It was that damn mirror up on the wall. Mad-mage studying it; drow fighters seeking its direction every so often; the Sharran following the example. Viconia ordered him to pour another glass of wine.
"It's where," Falzress said, her glass halfway drained, "the mirror showed your slave half-shadowed. It's quite powerful. And where, of course, you also stand in shadow—for you were not sent by the Spider Queen to find heretics. We were."
"My true name," said Beliavor, "is Zhariuelil." Her face slipped and melted into something else, and fiddling with the door behind them only had it grow thicker and start to burn with unnatural heat.
"I am Vleirelyue," said Lalrichten, her face turning the same, still a drow, this one identical and near-bland for all it was comely enough.
"Kessilvyabah," said Falzress, and laid down the glass for good. "Stand up, Sharran, and see the revealed truth."
Viconia obeyed them like it was a bardic compulsion, and Montaron felt his own arms shaking and his muscles failing to work. She stood. Between the three identical sisters and in the light of the mirror her shape danced between spider-worshipper and black-circled Sharran. Her ioun stone continued to float around her pale hair.
"We say our true names before we fight," said Kessilvyabah, "so that the victim will always know that we wait for them."
"That we exist an eternity," said Zhariuelil.
"That in the Demonweb Pits with us will be your punishment," Vleirelyue said.
"Handmaidens," said Kessilvyabah, and drew her sword at precisely the same moment as the other two. The mirror flickered. "Viconia DeVir of Shar," she said, and in its reflection yet another Viconia wore sigil and armour of another time and loyalty, standing over a part-drow babe laid out on an altar.
"Sister to Valas the drider," Zhariuelil said.
"Pathetic victim of surfacer humans," Vleirelyue said, "and mere pawn to the silver one."
"Yochlol," Viconia said, and raised her hands to cover her face. "Lloth has come for her vengeance at last. Do what you will." She raised her head; she left an open neck; and it wasn't for the sake of a plan.
"It's a shame she signalled me to poison your wine that second round," Montaron said. Three identical faces rotated to stare across at him, and it looked like the bones in their necks twisted into a new shape instead of the joints moving.
"No venom may slay us, for toxin runs in our veins in place of blood," Kessilvyabah said.
"Were you not listening or never told, imposter worm? We are black widows in one of our forms," said Zhariuelil, and opened her mouth to show dark teeth in place of white.
"We are poison living and true," Vleirelyue said. Black stuff dripped down her bare arm, and he didn't doubt it could do a painful death. "These cannot give us a worthy fight, sisters. Let's impale them and watch them bleed out."
Xzar finished a gesture. The fineground fragments of sunstone bullets in the demons' gullets exploded. Just as he'd planned to use on the bloodsuckers if he ever got a chance.
It seemed to work near as well on demons of underground goddesses. By which, bits of their skin and flesh fell off in a sudden explosion and they lost their shape entirely to turn to three large waxen lumps that Viconia had warned about.
If Zhents expected demon-fighting, there'd have to be at least three carts' worth of hazard pay in platinum and preferably a high priest or two and several sane mages there for backup. The yochlol stunk like what they were, something far deep in dead remains and hellplanes, and the wax tentacles grasped at the Sharran drow between them. Viconia got enough of herself together to spin her mace in a circle and weave back from them, for it was mostly her they wanted and watched.
"Morimatra is the specialised drow wine manufactured only in the Underdark made from mushrooms as a base. It is rare and considered a delicacy for its rarity in our surface world," Xzar recited. He closed his eyes. "Heavily spiced, Morimatra possesses an acidic base and is strongly recommended to accompany rare, bloody venison of strong flavour or similar, or else to cook lamb or fish in as a vinegar-like flavoured sauce. Older Morimatra tends to be full-bodied and with a spiky residue of sediment mixed throughout; more recent Morimatra is thinner and more immediately striking in flavour.
"Incidentally, to remove wax stains upon one's robes that result from various late-night experiments, vinegar is much recommended."
Then a disembodied green mage-hand of the mad wizard raised what was left of the wine bottle in the air; and did some alchemy-fiddlings with it. Montaron cut through a pair of wax tentacles that lashed toward them. They wriggled around and moved their way back to the unformed lumps on the ground, but then a volume of some liquid splashed down on the shapes. They didn't die but they started burning.
Viconia had made it to the other side of the room, clearing a space for herself by swinging her mace. "Shar," she said, "or— Helps those who help themselves, indeed— Bring flame down upon them!" she called, and a torrent of dark stuff good enough for the mad mage struck down on the first of the wax monsters. Then it was gone, bubbling first into liquid and then to nothing at all. The other two switched directions to go after her lest she holy-flame again.
Xzar snapped his fingers and wrapped himself in stone for skin, then reached out a hand for one of the demons and started chanting. Montaron drove swords into the wax, over and over, keeping it for a distraction if nothing else. There wasn't time to think and each drip of it burned him. Set it on fire the old-fashioned way, he thought, but when he started with the tinderbox he wasn't sure if that changed the melting wax. Then Xzar's spell finished—
"They call the priest's spell Harm, and because hurting people is simpler the arcane arts can replicate it better thank you very much..."
A piece of molten wax threw the mad wizard across the room and left deep marks on him, the stone gone off from his skin. But the thing was wounded. Montaron stabbed down into parts of it, Corthala's blade and a dweomered thing he'd taken from the asylum ruins, slicing apart a red part of the wax thing that tried to melt together. Then it split up and bled to the floor like it was weeping tears, and started vanishing away.
The third stopped where it was backing down Viconia and wove its tentacles high in the air. They spun into a strange shape; Montaron set blades across it in case that'd work.
"It casts!" Viconia said. "Mage, end—"
A line of dweomered missiles fell into the wax flesh. Then around them all was a pale blue webbing through the air that cut like razorblades when they tried to move. A wax tentacle fixed itself on Viconia's head and shifted to cover her mouth and nose.
Montaron lunged forward and cut it off. His arm bled; the mad mage aimed a flaming arrow to the demon's back. The wax sizzled. Viconia wrenched the thing from her burned face and tried to heal herself. He distracted it and tried to slash fast enough to do it harm. Acid came next from Xzar's hands and that worked into the wax. He burned and bled all over.
The Sharran'd managed to get up, and got out powdered silver from her armour. She ran like a skink from a crow around the demon and dropped the stuff in a circle, throwing herself between the webs. She tripped and fell to the ground with a bleeding shin, and started to chant. Pale blue light snapped around the circle and knocked Montaron back while it burned him too. He'd seen the like from god-bothering priest in the past, protectin' from creatures of evil and it tended to hurt him too when it was done—
"It won't last," Viconia said quickly. "Finish it. Finish it now. Slaves." A spell of Xzar's made it across the silver line. Montaron pulled himself up and thrust himself into the bedroom alcove of an unlocked door. Beds didn't look slept in, but gathering dust under there was more wine, more stuff for the mad mage.
"Same vinegar trick," he said, chucking one and then the other in Xzar's direction. Too bad the mad mage didn't have a disintegration at hand, but he was never one to be useful. The wax form shook and bubbled like it was trying to turn into something else. Viconia clutched the neckline of her armour and on the other side of the sealed door there were noises. Seemed it was still sealed. The wax tentacles kept trying to cross the circle and the silver dust was turning black bit by bit.
Wine-acid fell from above and bubbled on the wax form. It drooped and dropped down in size to a littler thing. Viconia went forward and stuck her mace down on it the moment the silver gave way, and splattered parts of it apart. The mad mage went forward with his dagger gleaming silver, and bit by bit wax steamed and skin boiled and tentacles fell apart. It bubbled away same as the other two, and the stench of it lessened. There were still curious noises behind the sealed door. Montaron bent a moment to the black on the floor. Those were drow, they wouldn't break in so much as wait for a winner of some little fight and swoop in when they knew the victor was weak enough for spoils...
The mad wizard made a grab for that blasted mirror and they took the window. Slid and scraped down a sloping part of the roof and came to a painful jolt on the ground with nothing stronger than a cheap sanctuary spell protecting them. It jarred bones, but they'd taken the fall; and ran like madmen for some corner, any corner, to hide. They doubled back and hid a trail and found themselves in a burned unrepaired shell of a building, down in Ust Natha's meanest streets with few drow and a populace of lost kobolds to humans wandering fearfully around.
"Sometimes slaves who were absent at the fall of their masters find themselves free of any who care to secure them," Viconia said, coldly reciting things. "Sometimes a few come to drow cities as traders rather than slaves, and find themselves separated or impoverished. Sometimes masters could not be troubled to waste the time killing a useless slave and send them out of the house as a beggar. Some surfacer fools even pursue quests here for the sake of our drow arts and magics—or drow allure. Some drow commoners find themselves able to do nothing whatsoever to improve their station and sink to this level. Thus slums and pits such as these are the home of the weak, the misfit, and the cast-out in the form of mercy that grants years of misery."
"—Feel almost at home," Montaron said. His right leg was striped by deep burns; he drew out some of their water to spread over it. Hurt worse when there was more of it to hurt, most likely.
"You would, slave," Viconia said. "The yochlol are... I knew they would come for me. I knew the Spider Queen would never forgive my abandonment of her. She spins her weave and even in her madness worse than the mage does not forget for one moment those who slight her, even without meaning or will. The Spider Queen makes her yochlol handmaidens speak their names before they kill one, so that the victim will always know they have tormenters whose existence will never end nor will their trail grow cold. She transformed Valas to one of her creatures. No mercy waits. Never mercy." She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees and stared blankly into the slum's walls.
"It was my brother's child," she said after a breath of time had passed. "Valas' child with a human slave he favoured overmuch. I remember the female was dark for a human and quite comely, and he liked to spare her from whipping by claiming her value as a pleasure slave. Diluting the honour of the race by careless reproduction is frowned upon. Perhaps it was not even his! Perhaps the shameless surfacer harlot betrayed him. I always hated her. Still I had my moment of weakness when I saw my brother's features in the infant. I slew my brother's concubine to try to win the Spider Queen's favour once more—and still the goddess refused me. Valas forgave me. I ran. Her servants have long memories."
"You're well into your seventh century; and they're immortal, aren't they?" Xzar said. "Think of the mathematics of it."
"You mean if I am lucky I am an old decrepit woman who will die before they trouble to return from the Demonweb Pits for me," Viconia snapped back. "Well, I am not old or decrepit. We are eternally young compared to you surfacers. Besides, we will more likely die in some pathetic battle from your incapability."
"When're we planned to make it out of here?" Montaron said, and she glanced down at him.
"Yes," she said. "We will. We slew three Handmaidens of a rival deity; that must have been Shar's interest. We are leaving the city gates the instant we are rested enough to stay alive."
"—Seconded, mistress," Montaron said. She smiled without animation. "Those were slaves of House DeVir in the markets this day," Viconia said. "Two of my nephews. One of my aunts. A cousin's son. They were weak, they were reduced to uselessness, they must have been brought here to be a sacrifice to the Spider Queen. I would...free them if I could, though they likely enough still pray to the Spider Queen and would be too weak to keep up with us." She laid a hand over coin Adalon'd transmuted to drowish gold; wouldn't be enough there to make a legitimate purchase of slaves even if they were stupid enough to front up to the open markets.
"Did you see the aboleth?" Xzar said, spreading his arms wide. "Aboleth! It was big, and it was wide. It was in the tank. They're neither dead nor alive. They're ancient and from the bottom of the ocean. There's supposed to be a vast metarhinal cortex in the brain dissection where all the memories of the world are stored...but I don't think I have a big enough scalpel. No, really, it's the complete truth! A secret aboleth hiding in a tank in those market. Tank's shielded from most that I or you could do with it, of course. They have impressive magic, and ought to, for the setting."
"To survive a drow city," Viconia said harshly. Montaron thought back to the markets; tank, cages, high towers, slanting rooftops.
"Some invisibility potions and a few good crossbow bolts and I've that in hand," he said. "Viconia, what's the shelling-cover of the buildings? Even up in the surface world a few mage-towers have spells built in to stop climbers getting ideas." He called her by name.
She gave a nod. "There ought to be bolts which can cause explosion for the buying. Are you talented enough to hit the locks of the cages of the DeVir slaves, and then a guard or two? If they are strong they will then seize weapons and try to escape on their own, or at least to seek a death in battle."
"And the aboleth tank—if Xzar's not talking to the voices in his head again—might look protected, but it's on a hollow dais. Easy to roll it off and set it into the crowd if ye turn that to the target," Montaron said.
"And the gate guards will overhear the riot and perhaps be summoned to aid; and then I and the mage will leave in the confusion. You must hurry to join us. Yes," Viconia said, "kill while we leave."
"That's the best idea you've had in a while, Monty. It promises such glorious chaos." The mad wizard smiled, and it shouldn't have made him feel better about things at all.
"One can never return home, they say," Viconia said. "Or at least, not without wanting to cause the earth to swallow it up and have the inhabitants basted over a slow fire."
—
Shame about the funds they were out, but ye traded gold for life when pinch came to it. Montaron edged along the slope of a rooftop and set the crossbow ready. The drow slaves still in the cage; the potion holding. Think of it as if ye'd one chance of it, for it didn't take too many brains to spot a bolt back from its angle. First shot had to count for the most, but he set it up with the lock of the drow cage anyway. Meant to be unpickable—especially from insideways—but the bolt was set up with enough sulphur-potion to smash metal four times that size. He stretched his hands one last time, licked his forefinger for luck, and squinted close for a clear view.
Then he released it, and without even looking to see where it went got his second up and loaded. The aboleth's creaking dais was a larger target, and the moment after the explosion the tank started its long pancake-flattening roll down through the screaming. There were guards starting to pinpoint him, looking upward; he risked a third bolt to get down one of the slavers. A male drow got out of the cage to the body, snatched up its swords, and started fighting his way through. Like woman, like family. He'd managed to start a fire in the old wood of the aboleth's dais and it'd started to spread; and inside the tank something was flopping in the murky depths. Folk had started to scream.
Swallow another invisibility potion and get down in a hurry—not by the simplest way 'case they thought ahead, across to the next roof where some meat was stored. He broke through a skylight and ran through corpses dangling from the ceiling, rothe-cow things dripping blood. He'd carry pursuit by stink alone if they got that far, but it was easy enough to fling himself out on the first floor and down a flight of steps. He'd wiped his boots for not tracking bloody footprints.
The screams started, and he felt enough of a blinding headache not to go anywhere near there. The fish-creature in the tank did something to folk's minds, and he would have sworn that for a moment in those murky depths a googly white eye turned to him and him alone. He saw Solaufein from before and a female warrior by the mage-drow's heels, both of them running and chasing; and took the opposite way. A few more things in the market caught on fire behind him.
Viconia had already killed the one remaining gate-guard and she and Xzar stepped out running. Across the bridge they could've been shot down easy from behind, but the mage waved a hand over a scrap of some hide and a row of hobgoblins were summoned up to block their escape. They fled back through the caverns, to the svirfneblin village for lack of anything better, tell that silver dragon to go screw herself on Manshoon's spiked tower of Zhentil Keep...
Feet pounded behind them; Solaufein and the drow woman with him were gaining. Sounded that it were only the two of them. They made it through a long warren of Underdark cavern.
"Stand and fight," Viconia said, panting; he drew his crossbow again to watch for where they crossed that boulder. Still one fancy-bolt left. Xzar raised his hands to cast a spell. When a flicker of movement came into his vision Montaron loosed the bolt right off, but it wasn't the face of a drow who didn't know his own business that it exploded in.
Squidfolk came down and surrounded them. He'd fought them before and the'd bled then. Montaron drew his blades and went for the one closest to the other two, and Viconia called down that same strike of dark fire she'd done to the demons. The mad mage chanted a spell. The squid tentacles lashed out like whips and he saw himself make at least one of them bleed. It'd been easier with the mage-drow chanting to hold them in place, he thought, and fixed a blade into where something like eyes were supposed to be. Six of them moved in. Something scraped his head, and his mind exploded in a sea of pale blue sparks. He felt himself hit the dirt and then it all went to nothing.
—