V
In the glow of the fire of Amser-Colofn, the drow academy of magic, Llyfrdy-Lledreth, seemed to take on an almost sinister glow as the pillar of time denoted midday with its entire length alight. Carved and melded from one of the largest stalagmites in Llyr, the enormous tower seemed to twist up its entire height, sporting windows at irregular intervals along the spiraling ascent. At the top of the school, eight smaller towers jutted out from the main body of the building, the private labs of the school's eight most powerful wizards. Many other buildings in Llyr sported ornate gargoyles and statues, but Llyfrdy-Lledreth held no elaborate carved guardians. Only the painstaking spiral motif held any sort of embellishment, in the form of red and blue faerie fire that followed the twisting stone to the top of the building, where a single blue globe of fire, vaguely spiderlike in appearance, burned at the tip of the tower.
It was here that Fychan had spent so much of his earlier years, learning the arcane arts and mastering them as surely as his house would soon take its place as fifteenth house of Llyr. The secondboy of House Evnissien knew Llyfrdy-Lledreth inside and out. He had made it his duty to know everyone and everything in the mystical academy when he had first arrived over half a century earlier, making certain that he could see or plan an attack from any part of the tower. On several occasions his knowledge of the tower and of magic had served him well, and half a dozen ambitious wizards from rival houses had met their demise when Fychan had lured them into deceptively small or large rooms or ambushed them from hidden cubbies in the tower. This time, however, simple knowledge of terrain would not be enough to win the fight.
Standing near the entrance to Arlais-Corryn, Fychan had a clear view of the arched double doors of Llyfrdy-Lledreth. He could also see the wide steel doors and much of the domed roof of Ysgol-Cyfranc, the war academy of Llyr. That building Fychan knew almost nothing about, even though he had spent a year there to learn the rudiments of warfare and cooperative tactics with the warriors of the drow city. It was that which currently worried him, as his newest target would be emerging from those doors at any moment. Fychan had waited since the early morning for his quarry, and now, that person was finally appearing from the war academy. Smoothing his robes faintly, the wizard started after the drow warrior leaving Ysgol-Cyfranc, keeping one hand close to his wand of lightning as he approached.
"Bradwr Hen Wyneb," Fychan called out smoothly. The other drow turned quickly at the voice, his hand dropping near the emerald pommel of his long sword before even as he tried to identify the threat. Fychan moved his hands quickly away from his sides in a gesture of peace, but the well muscled young warrior before him did not relax his guard.
"You're an Evnissien?" the secondboy of House Hen Wyneb inquired, looking to the piwafwi draped loosely about Fychan's shoulders. Bradwr was shorter than the wizard but far more imposing physically, with close cut, silvery white hair and eyes that touched on one of the rarest tones of drow eyes, a deep burgundy that seemed to border on black.
"I am," the wizard stated, bowing slightly. "Fychan Evnissien, secondboy of House Evnissien. I wish merely to speak with you."
"I don't have much time today," Bradwr said, turning and continuing to the ramps that led down to the rest of Llyr. Fychan kept up easily with the warrior's stride, taking quick stock of the sword belted on his hip and the shield slung over his shoulder. Bradwr's weapons and the fine chain mail he wore were almost certainly enchanted, but the wizard could wait for another time to test his suspicions with a detect magic spell.
"I wanted to speak with you about something… rather sensitive," Fychan said as the two drow began down the steps from the dais. "I'm sure you would find the topic rather interesting."
"I am certain," Bradwr stated simply, showing no interest in the conversation. Fychan chuckled slightly.
"We share similar predicaments," the wizard observed, keeping up with Bradwr as the swordsman increased his pace slightly. "Both of us talented, both of us ambitious, both of us held back by… elder family members."
Bradwr said nothing, but his pace slowed ever so slightly.
"It has been a thorn in my side for some time, at any rate," Fychan continued. "It is difficult enough. Being a mere male, I am ignored by my matron, and oftentimes by my sisters as well. As if I had not the same value they have. But to be spurned even by him…"
"Him?" Bradwr inquired, glancing to the wizard. His pace slowed slightly more. Fychan cast a fleeting glimpse back over his shoulder, quickly judging the distance to Ysgol-Cyfranc.
"Naomhin," the wizard finally answered, his voice a mere whisper. "My older brother."
"I know him," Bradwr said. Fychan had already been aware of that; Naomhin had been an instructor in Ysgol-Cyfranc for the past two years, during which time Bradwr had been completing his training at the war academy.
"An unpleasant individual," Fychan said with a weak smile. "But then again, I have studied with your older brother, Maddox. He is certainly proud of his stature and abilities."
"Without doubt," Bradwr agreed, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. Fychan nodded in agreement.
"He must be difficult to bear," the wizard assumed. "Much like my own brother. And the worst part is, they are more difficult to handle than either of us would like to admit."
Bradwr stopped and turned on the wizard.
"What do you want?" the warrior asked bluntly.
"Your help," Fychan answered. Bradwr glanced around of quickly.
"My help," he repeated. "My help with your brother?"
"Of course," Fychan answered. The wizard's face darkened. "I hate him. I despise him. A mere warrior, while I control the very elements!"
"But you cannot defeat him," Bradwr said. Fychan snarled in frustration.
"All I need is to keep him away from me," the wizard explained. "But he is too quick. He will close the distance before I can cast enough spells to finish him. And while my magic is certainly powerful, I cannot cast with his sword in my gut."
"My brother's magic is far too powerful for me," Bradwr admitted. "His wards and circles… no."
"No?" Fychan repeated. "Why not?"
"Because… because we face a threat from another house," Bradwr said. "If it were another time… but I cannot, not now."
"What better time than now?" Fychan countered enthusiastically. "If Maddox dies of magic, then you are not to blame and your scapegoats are already provided! All you need to do is keep him from casting, and I will finish him!"
Bradwr considered his logic for a long moment, but Fychan could tell that the warrior could barely contain his desire to be rid of Maddox.
"Not now," Bradwr said. "Talk to me another time."
"As you wish," Fychan said. "I am easy to find, Bradwr, and I am always looking for allies."
It was rare for her to come down to the mines, but today she had little other choice.
Talaith Evnissien picked her way carefully through the supports and the piles of crushed stone that obstructed the short, narrow passages almost fifty feet directly blow House Evnissien, ducking in many places as the roof of the tunnels dropped to less than her five and a half foot height. Vulgar, harsh voices shouted to each other around her, evidence of miners working in the swirling clouds of dust and cramped side tunnels. The miners worked in total darkness, and although Talaith's darkvision allowed her to see in shades of gray around her, she still had a difficult time making out the shapes of the duergar working all around her. At least fifty of the gray dwarves worked the mines of House Evnissien, a profitable agreement that had lasted for well over a decade. The duergar, miners without peer when it came to extracting minerals from the earth, were far more thorough and swift than slave labor, making up for the wages Matron Saffir paid and then some. Still, Talaith thought, the duergar were infuriating to her. The noble daughter was marked both by the piwafwi of her house and the weblike tunic over her chain mail as a priestess of Lolth, but even as one of the short, burly miners cut directly across her path, he refused to give her even a deferential nod of his head. The duergar may have been excellent miners and nearly tireless workers, but they stubbornly refused to show any respect to their betters.
Talaith pushed her way through one particularly narrow passage, emerging into a small cave away from the miners' shouts and the constant ringing of picks and hammers. Here three of the duergar stood around a table lit by a single candle in a sconce, although from the sour looks on their faces Talaith could tell that none of the squat, ugly creatures enjoyed the faint illumination. While the drow enjoyed the colors brought about by the soft, cool glows of faerie fire and the occasional candle, the gray dwarves preferred to live their lives in total darkness. Even in the light, Talaith could find little difference between a duergar in light vision or darkvision; each of the creatures had slate colored skin, and their largely bald scalps held only a few stringy hairs of a slightly lighter gray. Their beards were scraggly and patchy, and each of the three duergar wore only solid black scale mail and leather. As Talaith entered the chamber, the three duergar looked up, their cold blue eyes almost glowing in the light of the candle between them.
"Talaith Evnissien," the largest of the three said, his voice gravelly and curt. The gray dwarf took a step forward, his arms folded across his barrel chest but his hand resting close to the heavy hammer nestled in a loop on his belt.
"It is good to see you again, Tybalt," Talaith lied, smiling faintly as she spoke. Tybalt snorted derisively at the pleasantries.
"Let us not play games," the duergar stated tactlessly. "You are here for a reason."
"Matron Saffir has need of your talents," the priestess began, wishing Arywdd could have been sent for this task. Dealing with the duergar was not something Talaith enjoyed in the least, but for the moment it was necessary that a noble handle the negotiations. With Arwydd involved in negotiations with House Gwalchgwynn, Naomhin planning his raid on the Hen Wyneb caravan, and Fychan working his contacts in Llyfrdy-Lledreth, only Talaith had been available to meet with the miners below their house. At least Tybalt knew the drow language, Talaith thought, sparing her the need to communicate in the vulgar duergar tongue. The priestess paused for a moment as she considered the other two gray dwarves in the room. "Perhaps we may speak in private?"
One of the duergar rolled his eyes in disgust and left the small chamber through the same entrance Talaith had used. The other, gaunt and faintly tall, at least for a duergar, seemed not to even register the priestess' implied request.
"Rollo will remain with us," Tybalt said, noticing Talaith's meaningful glance to the emaciated duergar. "No doubt this is negotiation for something more than mere ore, and the Taskmaster should be privy."
Talaith hesitated a moment longer as she appraised the two gray dwarves. The Taskmaster was a title she was only vaguely familiar with; it was one of the appellations of Laduguer, the unfeeling, joyless god of the duergar. While Talaith did not see anything on Rollo's person to identify him as a priest, she knew that Tybalt was not a cleric of his god.
"Very well," Talaith relented, deciding not to push the issue. "How far do your mines extend to the southeast?"
"There is little ore to the southeast," Tybalt informed the priestess.
"Answer the question," Talaith pressed. The mine boss scratched his head as he turned back to a small map set under the candle sconce. Talaith glanced over to Rollo, who currently watched the priestess with his dead blue eyes. While she knew she had nothing to fear from a duergar cleric of their dour god, that lifeless stare unsettled her faintly.
"They extend only a thousand feet," Tybalt said, regaining Talaith's attention. "We have had no cause to mine there."
"You do now," Talaith said, disregarding Rollo as she moved to the table. She looked over the map for a moment, then finally pointed to a spot over a mile southeast of Evnissien's mines. "How quickly do you think you could tunnel here?"
Tybalt pondered the map for a long moment, no change of expression coming across the slightly disgusted mask that he perpetually wore.
"If we move all our resources to tunneling alone, it would still take quite some days," the mine boss finally replied. "And we will not be able to mine the ore that your house desires."
"That is of secondary concern, at the moment," Talaith stated as she considered the information. The priestess had already assumed they would lose much of their production, and, in fact, Talaith planned to use the sudden drop as a justification to buy more slaves. "The tunnel will come first. And we are willing to hire a hundred additional slaves to aid your duergar."
"What is this tunnel for?" Tybalt asked, looking up at the priestess. Talaith smirked faintly.
"For your duergar warriors," the priestess replied.
Everything was ready. Now all he needed was the caravan.
Naomhin had spent hours researching his ambush point and the Hen Wyneb caravan routes to House Caer Llion in preparation for the first strike against the rival house. The point he had chosen was a narrow street along the southeastern edge of Llyr, dominated by two story homes of beautifully sculpted stone towers and mushroom cottages, interspersed with small, crude huts for the occasional slaves kept by the artisan class of drow that lived in the area. While many drow merchants and craftsmen would likely see the battle that was about to take place, none would dare speak out about such an attack, nor would they be able to identify the plainly dressed drow that were about to strike the Hen Wyneb caravan. A half dozen of House Evnissien's most experienced soldiers had accompanied Naomhin and Cadwared on this assault, and the elderboy doubted that the Hen Wyneb guards would be ready for such a lethal strike team.
The caravan finally came into view. Naomhin, hidden closest to the incoming drow along the edge of one particularly beautiful miniature tower highlighted with points of green and blue aerie fire, withdrew even further into the shadows of the home, motioning to the drow behind him to signal the others. The elderboy's hands dropped to the hilts of his swords as he watched the unsuspecting caravan draw closer. There were ten drow and at least twenty slave porters, mostly orcs and bugbears that showed the clear signs of the many beatings visited upon them to maintain discipline in the march. Only one female was present among his enemies, but Naomhin could easily see the spider web embroidery on her robes that marked her as a priestess of Lolth. His first target chosen, Naomhin slowly began to draw his swords, eagerly awaiting the imminent battle.
The lead drow in the Hen Wyneb caravan was suddenly caught in an explosion of ice and frost, freezing the poor warrior before he even knew that he had activated a magical trap. Naomhin was moving almost before the guard had died, leaping from the shadows and rushing headlong for the stunned priestess. Cadwared appeared from his concealment on the other side of the caravan, his shadow taking on a life of its own and breaking off to attack another target. Two magic missiles slammed home into a guard next to Naomhin, but the elderboy ignored it as he swiftly gutted a surprised wizard in his path and found himself face to face with the Hen Wyneb priestess.
Although she had been surprised by the sudden assault, the female was already through her first spell when Naomhin reached her. The priestess screamed, impossibly loud, deafening the elderboy and nearly bowling him over with the force of the sonic blast. Ignoring the wave of pain shooting through his head and chest, Naomhin drove forward, his long sword tearing a deep gash through the priestess' chain mail and chest even as his short sword drove low, ripping into her waist and catching on the inside of her pelvis. The priestess' deafening scream was reduced to a gasp of agony as she slid off of her enemy's blades. Naomhin wasted no time watching the hateful glare in her eyes fade; there were still other guards, and slaves, to take care of. One had already reached Naomhin, but the guard, his sword drawn back to strike a heavy blow across the elderboy's back, never found his chance as Naomhin whirled and impaled the young drow to the hilt of his long sword. Naomhin's short sword flashed out even as the guard rushed onto his first blade, catching one of the orcish porters in the throat. Two more enemies fell as Naomhin withdrew his weapons, and the elderboy turned to see who else was left.
As quickly as it had begun, the battle was already over. Cadwared stood over the bodies of two Hen Wyneb guards, his short sword dripping blood and his shadow slowly returning to its place on the ground. His six other drow had moved in just as quickly, slaying the guards with ruthless precision and speed first, then turning on the panicked slaves with equal fury. One orc, dropping to his knees to beg for his life at the feet of the priestess in Naomhin's squad, barely managed a word before another of the raiders had plunged his spear through the ugly humanoid's back. A bugbear sprinted away into the darkness, trying desperately to disappear before the drow noticed him, but six poisoned darts hit the goblinoid creature in the back as it tried to scale a low fence.
"Flawless," Cadwared said, his face lit by a broad smile as joined Naomhin in the center of the destroyed caravan. "We took almost no time at all!"
"Take everything we can carry," Naomhin ordered, turning from Cadwared to the other drow. "And take your darts and any other weapons. No trace."