Don't go to Sleep
by Iliana Maura
Note: As a small warning, this chapter is somewhat gruesome. Sorry. I also feel kinda bad about the captain in council scene. Maybe I'll write a story about him, to make it up to him. Poor guy. (You may notice that the sacrificial knife matches the description of the one used in the House Do'Urdan chapel. Who knows? Maybe it's the same one.)
Chapter Four : Turuk Orbb
The sky was full of stars.
An elven boy crouched among the bushes and gazed up at them, awed by the sight so beautiful it hurt. In the clearing before him, the adults of his tribe dance for the stars, and their beauty was painful, as well.
The boy kept an ear cocked to the forest behind him, listening for the child who was it "it". He thought himself very clever for hiding so close to the village; the other children playing hide-and-go-seek would never think to look for him here.
There was a small cry behind him in the forest, and he figured one of the others had been found. But no, it didn't sound right. There was another cry, a girl's scream of terror. The boy's heart stumbled, then began pounding. He crouched deep into the thicket of leaves and branches, shaking. If there was something back there, attacking his friends, he should do something. Mustering his courage, he started to his feet, intending to call out to the adults, but suddenly one of his playmates ran past, screaming and tripping over her own feet in terror. Something dark bounded after her. Horrified, the boy shrank back into the cover of the bushes as he realized what her pursuer was.
A drow.
The dark elf caught the girl at the edge of the clearing. A fine sword gleamed in one hand, catching the light of the stars and moon and throwing it back with contempt. The drow flung out his arm, and the sword flashed silver, then red. The elven girl screamed and dropped to her knees, eyes wide but seeing nothing. Blood poured from a rent in the back of her tunic.
Drawing back his arm, the drow made another great slash. The fine, slender blade parted the skin of her neck, then plunged deeper, cutting through sinew, muscle and bone. The girl's head tumbled to the ground like a forgotten playing ball, bouncing once and rolling until it was stopped by the hiding boy's knee. Horrified, he could do nothing but stare at the girl's blank, still-open eyes, her mouth open in shock.
Moving his terrified gaze up to the drow, he saw a great fountain of blood spout from the girl's severed neck. Even as the lifeless corpse fell to the ground, the drow slashed at it again and again, crying out in ecstasy. There was no kindness or compassion in his eyes, no life or sanity at all-just rage and bloodlust. With one final slash that rent the girl's torso nearly in half, he flung back his head and screamed with pleasure.
The boy could take it no longer. He turned away from the sight, his foot nudging the girl's head as he did. Bile rising in his throat, he knelt at the base of a tree and began throwing up, tears streaming down his face. His breath came in ragged gasps between heaves, the noise seeming too-loud. A twig snapped behind him. Fearful, he looked over his shoulder to see the drow standing over him, blade raised. The elven boy gave a terrified sob, but was unable to move, transfixed by fear. His muscles tightened painfully, cramping with the force of his agony. With a wicked grin, the drow drew back his sword, preparing to plunge it home.
Without warning, a blade burst through the drow's chest. Shocked, the dark elf looked down at it, his face showing almost comical surprise. Just as violently, the sword disappeared, and a gush of blood showered onto the boy's face. As the dying drow dropped to his knees, the boy could see another dark elf behind him, blade drenched in blood. Without a second thought, the second drow turned and rushed into the clearing, sword raised for an attack.
The dying drow's eyes glazed. With a final gurgle, he fell forward, half atop the boy. Stunned and horrified, he could do nothing but lie beneath the rapidly cooling weight, his face covered with hot, sticky blood. From the clearing he could hear screams and shouts. Occasionally there was the clash of steel, but only rarely; there was little the surface elves could do against the bloodlust of the drow.
After what seemed like an eternity, a too-still silence fell. After a long moment, he heard voices. At first his heart jumped joyfully, but then stuttered fearfully when he realized the voices were not speaking any language he had ever heard before.
Peering out of the corners of his eyes, he could see booted feet standing around him-drow. He clamped his eyes shut and forced himself to lie still, hoping the drow would think him dead. There were more voices, and then the snap of a twig. Daring to open his eyes, the boy found himself alone, surrounded by nothing more than corpses.
Sobbing, he staggered out from underneath the dead drow and made his way into the clearing, forcing his limbs to move even though it pained him. Dry-retching at what he saw, he ran from one corpse to another, crying out names, pleading for friends and family to open their eyes. None moved or answered. Shaking, he found himself in the center of the clearing, on his knees. Agony welled inside his chest until he couldn't keep it within him any more. Flinging back his head, he began screaming, screaming, screaming...
"Ivellios! Ivellios Amanodel! Wake up!"
Ivellios' eyes flew open, his lungs catching every time he tried to draw breath. His muscles refused to obey him, shooting pain from head to toe with every movement. Struggling to orient himself, he found a pair or purple eyes staring at him from a black face, framed by snowing white hair.
A whimper escaped his lips. No! He wailed silently. No, not again! Not drow! But then his mind recognized the purple eyes, and he collapsed back against his sweat-stained pillows. However much he hated drow, he was confident Drizzt Do'Urdan would not harm him-not yet, anyway.
"Ivellios, are you all right?" the drow asked anxiously. Ivellios closed his eyes again, trying to calm himself. "I was walking past your door," Drizzt explained anxiously, "and I heard you cry out. Were you having a nightmare?"
Ivellios nodded, slowly opening his yes. The room was dark, door close and fire out. Drizzt's eyes glowed purple with infravision, and Ivellios had unconsciously slipped into it himself. The drow sat on the very edge of his bed.
"It was about when we. . . were. . . attacked," Ivellios explained brokenly, unsure of why he was saying it. The drow bit his lip and nodded slightly. He went to the fireplace and stirred the coals, then added another log. Soon it was blazing merrily. Ivellios was glad for the room; he didn't want to be near any drow so soon after waking from that dream.
Drizzt stayed by the fireplace, seeing that Ivellios needed space. The gold elf pushed himself out from underneath the sheets and sat cross-legged on top of them.
"It was at night," he whispered, voice raw with pain. He wished his mouth would fall silent, but the words continued tumbling from his lips; he didn't want to share these things with a foul drow.
"The other children and I were playing hide-and-go-seek when we were attacked. I was well hidden and they didn't find me. . . I was too afraid to do anything. I was the only one left. It was. . . ." his voice trailed off.
He spent a long moment in silence, berating himself for letting the drow know so much about him. In the end, however, he saw how it might work to his advantage.
"I don't have much left from my childhood," he continued, his voice a little stronger. "Except for one thing." He reached over the side of the bed and rifled through his pack for a moment, finally coming out with what looked like a gem of some sort. "This."
Drizzt came closer. It was a piece of amber, with a large black spider trapped in its center.
"I've never been able to tell what kind of spider it it," Ivellios told him. "Nor has anyone else I've met. Maybe you might know-I hear the drow have a liking for spiders." He shuddered at the thought.
"I don't," Drizzt replied, taking the gem. "Though my people worship them." He studied the imprisoned spider for a moment. "I think this is a Turuk Orbb. It's a kind of spider that eats almost nothing but other arachnids." His voice became puzzled. "I don't know how it came to be in the amber, though. Turuk Orbbs live only in the Underdark-praise Mielikki-and amber doesn't form there." With a shrug, he handed the gem back.
Ivellios also shrugged. "I can't tell you, either. My father had it as long as I can remember." He hated lying about his father, but could see little other choice. He placed the gem back in his pack and looked awkward for a moment. "Ah. . . thank you for waking me up. I haven't had the nightmare in a while. I can't think of why it would have started again-" he stopped, pretending to be embarrassed.
He knew Drizzt could figure out why. What else would trigger a nightmare about drow except seeing one? "I'll let you get some rest," the drow said, almost hastily. "The clerics say you should be healthy in a few days." He bowed once, and quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him. Ivellios said not a word, simply sank back against his pillows and grinned.
"Perhaps Lloth is angry with us because the high ritual failed."
Matron Baenre turned slowly to face Matron K'yorl of House Oblodra, the third house of Menzoberranzan. The withered female formed a brief, silent prayer to Lloth, asking the Spider Queen to grant her patience.
"And whose high ritual might you be thinking of?" Baenre asked, her voice calm and overly nice. K'yorl did not reply.
The matrons of the eight highest houses of Menzoberranzan, who made up the ruling council, were gathered in the small chamber called Qu'ellarz'orl, from which came the name of the most prestigious district in the city. They came together rarely, and they had done so today for the sole purpose of discussing orbb's elghinn.
The circular room was dominated by a large spider-shaped table. Beside each of the eight legs sat one of the Matron Mothers, all lit by comfortable glow of hundreds of candles. Spaced around the edges of the room, several braziers smoked, giving off the sickly-sweet scent of unholy incense.
"I will have you know," Baenre said, her frigid voice a chilling reminder to the other matrons of her power, "that I am still in Lloth's highest favor. I have conferred with her, and she has told me that this sickness is not of her doing."
"Perhaps the Council should hold a ritual of its own," suggested Matron Zeerith Q'Xolarrin, of the fifth house. The other matrons nodded their agreement; if they all took part in the ritual, they could be confident of where they stood in Lloth's eyes-and more to the point, where Baenre stood.
"Who will provide the sacrifice?" asked the matron of the eighth house, Prid'eesoth Tuin'Tarl.
Boldly, it seemed, Matron Miz're Mizzrym, of the sixth house, said, "It is the standing of Matron Baenre which we are inquiring into; she should provide the sacrifice."
Baenre scowled, but did not disagree; while Miz're Mizzrym's audacity offended her, it would be pointless to argue. Refusing to answer the matron of the sixth house, she clapped her hands sharply. Immediately, one of the common priestesses of House Baenre appeared. The matron whispered into the younger female's ear while the others at the table looked on tensely. With a deep bow, the commoner left the room.
A small smile playing across her lips, Matron Baenre leaned back in her ornate seat, staring down the other matrons, paying special attention to Miz're. No one dared speak, unsure of what Baenre was about.
Several minutes later, the common priestess reappeared, carrying a slim black coffer and followed by a handsome male, identified as a captain of the Baenre guard by the badge on his piwafwi. Upon entering the chamber, the male knelt near the doorway, head bowed until it touched the floor, awaiting further instructions, while the priestess reverently approached Baenre, and, bowing, presented her with the coffer.
Again the commoner disappeared, though the male remained. With a snap of her fingers, Baenre extinguished the multitude of candles, leaving only the braziers to produce their sultry glow. Smiling now that they understood, the other matrons rose from the seats and stood around the table.
With an impatient command, Matron Baenre called the male forward. He came obediently, though he trembled visibly. He waited before his matron, but she refused to make it easy for him.
With a wicked smile, she said, "I believe you know what you should do."
The other matrons laughed gleefully, amused by the game. In infravision, the captain's face appeared deathly pale as he hoisted himself over the edge of the table and laid, shaking, in its center. With a swift glance to Baenre for permission, Miz're freed her snake whip and struck at his raised knees with a snarl. The male stifled a cry and stretched his legs straight, until he lay, utterly exposed and helpless, before the eight matrons.
Together, the females began to chant, their voices combined in a low, monotonous harmony. Sweat beaded on the male's brow, as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matron Baenre open the thin coffer. From within it, she produced the wicked sacrificial dagger. Shaped like a spider, the body and head were twisted and elongated to form the hilt, while the barbed legs dangled down to form the "blade"-more like a cage. The chant built, growing louder and stronger, finally reaching its climax as Baenre raised the knife over her head.
As the voices crested, and broke, Baenre plunged the dagger deep into the male's chest. He gasped as the legs sliced through skin and bone, then screamed as the spider's legs, buried within his torso, contracted around his heart. With a vicious tug, Baenre pulled the still-beating organ free of the male's body. Horrified, he stared upward with dimming eyes as the female raised the trapped heart-his heart-above her head and screamed in ecstasy, calling out to her goddess. A small whimper escaped his throat as he shuddered, writhing helpless on the table, before releasing a low moan and finally dying.
The flame within the brazier at the "head" of the spider table began to dance wildly, flickering and wavering. With a sudden surge of light, smoke, and sparks, a yochlol, a handmaiden of Lloth, appeared within the flame. Its thoughts tore into the matron's minds.
Why have you summoned me? It demanded.
The other matrons swayed in surprise, having not expecting something so powerful to be summoned. With a confident smirk, Baenre waved a crabbed hand at them. "My fellows," she proclaimed to the yochlol, "do not believe that I am still in Lloth's favor. They believe I am at fault for this disease that plagues the city." She carefully left out why they thought she was at fault, though she knew the yochlol would know anyway.
Resembling nothing more than a half-melted candle, the handmaiden faced the other matrons. Lloth has nothing to do with Menzoberranzan's sickness, it bubbled.
"Will the Spider Queen not aid us in curing it?" Matron Mez'Barris Barrison del'Armgo, of the second house, dared to ask.
Lloth has nothing to do with it! The yochlol roared. Cowering from the sound of its mental voice, the matrons flinched again as the brazier flared once more, assaulting their eyes with light. When they had recovered, the yochlol was gone, the brazier burning low. Ghenni'tiroth, of the Faen Tlabbar, the fourth house, quickly put out the last of the coals.
It the silence that followed, Baenre drew herself to her full height, confident and smug. "You see?" she gloated. "I am not at the root of this."
"Yes," Mez'Barris sighed, defeated, "but that only leaves us with more questions."