Don't go to Sleep
by Iliana Maura
Note: this is getting so confusing! "Chapter Seven" in my original no longer corresponds to "Chapter Seven" in the revised version. I think my brain is going to blow up :( Reading back through some of these, several story ideas have entered my head. How about something involving the Fighting Book? (There could be a great story behind that). Or No-Nose and Scar-Face? Would anyone be interested in reading something like that? Of course, there would be cameos by our favorite dark elves :D
Chapter Eight : Thalack'vel
"I think you're fussing too much. It's just a small fever."
"You know what Ivellios said," Catti-brie said sternly. "Remember the assassin? It may start as a fever, but it might get worse."
"Not that you should worry," Regis added quickly.
"Not worry," Bruenor grumbled sarcastically. "Why in th' Nine Hells would he want t' do that?"
The Companions sat around Drizzt's bed, where he lay resting. Stumpet, still confused over the failure of her healing spell, had advised him to take bedrest. The others, unable to think of anything better, agreed. Drizzt, on the other hand, felt horribly trapped, confined not just to his room, but to his bed. But there was nothing to be done, so he took it with his regular stoicism.
"How much worse will it get?" Regis wondered aloud. "I mean, what is it going to do?"
"It will get much worse," said an unfamiliar-almost-voice. "In fact, it will kill him."
The Companions, including Drizzt, leapt to their feet and faced the shadows near the doorway. There stood the strangest drow any of them had ever seen: bald, with a wide-brimmed purple-plumed hat, shimmering cape, and high-cut vest.
Regis squealed and fell back in fear; Bruenor fumbled for his axe; Catti-brie narrowed her eyes in anger; Drizzt's eyes widened in surprise.
Jarlaxle patted the air with his hand, a soothing gesture, while smiling. "Calm down." He held his arms out wide. "See? I'm weaponless."
"Right," Catti-brie growled.
The drow's smile increased tenfold. "Ah, my lovely Catti-brie." He stepped forward and tried to kiss her hand, but she pulled away from him, remembering when, after she had followed Drizzt to Menzoberranzan, the mercenary had captured her, and professed to be enraptured by her beauty. As much as she disliked the drow, she had to admit that he had not taken advantage of her helplessness.
"What do you mean?" Drizzt demanded. "What do you know about this?"
"You should lie down," the mercenary suggested. "You really are ill. And please, all of you, sit."
None did, until Jarlaxle came over and sat on the edge of Drizzt's bed, across from Drizzt, who sat, but did not lie down. Suspiciously, the others followed his example, save Bruenor. Unaffected, Jarlaxle swept off his hat and held it in his lap.
"What you have fallen ill with," he explained to Drizzt, "is a mysterious illness that had been dubbed 'orbb's elghinn', because it affects only drow."
"Spider's bane," Drizzt translated for the others.
"Then it's not from the assassin!" Regis blurted.
"Yeah, but if it ain't from the assassin, how'd he get it?" Bruenor asked. "He hasn't been 'round any dark elves for a while."
"I could have gotten it when I was in Menzoberranzan," Drizzt said, referring to when he had foolishly returned to his homeland, thinking to end the drow threat to Mithral Hall be giving himself up to his people.
But Jarlaxle shook his head. "It had not appeared when you were in Menzoberranzan. It apparently made its debut only a few weeks ago. Many drow are of the opinion the Baenre's failed high ritual is the cause of it." Here he smiled at Catti-brie, as it had been she who dislodged the stalactite that destroyed the chapel. "However," he continued, "I have information that is was magically created to destroy drow. Perhaps this is your assassin?"
"That's a good possibility," Catti-brie agreed, forcing aside her dislike of amorous drow, "but how did Drizzt get it? The only stranger that's recently come t' Mithral Hall's Ivellios Amanodel-a gold elf-and he's the one who warned us about th' assassin!"
"That doesn't necessarily mean anything," Jarlaxle countered. "Orbb's elghinn can pass from drow to drow-so don't touch me," he added to Drizzt, "but it first came to Menzoberranzan in the form of gems. You haven't been touching any amber with spider's trapped inside, have you."
Catti-brie watched, not understand, as surprise and confusion crossed Drizzt's face. "Yes," he admitted. "But-that would Ivellios was the one!"
"Durn liein' elf," Bruenor growled, hands tightening around the shaft of his axe.
"I don't know about this Ivellios Amanodel," Jarlaxle interjected, "but my trail led me to an elf named Arvylyn Quenvath. Do you know that name?"
"Yes," Catti-brie answered, utterly confused. "He's staying in Settlestone, at the inn. He said he's waiting for his cousin."
"Is Ivellios his cousin?"
"He says he's not-but if he's lied about the stones, there's no reason why he wouldn't lie about Arvylyn."
"Then who did it?" Drizzt asked, confused. "Are the two working together? Arvylyn is the one who made the jewels, but Ivellios is the one who used them to infect me, but he doesn't want to be connected to Arvylyn-" he trailed off, confused.
Jarlaxle smiled-almost indulgently, Catti-brie thought. "It's good you left Menzoberranzan," the mercenary laughed. "You have no head for intrigue." Without warning, he rose to his feet and returned his hat to his head. "You must excuse me, but have other business to attend to."
"Wouldn't have anythin' to' do with an elf in Settlestone, would it?" Bruenor asked sarcastically.
Jarlaxle looked shocked. "What makes you think that?" he demanded, as though offended. Then he smiled.
"Swear you won't hurt anyone," Drizzt commanded. Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow and smiled mockingly, but Drizzt continued. "I'm serious, Jarlaxle. Swear that you won't harm anyone unless they try to harm you first-and mean it when you say it."
Jarlaxle's smile faded as he studied Drizzt for long moment. At last he said, "I swear, Drizzt-and I really do mean it."
He started for the door, but just as he was stepping through he paused and looked back. "You're a lot like your father," he told the other drow. "He would be proud of you."
Again he started to leave, but he stopped one last time. "Oh, and Drizzt-don't go to sleep; the disease spreads faster when one is asleep."
Weapon Master Du'vess and his small patrol silently shadowed his House's mysterious attackers. They wove a twisted path through only the emptiest streets and lanes. There was so little movement that Du'vess began to wonder if the streets knew something he didn't. The silence, usually comforting, pressed down on him, smothering him. He swallowed hard and struggled to keep his mind focused on his task.
His thoughts kept wandering. His heart pounded with an unknown terror. What was there to be afraid of? The attackers didn't even know they were being followed! He knew his patrol was totally silent, totally concealed. They were the best his house had, and they would not fail. He simply had to trust to their skill. Adrenaline raced through his veins; his senses screamed of danger in ways they never had before; his body shook.
Something was wrong. The terror-there was nothing else to explain it. His whole body ached with a silent warning. Turn back! Turn back! A silent voice screamed inside him. But the thought of his matron's whip kept him going forward, against his better judgment.
A cry came from his left. He whirled, drawing his sword, and swore as soon as he saw the problem. A force equal in numbers to his own was emerging out of the shadows, and the force he had been following turned back and began attacking, as well.
An ambush, he moaned inwardly. They knew we here all along. Or maybe they set a trap just in case. It doesn't matter, he thought bitterly. We're going to die anyway.
Du'vess considered whether to tell his soldiers to run or stand and fight. Of course, that didn't matter either. They'd die no matter what. He laughed bitterly and ran through an enemy soldier that had managed to break through his own meager ranks.
The weapon master laughed again, a fey look entering his eyes. There may not be any hope, but by Lloth, he would make them pay!
Jarlaxle's stalker paced back and forth within her room. She did not like it when he left the city, especially not for such long periods of time. Did he know? Had he caught wind of her plan somehow? Would he come back? It would be just like him to totally abandon Menzoberranzan.
No, she corrected herself firmly. It wouldn't be. He would never really leave Menzoberranzan; it was his home. He had Bregan D'aerthe to tie him down, and he wouldn't leave his band. He would come back.
She licked her thin lips eagerly. And when he did. . . .
Dorian Tavares sat at bar of the Inn of the Dwarven Hammer, a mug of ale cradled in his hands. It had been frothing when he had first gotten it-nearly half and hour ago; he hadn't taken a sip yet.
The human could see his reflection dimly in the amber surface. He wasn't frowning, just . . . contemplative. He had a lot to think about. His reason for coming to Settlestone-and Mithral Hall-tugged at his mind.
Dorian was an orphan. He didn't know how his parents had died, and neither did the elves who adopted him. They said they just found him, and had never told him much else. When Dorian was old enough, they allowed him to wander far from home. It was then he learned how lucky he was the usually aloof elves had taken him in the first place.
But no matter how far he wandered, Dorian always returned to his elven home. Those were the happy times, when all the elves teased him about how much he had changed, and there was good food, and good friends, and stories told. . . .
They were the only family he had. He made human friends on his travels, but they were nothing like his family. His adopted mother, with her soft hand that would bandage his small cuts when he was young. His father, who taught him the craft of the forest and the sword. His older brother, serious beyond his years, and his little brother, born the year Dorian turned twenty.
All that had changed when he returned to his home forest to find nothing, no one. Nothing but corpses marked by fine elven blades. At first he had thought other elves, but no, elves did not attack one another. It was a long time before he remember the stories he had heard as a child: "go to bed bed or the dark elves will get you!" and the more serious talk of the elders: "there was a drow raid on a tribe north of here." After that, however, it had not taken him long to decide on his next course of action.
He would have revenge. If that meant traveling to the Underdark, so be it. If that meant murdering every dark elf male, female, and babe, he would do so with relish.
His little brother, little more than a year, still just a babe by elven standards, had been sliced into more than a dozen pieces. Dorian had only identified his remains because his head was mostly intact. He swore over his adopted brother's mangled body that the black scum would pay.
No matter the cost.