, who had guessed the truth after numerous lapses in his self-control, and said simply, "There are ways."
A steely glint appeared in Illyria's eyes then, and for a brief moment she abandoned her childish façade; Aglarel felt certain he was suddenly glimpsing her true character, the person she really was when she wasn't attempting to manipulate those around her. Raising her hands she began ticking off examples on her fingers in a neutral, inflectionless voice, and with every word Aglarel grew more and more mystified by her for they were things she couldn't possibly know.
"One – you killed your own mother. Two – you've got a little brother who's stuck in a book. Three – you've got another brother everybody thinks is dead but is actually still alive. Four – you're on a crazy suicide mission to rescue the only woman you've ever loved." She paused, crooking one crimson eyebrow. "Need me to keep going?"
Though the evidence to support her claim was overwhelming, Aglarel's pride and pragmatism demanded he continue to test her. "How did I kill my mother?"
"Dagger enchanted with holy magic," Illyria supplied with a yawn.
"How did Brennus become trapped within the book?"
"Lim Tal'eyve tricked him into reading it."
"How did my other brother survive?" Aglarel pressed on through gritted teeth, merciless.
Illyria's sloppily-painted lips parted in a malevolent smile and she propped her chin on one hand mockingly, saying, "Aww, are you hoping I'll give you all of the messy details? You're not fooling me – I know that you don't know what I'm talking about."
"Very well, you've convinced me," Aglarel conceded begrudgingly, for he could think of no explanation for how this curious little girl might have come by such sensitive information. "Now will you enlighten me?"
For a moment it appeared Illyria intended to withhold what she knew, but she yielded to his request in the end. "Your brother Lamorak was struck down in the skies above the Anauroch Desert – he only survived because of the book."
Aglarel exhaled with relief. "And where is he now?"
In response to this question Illyria ruffled her wings irritably and ran a hand through her unkempt hair, answering, "I don't know. I haven't Seen him since then. But I think that must be good – I'm sure I'd know if something bad happened to him."
More to move the discussion along than anything else the Fourth Prince stood up then and began gathering his gear; Illyria's eyes followed him around the cramped chamber, looking alarmed. When Aglarel had donned his pack and secured his weapons to his person he started for the crevice that led back to the tunnels, saying, "I won't pretend that I understand the game you are trying to play, and I commend your impressive soothsaying, but I really must be going. I have no further time to delay." He squeezed through the nook with a little difficulty, meaning to leave those as his parting words, but after a moment's struggle and a curse word or two for good measure Illyria clambered out after him.
"But don't you wanna know why I'm here?!" she whined, and Aglarel ground his teeth in frustration.
"Will it assist me in reaching my goal?" he fired back doubtfully.
Illyria growled, her patience obviously wearing thin. "Not in the short term, but – "
"Then no, I don't care why you are here," Aglarel overrode her coolly, but Illyria was desperate and proved not so easy to dissuade.
"She's all right – she's not in any immediate danger." At these words Aglarel actually turned back to face the insistent little gloaming, but his eyes upon hers were now gleaming an unsettling ruby hue and Illyria knew she was toeing a very dangerous line with her continually cryptic responses. She ran a hand through her hair again and blew an exasperated exhale, hurrying on. "Aveil, I mean. The Sceptrana. I'm not going to pretend she's the picture of health cuz that would be a lie, but they're keeping her alive. She's more use to them alive than dead."
"You're forgetting the fact that I don't know you," reminded the Fourth Prince coldly, "and thus have no desire to help you." And he put his back to her once more and pressed on with soft yet purposeful strides.
Illyria stamped one of her little feet in a sudden tantrum, shrieking, "But what about Xinlenal?! Don't you care about that?!"
She realized too late that her raised tone of voice would likely attract numerous Underdark predators to their precise location, and it was clear by Aglarel's reaction that he did not appreciate her carelessness; before Illyria had so much as opened her mouth to apologize he had darted back to where she stood frozen and seized her by the throat with one hand, and with the other hand he brought an elaborate dagger up to rest against her cheek in a wordless warning. By now his eyes blazed a livid crimson that pierced both through the perpetual gloom of the Underdark and Illyria's soul, and she couldn't recall a time she had ever felt so terrified of anyone.
"Xinlenal," the Fourth Prince growled in a soft black undertone, "is gone."
"For now," Illyria corrected, her voice quavering uncontrollably. "But I've Seen it." She pleaded with her eyes for him to believe her, and for a hideously long moment she was certain he would kill her anyway, but after an excruciating moment of deliberation he released her and even retreated a step.
"Impossible," Aglarel murmured at last. "Simply impossible."
"It's improbable, but it gets clearer all the time. That's how I know I'm on the right track." Illyria watched with quiet fascination as Aglarel visibly calmed, and when his body relaxed his eyes returned to their usual bright, polished silver. "It's up to me to keep things on their current course, and I get the feeling that if I do, Xinlenal will return."
"And that's why you're here," Aglarel surmised in a monotone. "You need something from me to stay the course." When Illyria nodded solemnly he added, "And what could a gloaming want to do with Xinlenal?"
Illyria dropped her gaze to her hands, which by now were twisting with turmoil. Aglarel almost didn't hear her when she replied, "When I See Xinlenal, I See Prince Dethud. I think… I think if Xinlenal returns, we can be together."
Aglarel scoffed down at her, his face devoid of empathy. "You're a fool."
The gloaming's gaze snapped back up to meet his defiantly, her eyes burning with cerulean fire, and she shot back, "Yeah, people do crazy things when they're in love, don't they?"
In response to this accusation Aglarel's eyes blazed again for an instant, but he reined his rage in quicker this time; Illyria wondered at his self-control, which seemed to have strengthened since his self-imposed exile to the Underdark. He growled at her like a feral animal, he snarled curses through gritted teeth, he clenched his hands into fists at his sides and trembled as though it took every ounce of discipline he had to keep himself from throttling her – and while he eventually succeeded in calming himself, he never did deny her claim.
Interesting.
"What do you want from me?" the Fourth Prince demanded at last in an exasperated tone, and Illyria visibly relaxed in the face of his resignation.
"It's not something I want – because honestly, I'm not too keen on the idea of hanging out with you, either – but it's something I need to do if I want things to play out this way." With a little flutter of her ebony wings Illyria drifted closer, those soulful blue eyes of hers pleading, and Aglarel scoffed as if in disgust. "I need to help you get to Menzoberranzan."
"I don't want your help," Aglarel snapped instantly, abhorred by the idea of sharing his road with this capricious creature.
"Yeah, you've made that inescapably clear," Illyria shot back sardonically, "and if you were listening I definitely mentioned that I don't want to help you - you're not exactly Mister Charming, you know. But if you want to get to Menzoberranzan alive, you're gonna need me around."
Aglarel read volumes into the words she didn't say and the way her teeth gnawed anxiously at her bottom lip. "You've had a vision of me dying."
Illyria didn't look at him, merely nodded minutely in response. She opened her mouth uncertainly, perhaps to describe what she'd Seen in greater detail, but closed it almost immediately and said no more on the subject. For the first time since the gloaming had made her presence known, Aglarel felt mildly uneasy. If his death was an event Illyria couldn't bring herself to speak of, surely it was gruesome indeed.
"You will agree to answer all of my questions, and you will follow my instructions to the letter," Aglarel instructed, his narrowed eyes leaving no room to debate whether or not these words were open for further discussion. "And if at any time I find reason to suspect that you are betraying my trust, I will kill you without question. If you prove yourself useful to me, you will live. Am I in any way unclear?"
"Yeah, I get it, you're very scary," Illyria answered mockingly, rolling her eyes to the black, cavernous ceiling. "I'll cooperate with you, so lead the way."
"Keep your voice down," the Fourth Prince ordered with a pained sigh, and with the gloaming close at his heels he dropped into his familiar predator's crouch and set off down the lightless tunnel ahead.
Though he had given the distinct impression that there was a lengthy interrogation forthcoming Aglarel actually didn't speak for quite some time; he led the way through the twisting Underdark corridors with a sense of absolute certainty, never so much as pausing to consider which direction he should take next. For her part, Illyria watched him warily from several steps behind and did not attempt to engage him in conversation. She had survived on her own in the bowels of the Underdark for years using little more than her intuition and her uncanny ability to glimpse how the future might play out, and at the moment her instincts were telling her that Fourth Prince Aglarel was a force to be reckoned with. She suspected he was not even a fraction as interested in her fatespinning techniques as Voltain Darkydle always had been and knew already that her odds of appealing to his carnal desires as she had always done with Seventh Prince Dethud were practically nonexistent – in short she had no real way to ensure her own safety in his company, and as someone who had always held the upper hand when dealing with men Illyria found this intensely unsettling. It made her wonder just why he'd felt compelled to abide her company in the first place, but she wasn't foolish enough to ask.
After a time it became obvious that the course Aglarel followed was leading them steadily downward, and at this realization Illyria became increasingly more agitated. The gloaming city of her birth, a settlement called Fluvenilstra, resided in the Lowerdark along with a host of vile, unspeakable aberrations that had hunted her kind for centuries – she had little desire to return to that unwelcoming place, much less wander so near to the upper layers of the Abyss. Though the city of Deep Imaskar also existed in the realm of the Lowerdark, Illyria had never felt in danger there – the descendants of the wizard-kings of High Imaskar had erected nigh-impenetrable magical barriers around their city that hadn't been breached since the city's founding.
Illyria didn't see the point in keeping her concerns to herself, and gathering up her courage she addressed Aglarel at last. "Where are we going, anyway?" she sighed in exasperation, doing her best to sound inconvenienced and not nervous.
"The outskirts of Reeshov," Aglarel hissed, "and Eryndlyn after that."
Behind him, Illyria grimaced at this response. She knew the Underdark far better than Aglarel – though of course she had no intention of pointing out as much to him – and had a feeling that he hadn't planned his route with ease of passage in mind. He seemed like the type of man who would plot a most straightforward course and stick to it, no matter the hardships that course might bring. "I wouldn't recommend that," she said at last, unable to keep a hint of loftiness out of her tone.
The Fourth Prince's shoulders visibly stiffened; Illyria allowed herself the hint of a smile, knowing that he couldn't see – it took practically no effort to get under his skin! Perhaps she would find some measure of amusement in this thankless journey after all.
"And why is that?" he growled, though with every word he aptly conveyed how little he cared for her answer.
"Well, for a lot of reasons." The tunnel narrowed, so much so that both of them were forced to turn sideways in order to continue along the path. Illyria quietly admired Aglarel's stoicism, for where most surface dwellers might have expressed discomfort at being in such confining quarters he spoke not a word of protest and hesitated not at all.
"All of which I'm sure you're about to share with me," Aglarel drawled.
"Yep," Illyria confirmed with saccharine sweetness, and she could practically hear the Fourth Prince's teeth grinding together in frustration. "For starters, Reeshov is a grimlock settlement. Now, I know what you're thinking – 'but those ugly brutes are just about the dumbest things ever!' – and you're right, but do you know what usually happens to mindless morons shuffling through the Underdark?" The gloaming was certain she heard Aglarel mutter something pithy beneath his breath, but the particulars escaped her so she continued on. "They become slaves to any number of the more intelligent races living down here. For example, I happen to know for a fact that the grimlocks of Reeshov are the unwitting servants of a small colony of mind flayers. If you fancy your odds against them, though, don't let me stop you."
Aglarel had a number of remarks with which to counter his unlikely companion's smug superiority, but he was an astute man; the Underdark was Illyria's domain, not his, and he'd never been one to refuse counsel when it was to his benefit, no matter the source. If she chose to divulge all that she knew at the cost of nothing to him, so much the better. "And Eryndlyn?" he prompted, swallowing his sarcasm in the name of patience.
Illyria smiled another of her simpering smiles, assuming she'd gained the upper hand. "Eryndlyn is home to the drow – not a city as grand or populous as Menzoberranzan, mind you, but formidable all the same." She flexed her wings and drew level with him, taking note of the stern set of his jaw and the steely quality of his eyes, before adding, "Honestly, what's your plan here? Are you just gonna waltz right into Menzoberranzan and take on the entire city single-handedly?"
Aglarel held his tongue under the pretense of picking his way carefully over several loose stones. In truth, his plan was far more decisive and decidedly more devastating than that. As satisfying as throttling every drow that crossed his path with his bare hands would undoubtedly be, he'd actually given far more consideration to his approach than that. He knew that his brothers in command of the Army of Shade – Escanor, Clariburnus, Yder and Rapha – were still haunting the caverns somewhere south of Menzoberranzan; further, he knew that the Army of Shade had not fully withdrawn from the area, camped out on the surface barely a day's march from the dark elf city they had besieged. House Baenre was negotiating terms of Thultanthar's absolute surrender using Soleil and Aveil as leverage, fully expecting the Princes of Shade to agree to every condition in order to secure the release of their hostages no matter how unreasonable. But the Fourth Prince of Shade had no intention of honoring any bargain his brothers had struck, and wholeheartedly intended to renege on any promises that had already been made; he meant to muster the Army of Shade and march back to Menzoberranzan in secret, then slip into the Baenre's dungeons and smuggle Aveil and Soleil out.
And the moment the princess and the Sceptrana's safety was no longer in question, he would order the Army of Shade to raze the entire city to the ground. In his mind – and he felt confident the Most High would agree – there was no punishment severe enough to pay the drow back in kind for their numerous transgressions… but the total annihilation of every dark elf dwelling in that damned city would do.
Not that Illyria needed to know any of that, of course.
"I haven't settled the particulars of my plan as of yet," he answered at last, pleased when the gloaming smirked smugly and rolled her eyes at his supposed lack of foresight.
"Well, it's lucky for you I'm here then," Illyria told him with a tragic sigh, and Aglarel silently entertained a daydream in which he punched the smirk off her poorly-painted lips as she continued. "I've got an alternate route in mind that I highly recommend you take, if you value your own self-preservation at all."
"I wasn't aware that my safety was so high on your list of priorities," drawled Aglarel, growing bored of the whole charade.
Illyria scoffed – a little too loudly, it seemed, for the sound of exasperation reverberated off the too-close cavern walls, prompting Aglarel to cast a dark glare in her direction. "Will you stop pretending this is all a game?! I'm actually trying to help you, you miserable brute! We've already been over this – I have to make sure you don't kick the bucket on the way to Menzoberranzan or the future I've seen won't come to pass! That could mean no Xinlenal, or it could mean your precious Sceptrana doesn't make it out of the Underdark alive! Now is that a risk you're willing to take, or do you want to start taking this seriously?!"
Yet again, Aglarel briefly considered killing her – her arrogance was nigh insufferable, and her childishness was nothing short of nauseating – but he decided against it. Her aid was free, since her only real aim was forging some lasting bond with his brother Dethud, and he doubted he'd stumble across another willing ally in such a treacherous place. And the fact remained that she had mentioned several things that had piqued his interest – not the least of which was Xinlenal, something he hadn't heard a word about since his childhood.
"Very well, share your alternative route with me so that I might consider it," the Fourth Prince decided at last, surprised at his own level of tolerance.
Begrudgingly, it seemed, Illyria obliged him. "Keep west of both settlements and follow the westernmost boundary of the Northdark. It will take us through Dolblunde."
"I am unfamiliar with it," Aglarel admitted, and swallowing a mote of his pride he asked, "What can you tell me of the place?"
At last the narrow channel through the stone they had been traversing widened into a spacious cavern; Aglarel was able to straighten to his full height for the first time in an hour or more, and Illyria stretched her wings luxuriously. "It used to be a deep gnome settlement, but it was sacked some time ago. It's a ruin now, and deserted. It would make for safer passage."
There was no denying that the proposed route sounded ideal, but Aglarel hadn't survived for centuries in his line of work by taking every piece of advice to come his way. He had made no secret of his distrust for Illyria, had threatened her if her usefulness ran its course, and even now he was intensely skeptical of how freely she volunteered her information. From all she had said her only motivation was growing closer to Dethud, but how trustworthy was she really?
Still, he could not deny the route she had proposed was without many of the obstacles he would face otherwise. Turning to face her Aglarel growled, "I will heed your counsel this time, little psychic, but you will pay dearly if you are deceiving me."
Illyria nodded solemnly and followed along without protest, pleased when Aglarel adjusted their course and headed west.
Two days' swift but cautious travel delivered the unlikely pair to the outskirts of the svirfnebli ruin Dolblunde, and though Aglarel spoke little Illyria learned a great deal about him in that time. He was a true master of his surroundings, adapting to his circumstances and environment with apparent ease; this was evidenced by the uneventfulness of their journey, for though the annals of the Underdark were teeming with monsters the Fourth Prince was possessed of an uncanny knack for skirting danger at every turn. He was also in complete control of his own temperament, which surprised Illyria perhaps most of all – she had heard that the assassin son of High Prince Telamont was possessed of a short temper and a streak of brutal retaliation, whether his retribution could be justified or not. This man, however, was much changed; the anger that consumed him veritably rolled off him in nearly-tangible waves, and though he allowed it to guide his steps it did not cloud his judgment. He had a singular goal in mind, Illyria was certain, a prize at the end of his self-imposed exodus into the Underdark for which he was prepared to face any number of unspeakable horrors, and for every step he drew nearer to this goal he continued to store up his knowledge and his rage in anticipation for that moment. That self-discipline coupled with such obvious malicious intent terrified Illyria more than any of the overt threats he had made since she had joined him, for she had watched him murder countless creatures before approaching him but knew now that these were not senseless acts of violence – rather, they were calculated and deliberate. He had the skills to traverse the whole of the Underdark without disturbing a soul, but he chose to kill along the way. It was rather like he was honing his deadly skills to a razor-edge, preparing himself for some pivotal confrontation which he had no intention of losing. She knew that if she crossed him he would utterly destroy her, and her unusual talents would not prevent that.
Both of them knew they were drawing near to their objective by the subtle way the landscape changed. Natural stone corridors became artfully-hewn rock passageways, obviously lovingly crafted by the deep gnomes that resided nearby; the svirfneblin were renowned stoneworkers with a talent for shaping their surroundings to their purpose and pleasure. The nearer they grew to the city proper, however, the more obvious that the settlement now stood in ruins as Illyria had confirmed. There were clear signs of battle all around – once-magnificent stone pillars were cracked and crumbling, painstakingly-carved statues had been shattered and carelessly discarded, and black scorch marks littered almost every conceivable surface. Aglarel ran one hand thoughtfully along one of these telltale burns, pondering the implications. Illyria had mentioned that Dolblunde had been sacked and was now deserted, but she had shared no details of the particulars of that incident – presumably because she had none, the Fourth Prince supposed. He wasn't an expect of magic either arcane or divine by any means, but he knew the signs of magical misfires when he saw them – a handful of his brothers were masters of the Shadow Weave, after all.
Illyria had drawn level with him, her now-troubled eyes studying his face, and to err on the side of caution he pitched his voice low. "You never mentioned just how the gnomes were driven from this place."
She shrugged, her great black wings rising and falling with a soft rustling. "They were kicked out by some zealots following one god or another and slaughtered by monsters in the tunnels. What does it matter?"
Aglarel's hand dropped back to his side, and as the gloaming watched his entire demeanor changed; his posture shifted from that of alert wanderer to indomitable predator, and his clear silver eyes subtly darkened until they had taken on a distinctive ruby hue. As Illyria drifted instinctively away from him a pace or two he spoke again, and even his voice was different – it was rougher, primal, low and dangerous. "No priests could have wrecked such devastation. What have you led us into, little psychic?"
Without waiting for a reply the Fourth Prince stalked through the ruined stone doors and slunk as silently as possible into the wreckage, groping for the ensorcelled dagger always hidden upon his person, leaving Illyria to hurry after him as quickly as she dared.
The dracolich Daurgothoth stretched its great skeletal wings with a dreadful clatter as it hoisted itself from its comfortable bed atop mounds of countless golden coins. It had been half a year or more since the massive undead wyrm had ventured out of Dolblunde, the abandoned ruin it had claimed as its lair, and on this day it felt the need to seek activity – perhaps it would slink through the larger tunnels that led to the Upperdark, where undoubtedly it would find all manner of lesser Underdark creatures to terrorize for sport. The passing of centuries had certainly not dulled its enjoyment for toying with pitiful mortals!
Daurgothoth coiled and relaxed its tail rhythmically, enjoying the sensation of innumerable golden coins cascading over his great skeletal form. It had settled into this ruin centuries before and had deeply enjoyed the solitude that taking an underground lair afforded – it allowed for ample time and opportunity to study the necromantic arts of which the undead creature was so selfishly fond. It was a very rare occasion indeed when one of the dracolich's self-proclaims acolytes braved the perils of the Upperdark to seek Daurgothoth's wisdom, and rarer still when these visits did not end in the bloody dismemberment of the foolish pilgrim groveling for an audience.
And venerable Daurgothoth knew without seeing that the two strangers who had just stumbled uninvited into its lair were not devotees.
Rather than slinking through the scorched rubble littering the grounds of Dolblunde to accost the intruders head on the dracolich curled back into its reclining position and shimmied its way beneath the largest heap of gold and gems, content to wait for its quarry to show themselves. Daurgothoth enjoyed the element of surprise nearly as much as it enjoyed the sense of dread which immediately followed, and it was certain this occasion would be no exception.
With malevolent eyes the dracolich peered out from within its hiding place, still as a corpse, poised to strike.
Aglarel flitted from shadow to shadow without a sound, ears pricked for the barest hint of a disturbance within the depths of the ruins that lay ahead, conscious always of Illyria's presence within a pace or two of him as he advanced. The Fourth Prince was pleased to find that the gloaming moved just as quietly as he, her great wings tucked in close to her shoulder blades and her childlike feet clad in supple ballet slippers. In her hand she clutched a stout bow carved from stark white bone nearly as tall as she was; it appeared to be strung with a single impossibly thin strand of shimmering silver, and the head of the arrow she held notched at the ready shone with a ghostly blue aura. Though they had yet to be confronted by anything that may be lurking within the dilapidated relic that was Dolblunde the Fourth Prince found that he appreciated Illyria's diligence, for he was certain they would be fighting for their lives before long.
Crouching beneath a partly-collapsed wall Aglarel motioned for Illyria to hold her position, surprised when she heeded him but pleased nonetheless. Peering around the wall Aglarel beheld a pavilion of some sort – perhaps once a great courtyard, he mused, or even a bazaar where merchants had gathered to display their wares? – about half as spacious as the High Prince's audience chamber and roughly circular in shape. There were large, sloping mounds scattered throughout the pavilion, but both Aglarel and Illyria were creatures accustomed to deep darkness and had no trouble discerning just what they gazed upon: a truly impressive treasure trove, comprised mostly of golden coins polished to a near-blinding gleam. The sight of such wealth did not stir feelings of greed within him – rather, it filled him with suspicion and dread, for he had run afoul of his share of dragons and knew a hoard when he saw one. He glanced back in Illyria's direction, wondering how he could possibly warn her of the encroaching threat without words, to find her studying the amassed treasures wearing a similar expression of trepidation.
It occurred to Aglarel that the wisest course of action would be to flee back the way they had come, but there was no time to act upon this fleeting thought.
Something akin to an explosion blasted apart the already-crumbling wall beside which Aglarel was taking refuge and instinctively he threw up his arms as twisted chunks of mortar and stone came crashing down around him; he suspected the impact had missed him by mere feet only and he was lucky to have survived it at all, and as it was the blast left his hearing heavily impaired. Had the wall not been half-destroyed already the debris may have crushed him, instead leaving him partially buried and badly battered but very much alive. No bones had been broken – a relief, to be sure – and his body's accelerated regeneration would render the scrapes and bruises negligible in a minute or two, and just as he began to shift about in an attempt to break loose from the rock an acrid stench reached his nostrils and Aglarel ceased his struggles immediately. It was the unpleasant odor of acid, and the sound of the vile substance hissing its way through the stone as it sought his flesh only solidified this realization – evidently the dragon within whose lair they had inadvertently trespassed had unleashed its breath weapon.
As Aglarel renewed his efforts a deafening roar resounded throughout the cavern, followed by a din he could only describe as an avalanche accompanied by a high-pitched, piercing scream; he glanced up just in time to see a dragon's tail come whipping out from within the largest mound of coins, a flailing lash of chalky white bone that sent a hail of gold pelting down like rain. Illyria was just unfurling her wings in an attempt to avoid the dozens of shining projectiles but she wasn't quite quick enough, instead curling in on herself to lessen the damage. Aglarel had just managed to free both his arms as the dragon hefted itself from its concealment, and the Fourth Prince's worst fears were confirmed as he beheld its sheer size – larger than any other specimen of its kind Aglarel had ever laid eyes on and boasting claws that measured longer than his arm from shoulder to fingertips, the dragon observed him with soulless eye sockets and a fleshless maw twisted into a perpetual grin of malice.
Illyria must have recovered substantially enough to put up resistance, for presently there could be heard the twang of a bowstring; one of her enchanted arrows flashed through the gloom like a comet and struck their enemy in its empty left eye socket with commendable accuracy, but Daurgothoth only laughed as though the attack had amused it. As Aglarel attempted to wriggle free of the rubble without exposing himself to the reeking acid the dracolich simply reached out and plucked him from the wreckage with hardly an effort, holding the shade at eye level to study him. Aglarel was so near to the wyrm's maw that he could have clearly counted every single one of its razor-sharp teeth had he felt so inclined.
"Here are two curious creatures that have stumbled so foolishly into my lair," rumbled Daurgothoth thoughtfully, flicking its fleshless tail to and fro in a restless manner as it eye the Prince of Shade malevolently. "How best to deal with such an intrusion?"
Aglarel shrugged – his cloak tore a little in the wyrm's claws as a result. "I suppose allowing us to go free is not high on your list of options," he remarked dryly, prompting a horrible grin to spread across the wyrm's awful visage.
"Oh, no," the dracolich confirmed bemusedly. "I have never been one to suffer trespassers to live, and it has been long since such an exotic meal has presented itself. And I am hungry, little shadow-dweller – so very hungry!"
The wyrm's maw dropped open, a fresh stream of acid bubbling over its scythe-like teeth – even from a distance Illyria could smell the acrid stench and she had to fight the urge to bend double and wretch. Oddly, Aglarel seemed unfazed; rather than appear intimidated at Daurgothoth's show of might the Fourth Prince sighed as though disappointed with their adversary's response.
"So be it," said Aglarel, and his entire body burst into flames.
Purely on reflex the dracolich recoiled with a roar, gracelessly hopping back and skittering wildly upon its throne of gold pieces; the instant its dagger-like claws loosened Aglarel slipped through the wyrm's grasp and alighted upon the crest of a smaller mound of treasure just a few feet away. The coins directly beneath the Fourth Prince's feet grew so hot from the proximity of the flames that they melted and ran in shining rivulets to pool upon the rubble-strewn pavilion, but within the cloak of whirling flames Aglarel seemed perfectly unharmed. Daurgothoth seemed to recover quickly and lunged closer with snapping jaws and tearing talons, but darted back with haste – its outstretched claws were blackened from reaching for the fire-engulfed shade, and its calcified mandibles smoldered as though the dracolich had attempted to swallow white-hot coals.
"Now," Illyria heard the Fourth Prince growl in a voice like rolling thunder, "you will allow us to leave, or I will destroy you. Which is it?"
"What manner of demonic creature are you?" Daurgothoth roared, its great tail lashing about in its distress and haphazardly sending piles of coins flying in all directions; a handful of gold ricocheted Aglarel's way, only to be instantly incinerated by the searing heat rolling off his body like a boiling cloud. Aglarel might have chuckled then, though the sound was mostly obscured by the crackling of the flames; Illyria couldn't imagine how the Fourth Prince could possibly have found any mirth in the midst of such a dire situation.
"I'm afraid you've got me all wrong," he responded cryptically. "Demons have nothing at all to do with the creature I've become."
With only that ominous half-explanation Aglarel leapt, the flames streaking off his body making him appear as a comet as he moved; Daurgothoth snarled and swiped at him with the cruel claws of its right foreleg but in his strange altered form it seemed the Fourth Prince was far quicker than he had been before, dodging the strike with unprecedented grace. He alighted upon the wyrm's outstretched foreleg and darted up the appendage, and as Illyria's incredulous eyes tracked his every step she could clearly see the black scorch marks the prince's feet left behind on every inch of bone they touched. Daurgothoth howled - in agony or rage, Illyria had no way to determine which – and shook its leg as though swatting at an irksome fly, but by then the fleet-footed shade had reached the shoulder joint and skipped lightly up the wyrm's back and out of reach. Seemingly desperate to be rid of Aglarel now the dracolich flung itself upon the ground – the resulting tremor from the impact jostled Illyria from her feet and she scurried behind yet another trembling pile of gold, clutching her bow to her chest all the while – and began to thrash about with abandon, hoping to dislodge Aglarel with its unpredictable movements. Aglarel lost his footing for only a moment but recovered himself quickly, skipping from one side of the wyrm's exposed ribcage to the other to avoid being crushed by its bulk, and when an opportunity presented itself he slipped between two ribs and dove deep into Daurgothoth's hollow chest cavity. Having no vital organs in its lich form did not mean that Daurgothoth felt no pain – quite the contrary it felt keenly each time Aglarel laid a smoldering hand upon its skeletal structure, and presently the subterranean chamber reeked with the unmistakable stench of death as its bones began to simply shrivel and dissolve.
"You can't kill me, fool!" the dracolich howled, its movements beginning to slow and resemble death throes now.
A speck of flame appeared from deep within Daurgothoth's blackened husk of a ribcage as Aglarel clambered out, and crossing his arms pitilessly he gazed down upon the undead creature with a smirk caught somewhere between utmost superiority and cruel ruthlessness upon his face. Illyria dared to peek out from her hiding place now, no longer certain which of them she was more terrified of.
"You're right about that," the Fourth Prince agreed matter-of-factly, and he actually took a seat upon Daurgothoth's charred and cracking sternum as he continued. "Without knowing where your phylactery resides I could never truly put an end to you. But I could stay here for a while… wait patiently for its fell magic to resurrect you and make you strong… and then bring you back to the brink of death yet again. And again. And again. For as long as it takes you to realize the enormity of your error and allow us to go free. You have only to ask yourself – how many times do you want to die today?"
By now Illyria had ventured out from behind the mound of treasure and moved tentatively up to where the dracolich lay, now little more than a massive jumble of scorched bones; Aglarel tensed and whipped his head around to face her, the livid crimson of his eyes visible even beneath the flames that danced hungrily upon his skin. For a horrible moment Illyria was certain the Fourth Prince would fly down from his perch and destroy her, but after several seconds of intense internal struggle he seemed to master his impulses and turned back to the task at hand. Daurgothoth wasn't moving now – upon closer inspection Illyria came to understand that the wyrm's ribcage had been completely burned away, and when Aglarel's mere proximity reduced its sternum to ash he dropped gracefully down upon its spine and continued his morbid work there.
"You are free to go," Daurgothoth gasped, the sound of its feeble voice causing Illyria to start, for she hadn't realized their adversary still retained the ability to speak. "Go now, never return, but no more…"
Aglarel was pacing up and down the length of the wyrm's spine – wearing it down evenly, Illyria knew. "A little more," he insisted at length. "If only to ensure we have ample time to escape before your phylactery restores your strength." And true to his word the Fourth Prince completed a dozen more passes of Daurgothoth's spine from skull to tailbone, until the bone was completely worn through and the wyrm's groans of protest grew silent.
Illyria slung her bow over one shoulder by the string and wrapped her arms around her midsection, feeling suddenly sickened by all she had witnessed. It was many moments before she could find the courage to speak. "I think it's had enough," she called, attempting to introduce a little levity with her words but finding they fell flat even to her own ears.
Dread washed icy-cold through the pit of the gloaming's stomach as Aglarel turned to face her, for those searing crimson eyes of his were no less full of rage now that Daurgothoth hadn't the strength to impede their progress and the flames leaping off his skin seemed to burn ever brighter; Illyria laid one hand upon her bow warily, prepared to bring the weapon to bear if he took even one step in her direction, but as she watched he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as though to calm himself. The taut muscles in his arms grew slack, his expression relaxed and became calm, and the flames clinging to him waned from inferno to barely more than the smolder of cooling coals in the span of a dozen heartbeats. Incredulously Illyria watched as the prince's skin, brittle and blackened from the heat of the fire, smoothed itself as his accelerated regeneration gradually restored the flesh to its natural ebony, and when Aglarel opened his eyes they shone cool and silver as moonlight once more. Having haunted the Fourth Prince's steps for days as he navigated the lightless tunnels of the Underdark alone and witnessed his penchant for anger first hand, Illyria was mystified at such a display of self-mastery.
"We must go," he told her in a clipped tone, and only then did Illyria take note of how wan his face had grown. "We must put suitable distance between us and this beast – for make no mistake, its phylactery will revitalize it – and find a safe place for me to recover my strength."
Illyria nodded and moved to take the lead, surprised when Aglarel actually fell in behind her without protest; it was a sure sign that he needed rest, and soon.
Within the hour they were installed within a cramped cave dimly illuminated by some manner of phosphorescent fungi; Illyria took up a post near the entrance to their well-hidden nook, her bow laid dutifully across her lap, and Aglarel reclined against the largest mushroom furthest away from the wider chasm beyond. He quaffed some water and then did not speak for a long time - long enough that Illyria was certain he had drifted off to sleep – so when his voice pierced through the gloom an indeterminable period of time later she actually flinched where she sat.
"You're not afraid," Aglarel observed, his voice soft and introspective.
"No," Illyria answered defiantly, but after a moment's contemplation she added, "not anymore."
"You are either very brave, or very foolish," said the Fourth Prince tiredly, prompting the gloaming to roll her eyes.
"I knew what you were capable of before I approached you." The saccharine sweetness of her childlike voice was practically nonexistent now; Aglarel cracked one eye open to observe her, curious. "I was seeing things before I came looking for you. I saw your first transformation. I've watched you struggle to contain yourself since then."
Aglarel sat up a little straighter, his face a deep fuchsia in the light from the glowing fungi. "And do you know what changed? Why I struggle less and less each day?"
Illyria nodded sagely, all pretense of maintaining her childish façade forgotten now. "You stopped fighting it."
Aglarel nodded, seeming pleased with this assessment, and relaxed back. It was quiet for several more moments as he collected his thoughts, but not uncomfortably so – Illyria was surprised by their sudden camaraderie despite the short period of time they had been acquainted. At length Aglarel spoke up. "When we learned of Soleil and Aveil's abduction, the High Prince asked me how far I was willing to go to rescue the Sceptrana – despite my best efforts to conceal the real depths of my feelings, he had discerned the truth. I think that is why he presented the question to me; knowing my limitless devotion to him he would also have known I never would have left his side to cater to my own personal desires. I realized that in asking me how far I was willing to go he was actually giving me his blessing, but to have any hope of success I would need to sublimate my abhorrence for the creature I can become and learn to embrace it. It is a part of me now and will be forever, and I must trust in what it is capable of. I believe I will ultimately fail if I do not."
Illyria quirked an eyebrow. "Why are you telling me all this? You don't trust me. You barely know me."
"Because you should know what's at stake if you're accompanying me to the end," the Fourth Prince answered solemnly, and when he closed his eyes to rest Illyria knew that the topic was no longer open for debate.