Forgotten Realms The Breed

Fantasy novel

-THE BREED-

by Radosavljević Stanislav

-THE INFIDEL-

by

Stanislav Radosavljević

-Prologue-

Huge muscles pumped rapidly, as the man worked out his daily exercise. He was a huge man,

closer to seven than to six feet, and weighing over two hundred pounds. Sweat gathered on his freshly

shaved head, dripping on the iron floor. He was alone in the dark room, the only light coming from an

oil lamp hanging above the closed door. But he didn.t fear the eerie atmosphere; for he was Fachur

the Rock, military commander of the Regulators, mighty law enforcers of the city of Automata.

He knew he was probably the most feared man in the city, because of his merciless

dealings with criminals of any race or gender. He lived through numerous assassination attempts,

slaying more assassins then he let escape. He was in his mid forties now, an experienced fighter more

than capable of taking care of himself.

..

Fachur exited training grounds, saluted two heavily armored guards on the gate, and headed

home. The streets were empty, and the sky was dark. Fachur, as any other citizen of Automata, knew

that a severe desert storm was on its way. The hot wind was already blowing with considerable power,

and boring dust was fast filling his eyes.

The huge man approached the door of his mansion, and uttered a quick arcane phrase

that disarmed the magical traps on his door. He opened the door and quickly entered the house, before

the wards could reset themselves. He felt a slight rush of air on his face as he entered the building, but

considered it only a draft created by the variation of temperatures outside and inside the house.

The house was remarkable, a real mirror of his good social status. But what could not

be seen, and were even more remarkable, were the magical wards set all around the house set to keep

off the intruders. They varied from silent alarms and spells that could detect magically invisible

creatures, to the more destructive evocation spells. The house was indeed a fortress. Fachur made

many enemies in his twenty years of service, and such precaution measures were indeed necessary.

He lit four lamps in four corners of his sleeping room, stripped and went in the

steaming tub in the middle of his room for a hot bath. The searing water relaxed his tense muscles,

and he swiped the sweat off his shaved head.

Enjoying the bath, he almost fainted when the pitching sounds started emanating form all

around him, and the whole room shone in bright magical light that was used to reveal any thieves

skulking in the shadows. Fachur the Rock looked in all directions frantically trying to spot the intruder

and went for his huge sword. He knew the intruder would be visible now, for the invisibility purging

spells were also the part of defensive wards. He stood in silence for a few moments; his naked stuck

tight back to the wall and he waved his sword menacingly, as if daring the assassin to go for the kill.

Then it all suddenly stopped, the alarm and the light went out and he clamed himself.

"Damn rats! They get bigger and bigger every day." He stated for himself, thinking that a big

rat set off the alarm. Anyway, if the intruder was in the house, then he fled, for there are no means to

stay unseen when the alarm goes off, he thought.

Cursing himself for such anxiety, Fachur went back in the bath, splashing the water all around

the room when his massive bulk entered the oval tub. He closed his eyes once again, and relaxed back

in the boiling water.

A heavy blow to the back of his head sent his two hundred ponds flying out of the water. He

retained his consciousness, and realized that he was laying, his back to the floor. He tried to stand up,

but he couldn.t feel anything below his neck.

A slender form appeared in above him, out of thin air. Because of his awkward position,

Fachur – called the Rock for his resistance to physical damage – could see only the hooded head of

his killer. The face had noble and sharp lines, and Fachur couldn.t decide whether it was a male or a

female.

The face was divided vertically on two halves. The right half was snow-white and lips were

continually curved upwards in a sincere smile. The left of the face was obsidian-black, wearing an

expression of true sorrow, and with an immovable glittering tear positioned beneath the left eye. The

eyes themselves were in the contrast with the face. The right one was black, and the left was white.

Neither had pupils. It was a frightening combination. Fachur thought it to be a mask, but he realized

that the face moved as the skin would.

"What is this all about?" he grasped with inhuman effort.

"Nindyn vel'uss kyorl nind ratha tharla elghinn dal lil alust," the assassin said in a melodic

language Fachur didn.t understand a word of. At, least he now knew that his killer was male.

It didn.t matter anyway, for it was all darkness then for Fachur, once known as The Rock.

-The Return-

"Praise to Lloth" mother Nedylene shouted once more, while her warriors were finishing the

remaining tieflings in the main cave of Automata Underground. Tieflings, the last line of defense

surrounding the Anarchy.s Central Headquarters, where resting in their own blood, while the Drow

celebrated their bloody victory.

Wode supported his back on the cave wall and rubbed his aching head with both

hands. Spell casting required full concentration, and the battle itself lasted long, too long for his

likings. He took one of many bottles from his sash, the blue one with red stopper, and drank it thirstily

to the bottom. The headache.s abrupt end brought a self-admiring smile on his face. He dominated the

battle once again. Thirty-seven enemies, if his count was exact, fell under his devastating spells. He

put lots of enemies to magical slumber and even summoned one or two creatures from other planes to

finish them. Still, he was very tired and wound on his shoulder bothered him awfully. One of the

lesser priestesses put her pretty hands on him and murmured some kind of prayer, healing his

shoulder.

Wode stepped of the wall, and neared Matron Nedylene bowing respectfully.

"Matron Nedylene, won!" Said Wode, with any sort of excitement removed from his

voice. "Shouldn.t we go back? There is a long trip awaiting us." He bowed once more waiting for

Matron.s respond.

Taking off her glove – a bloody claw bracer - she looked at him. Wode, the most powerful

wizard she has ever had, always kept aside from family matters, interested only in his experiments

even she knew slight about. She only knew that it involved mixing of different races and even the

deadliest of all schools of magic, necromancy. She suddenly realized that she was staring in his sharp

red eyes.

"Yes, order leave," she snapped moving her eyes elsewhere, "and send me Akordia with

battle report." Before he bowed and left she added. "You were among the best Wode, as always." The

best, Wode whispered while he was nearing the stalactite that served as a tower to the defenders.

Almost six and a half feet tall he soared over high priestesses gathered in the base of the stalactite.

Soon after that the Ivril family war party was on it.s way toward the improvised drow

settlement a couple of miles away from Automata Underground. Ched Nasad.s leading council,

following the will of Lloth, exiled them to the city of Automata in the Outer Planes almost two

hundred years ago. The cause for such harsh verdict was serious, but not serious enough for

eradication of the whole family. It was Wode himself.

He was thinking about the exile as he was moving on the smooth cavern floor, among

silent but content, warriors to the settlement. He felt their admiring looks on himself. Such prowess in

battle was far beyond any of them, perfected in centuries of training. Half a millennium he lived, and

used it better than anybody of Ivril family. Some used to say that Wode Ivril lived as fast as Humans,

not leaving a single moment wasted. His thoughts were shattered by clatter made by Kalannar pushing

the warriors away to stand to the right side of Akordia, Matron Nedylene.s oldest female spawn. They

are close for over a decade, noted Wode. That made the already tense relation with that green-eyed

fool Kalannar even worse. He envied the wizard for his battle effectiveness, and now threw an evil

glance over Akordia.s shoulder to Wode, as if daring him to attack over Akordia. The bald wizard did

not want a high priestess for a foe, even if he was, and he was, more powerful than her. This one in

particular, thought Wode, being Matron.s oldest daughter, and superior to her three sisters, was a

threat. Akordia tried, as all the others, to be as close to the mother as possible. And Nedylene, of

course, watched that her daughter does not take her spot as a Matron mother by assassination or

similar means.

He, as a male, for killing a priestess, would be trialed quick and without mercy. Males

are usually trailed so, being meaningless commoners or men on high positions, as himself. If his

father wasn.t House patron, before Nedylene.s reign, he might have become brainless heap of

muscles as Kalannar. But, his father wisely showed him the ways of magic, he heard surface dwellers

call it The Art, and ambitious young Wode studied it hard. For three hundred years Wode studied, not

paying heed to anything else. The use of magic in battle came by itself, but Wode was far more

interested in magical changing of self and the others. His ideal magic combinations were lectured in

wizard academies not only in Ched Nasad, but in other dark elf cities, as well. The exile of Ivril

family from Ched Nasad stopped him from achieving his ultimate goal, creating "what created shall

never be", as Ched Nasad.s Matron council referred to it on that day almost two hundred years ago.

The blue glow of faerie fires from afar told him that scouting team that Matron sent

reached the settlement, and that no trouble happened there. Hathra.s frightening coughing reminded

Wode that it was time to give him one of his medications, used to kill the pain in his chest. Wode took

out one of his bottles and handed it over to the ill poet. Murky yellow eyes gave him a grateful look,

the eyes that were the best indicator to tell so as to the a was either ailing or dead…

In a hand, he felt some kind of sympathy for Hathra. So fragile and ill, he seemed to

be a white light in the dull and dark depths of the Underdark. He would probably feel better in the

sunshine of the surface that would kill the worms in his lungs and give him inspiration to write about

something more beautiful than Spider Queen and her destructions. Occupied by his disease, he did not

care for his place in the hierarchy of the Ivril family, which was almost unbelievable for a drow. He

wasn.t Ivril after all, so a place as a family bard saved him from hard labor and combat. He even had

special treatment from mother Nedylene, for the weakling was the one to make a story of the Ivril

family return from the banishment. While watching Hathra greedily drinking from the bottle, Wode

wandered how he would look without his meds. Wode was the only one that knew how to make the

maggots turn into gelatinous mass Hathra would after cough out. The cunning wizard prepared only

small amounts of the mixture, telling naive bard that he could make only that much, keeping him as

an ally in that treacherous way. Hathra, feeling a little bit better, could not see the self-confident smile

gathered in the corner of his "savior.s" thin lips.

The priestesses illuminated the cavern that used as House Ivril.s home for over two

hundred years using their innate faerie fire ability. Roughly carved balconies were swarming with

warriors waiting to salute Matron mother.s return. Wode levitated up to his laboratory on the top of

the cavern, watching the dull glow of Hathra.s yellow eyes. He stroked his smooth head, not feeling

touched at all.

..

High priestess of Lloth, Akordia Ivril, came out of the massive, rune carved, door of

settlement.s main building. Her mother Nedylene followed shortly surrounded by four warriors, her

personal guard, wearing their best chain armors and swords decorated with spider web motives. On a

clearing encircled by buildings two hundred dark elves positioned in groups were waiting for the

biggest moment in their lives. The wizards followed the biggest warrior group, with few priestesses of

Lloth being closest to the Mother.

Matron mother Nedylene Ivril, was wearing blood-red chain armor, while her plentiful snow-

white hair locks, covering her back, were ending with rune-carved silver spikes. She wore crimson

leather gloves and cloak that looked even more crimson on her obsidian, wavy, body. Her foxy moves

made the spider on her cloak move as if alive. She made a quick hand gesture and hyped conversation

coming from all around turned into grave silence in an instant.

Two of the priestess dragged warriors, one each; and made them kneel in front of the mother.

Their spider-shaped ceremonial daggers made swift cuts on poor drow.s throats, and blood was

flowing thick on the magical fire in the brazier in no time. As soon as the first drop of blood touched

the fire, Matron Nedylene was lifted off the ground with some unseen force and hung in midair

experiencing devastating convulsions. Sweat dripped from her body in little streams, and her head

was turning in a repulsive, unnatural way. Only Akordia knew what was happening. She stood still,

encouraging her sisters to keep the blood flowing into the brazier, knowing that stopping the flow now

would be the end for her mother.s life, and more important, end of any hope of return to Ched Nasad.

That foul ritual lasted for over one minute, and than mother Nedylene fell unceremoniously to the

hard cavern floor. Her eyes held a deviant glow as she pulled herself on her feet and let a deafening

scream.

" We have pleased the Spider Queen. Prepare for the return." With last efforts, she threw her

hands in the air, and a portal, as huge as any of them have ever seen, opened in the middle of the

clearing. With a hideous smile Nedylene let the dark fall over her.

The smell of Underdark.s moisture tickled Wode.s nostrils like finest of Amnish

perfumes. Oh, it was so good to be back, noted Wode while casting a variety of defensive spells on

himself. They came out of the portal maybe ten miles outside Ched Nasad. Probably one last trial of

the Spider Queen, thought Wode. Ten miles may not be a long way, but in the Underdark it was long

enough to die a couple of times, at least. The warriors were positioning themselves in already

assigned places, leading the slaves in front of them for use in the living shield if there was any trouble.

When the perimeter was secured, Akordia gathered a group of expendable males and sent them as a

scouting party towards Ched Nasad. They drew their weapons as if expecting a deadly enemy to jump

out from behind the first corner.

As soon as their white hair was out of view, Matron Nedylene addressed her

daughters.

"These are the caves of Cloven Heads, the place where once mighty Menzoberra slaughtered

her way through the dwarven bastards of the Blackaxe clan. Thousands of their puny skeletons lay

around us rotting." Mother let out a regretful sigh, "How I wish I took part in that battle" said she, her

facial expression firm again.

"You haven.t killed a dwarven bastard or a surface elf for a long time mother, but I feel you

will not have to wait much longer." One of younger daughters dared to address her without being

asked to. Nedylene gave her an evil glance preparing to punish her, but yelling from behind her

stopped her suddenly.

One of the scouts stumbled from the darkness, covered in blood pouring from wide,

rough cuts on his body. He was missing his entire left hand, and his right was hanging only on his

skin.

"Horrible… huge axes… beast from the dark-…" was all he managed to say before falling

unconscious due to pain and blood loss. The drow weren.t puzzled long over his words. Screams

unknown to the ears that were used to almost anything filled the chamber in an instant. Tens of

creatures, each over six feet tall, were charging from all around them. Greasy black hair was falling on

oversized red ears, while their big, gruesome mouths held rows of little sharp teeth dominated by four

huge fangs. Sturdy and covered in scars of numerous battles, gray-skinned creatures charged with fury

only seen when a drider encounters a drow.

The first row of defenders, consisted of slaves, fell quickly being surprised by the

might of the charge. But, the drow had enough time to set their defenses properly and keep the

creatures at bay. Ivril family warriors were easily dodging wild swings of stone axes, but the sheer

number of creatures did not give them any space for counterattacks. Matron and her priestesses were

offering magical support from a safe distance, positioned in the center of the circle. Family wizards

were little more offensive, being just behind the warriors and inflicting heavy damage with their area

effect destruction spells. A whole group of savage humanoids froze in the reddish smoke created by

one of the wizards. Helpless, they were an easy pray for swift blades of dark elves. Wode was running

from one end of the battlefield to the other scorching the brutes with his fireballs. He chanted a couple

of words only he understood, and a whole part of ceiling fell with a deafening crash on a group of

beasts that just arrived from the darkness. Not a single one survived. Then something more interesting

caught his attention.

The weird newcomer, Roman Valbrinar, and his personal slave, Tannaruk Bark, were

fighting with a passion he did not see even in Kalannar. Roman evaded naive tries effortlessly, still

finding place to launch devastating counterattacks with his bare hands, feet or any part of his body he

found suitable. He was even weirder than I thought, said Wode to himself. Lightning fast dark elf

would launch a shocking number of blows each time one of the beasts would raise it.s axe for a strike.

His blows carried all kinds of snaps, cracks and thumps produced by bone breaking. If a humanoid,

luckily, survived one of his attacks, Bark would swiftly finish it with one side of his double axe.

Slowly the fearless brutes were starting to retreat and try to find an easier part of the battlefield to fare

on. With another of countless snaps one of their companions fell down, his head turned in a way

opposite to the one it should naturally be, to reveal Roman Valbrinar looking at the wizard with a

frightening spark in his strange, pink, eyes. Wode shuddered. I definitely have to hear this one.s story;

he made a mental note. Hathra was close behind, playing his drums in a way that turned fear into fury.

As three monsters somehow managed to pass through the havoc toward him, ill bard threw his drums

away, drawing his sword. He wasn.t quick enough. A heavy upward swing from creatures axe sent

him flying, just to land unconscious in front of Wode. The wizard examined him, and saw no serious

injury. Probably only few broken ribs, nothing that won.t heal magically. Feeling relieved, and not

knowing why, Wode evoked his chain lightning spell upon three creatures that attacked Hathra,

leaving only black charred flesh in its wake.

In the meanwhile, Matron Nedylene crushed few dried spiders in her fists, offering a

prayer to Lloth. From nowhere, four giant spiders appeared on the battlefield attacking the monstrous

humanoids along the drow soldiers, and more important, inspiring them with fury of Lloth. The rest of

the priestesses were gathered in a circle, murmuring some prayers in a zealous trance, their eyes

turned strangely upwards. Only Wode knew what the cowards were doing. In this way Lloth enabled

them to posses fighter.s bodies on the battlefield to cast their magic, but not running a risk to get hurt.

When their chosen body was struck down, they simply possessed the nearest one to it. Cowards,

whispered Wode once more while himself running into melee combat, his hands turned into large

black claws. One of the magi protecting the Lloth.s Circle fell beheaded, not succeeding to bring up

his defensive spell in time. It was Wode.s apprentice Gorzan. His two remaining apprentices, Nym

and Radul, sent a swarm of magic missiles on the attacker, tearing him down even before Gorzan.s

head touched the ground. Wode looked around, the noise of battle was wearing down, and only thing

that could be heard clearly were the inhuman screams of the wounded creatures, when they would

meet the lethal blades of the Drow.

Wode.s hands returned in their natural form, but gore and blood were still apparent

on them. Cleaning his hands on a rothe skin belt one of the humanoids wore- actually it was the only

thing they wore- Wode inspected the features of the monster more closely. Empty murky eyes were

probably atavism and they probably oriented using their scent. That explained inefficiency of globes

of darkness conjured on the battlefield. Their oversized vein-covered ears resembled those of the elves

in a grotesque way. Wode kicked the gory body with disgust and looked around. The battle was over.

Dark elves lost seventeen warriors, and twice that number was wounded. All of the slaves except the

troll and few orcs were lying, their life-force slowly fading away in the infrared specter of Wode.s

darkvision.

" not seen such creatures in my life" Mother Nedylene said more to herself, than to

Wode," I saw Eye Tyrants, Mind Flayers, Kuo-Toas, Gibberlings… But no, not these" she finished.

"They look like Quaggoths, but have no fur" Wode recalled, while Nedylene was turning

head of one humanoid with her foot. Not happy with her "breakthrough" she viciously kicked the

independent head, which hit Kalannar in his back. The enormous drow spun around, ready to punish

the one that did it, just to have his angry grimace turn into angel smile when he saw who was behind

him. Nedylene paid him no heed, occupied with more important matters at hand.

"We shall take no more risks," Mother said with iron determination, "Wode, gather an elite

scouting group and send them to go three hours ahead of us." she finished piercing the wizard with

her evil glance. Wode issued orders right away while the rest of the priestesses were tending wounded

fighters.

..

"That idiot Wode gave me these two failures to serve as an "elite" scouting party." Roman

said, not caring if any of his two companions heard him. Savage orcspawn Bark and ill artist Hathra

were ordered to go alongside him to find the exit out of the former dwarven city they arrived in from

Automata. Bark, that ugly, dirty, brainless monkey will alarm half the Underdark with his stomping,

and Hathra with his close-to-dying cough will act as a magnet for lurking beasts that registered sounds

with their finely tuned senses, Roman complained to himself. He moved towards the ruins of once

mighty dwarven city with grace of a cat and determination of a dragon. The strong support walls of

the fortress were half buried in the rotting bones of dwarves and drow alike.

With his darkvision allowing him to see only around a hundred and twenty feet,

Roman could see only unclear shapes of the magnificent structure. When magic-shattered walls came

closer, the stealthy dark elf could clearly see that none of the skeletons belonged to the creatures that

attacked Ivril family. Behind the massive walls only possible path was an insecure shaking structure

between two enormous explosion-created craters. Clearly of dwarven structure these walls were

rough, sharp edged and massive, totally opposite of curvy lean architecture of the Drow. On the height

of about hundred feet Roman saw a possible exit from the cavern of the Cloven Heads. Huge dark bat-

shaped forms were flying in the air around the exit. If he used his innate levitation ability, Roman

knew he would be an easy pray for the flying Underdark.s predators. So that left him only one

possibility. He went for the former castle.s entrance.

Tannaruk, not even noticing a steady flow of saliva dripping from his mouth, eyed

Roman viciously. Maybe this was his chance to escape the slavery. He was a warrior, respected

among his race for his pure strength and fearlessness, but among these evil, black-skinned elves, he

was just flesh they used for their own purposes. If he died today, Bark knew he would be tossed on

the pile with other dead, or the females, the more malevolent gender, would make one of their

walking dead from his fresh corpse. Thousands of thoughts crossed his limited mind, while the group

neared the heavy wooden door, rotting with fungi. Noticing that Roman and Hathra stopped by the

door, stupid brute understood that they met an unsurpassable physical barrier. Lowering his head and

putting his axe in front of him, Bark charged the door before two Dark Elves could do anything. With

a tremendous crash, rotting door shattered and Bark stood up with a self-satisfied smile on his ugly

face, looking at his stunned companions.

A dozen of creatures wielding heavy stone axes met were alarmed by the noise and

were closing fast on them. Roman held Hathra by the shoulder, not wanting Nedylene to blame him

for bard.s death. The battle was over in less than a minute. Bark was trading hits with the monsters,

his metal axe doing much more damage than crude stone ones used by the monsters. Roman

supported him with poisoned metal stars, of his own making, dropping one by one monster into deep

slumber to have Bark easily finish them. Eleven monsters fell dead in no time, and only Bark was

injured on their side. His bleeding chest pumped heavily as he locked stares with Roman. Bark

understood that he was looking into the eyes that promised death.

"You stupid brute." Roman whispered, but his words frightened Bark much more

than if he screamed at him. "You could get us all killed."

Bark snarled at the Drow hoping that he could intimidate him. He made the last mistake in his

life. Roman had no intention of pulling the matter more, but the threatening growl stung his thin

nerves more than an axe chop would. Before Bark knew what was happening, Roman Valbrinar had

his legs tightly secured around Tannaruk.s neck, with his hands on the ground. Bark tried to shake

eighty-pound lighter drow off, but with a sudden jerk Roman had him flying over himself, headfirst,

and then released his leg-grip from orcspawn.s neck. Bark landed ten feet away, on the sheer edge of

a cliff. The earth crumbled under his weight, and he managed to save himself from falling by clipping

one side of his axe to the wall of the structure.

"You deserve not to live," Roman said calming his rage, "but falling off the cliff is a stupid

way to die, even for you." He finished reaching for Bark.s axe to pull him up. Tannaruk was faster.

He let go of the axe, and with a smile, the first sincere one Roman has seen on him, fell into the crater.

Tens of slimy lizards covered him even before a bloody pool appeared around his body. The only

thing now visible was his head, smiling peacefully, for escaping this world of pain and agony. Roman

wished they could change places.

..

Stepping through the door, Hathra came in a hall, stretching as far as he could see. Every

fifteen feet, it.s walls opened into a new chamber. The floor was littered with bones of dwarves and

elves, even a few riding lizards, as far as Hathra could tell watching at them. Moving silently was

nearly impossible for him, because every time he would make a step one of the bones would rattle, as

if complaining for usurping it.s eternal rest. Roman at first tried to pick his steps between the bones,

but he soon dropped that idea when Hathra started moving behind him, alarming the whole complex

of their presence. The side rooms contained nothing of interest, until Roman saw a dirty, half-

destroyed sculpture of a dwarf holding a hammer of pure gold, preparing to strike at silver anvil. He

let his imagination guide him. He saw this place swarming with busy dwarves carrying hammers and

metals to be formed into magnificent weapons. He saw priests offering their prayers before the

sculpture, polished and neat. The hall was erupting with metal-to-metal clangs, shouts of the dwarves

arguing over the value of a magical hammer… And then it all suddenly stopped. Instinctively Roman

threw himself to the side, but it was to late to evade the blow completely. Only then he could hear the

warnings Hathra was screaming to him, at his full lung capacity, as a crude axe battered him on the

shoulder, sending him crashing into the wall. Hathra gathered his courage, and struck at the monster.

But the strike was too slow and imprecise, and his sword hit only the wall, sending sparks into the air.

But, Roman was back on his feet. He kicked the creature straight at its chest with tremendous force,

crushing his ribs and lungs equally. The massive creature flew backwards straight at Hathra. The bard

set his sword pointing at the monster, more to shelter himself than to do any damage, and soon they

were both lying among the bones, half of Hathra.s sword protruding from the creature.s mouth.

Roman pulled the corpse off Hathra using his only functioning hand, to see Hathra with his

face covered in blood and grayish substance that had to be the remains of creature.s brain. Hathra

swiped his eyes with his hand, and when he saw what kind of liquid covered his body, started

vomiting. For a full hour, Hathra was trying to come out of the shock while Roman used that time to

tend his wounded arm. Finally, Hathra stood up and not waiting for his superior went down the hall.

The last room in the hall was also the biggest, with stone stairs leading up and a robed

skeleton lying just before them. The skeleton clenched a book on his chest firmly, a book that did not

show any signs of outer factor effect. Before Roman could stop him, Hathra reached for the book and

illuminated it using his minor magic. Roman couldn.t believe the speed at which Hathra consumed

the book. The pages were turning themselves, holding the bard in a mesmerized trance. In less then

five minutes Hathra held all the knowledge held in the book. But, so much information at once were

too much for his brain. He fell unconscious, and only Roman.s lightning reflexes saved him from

banging his head on the hard floor.

Twenty minutes later Hathra stood up shaking his head, his eyes trying desperately to

hold focus on Roman.

"The most incredible thing happened to me-" he started but Roman cut him short with a

mocking "Really?"

"Just tell me if you found anything interesting in that foul book." Roman said impatiently.

Hathra closed his eyes trying to sort out the confusion in his mind. "Yes, yes," he said more to

himself, "the journal belonged to a wizard called Mirisk," he begun, to Roman.s approval, "he came

here looking for ancient dwarven treasure. Mirisk Melarn was his full name, Mirisk Melarn of Ched

Nasad." Hathra said finally solving the puzzle in his mind. "He found out that this area was occupied

by the creatures he refers to as Grimlocks. They, as he found out, are the descendants of human tribes

called Gold Falcon and Red Pony from the surface, mutated by radiation in many centuries of living

underground." He turned into himself again to sort relevant from irrelevant data, "They are gathering

around the black obelisk on the exit of the cavern, and meeting with the Mind Flayers. He suspected

that there are several thousand Grimlocks in the complex. It seems that writing was violently stopped

for it ends with „They found me, I-„" Hathra finished, his eyes focusing Roman clearly now.

Before Roman could even reconsider the received information, a transparent, eerie, gray

specter with a face of pure horror showed itself over the corpse. Its hooked nose was surrounded by

white hair falling all over his face. Its red eyes and green talons were the only colored part of the

surreal body.

"I see a Dark Elf after such a long time" it said with a breathless spooky voice, "and not one,

but two" it hissed through its sharp teeth eying Hathra.

The evil eyes focused Roman again, taking breath away from the fearless warrior. Hathra

pushed himself against the wall, shaking with horror. No one responded to the undead wizard, stunned

with fear.

"It can not be possible." It said, shaking its head teasingly, "That I.m inspiring so much fear

into the hearts of the brave Drow. Or the Drow aren.t as they used to be. In any case don.t be afraid."

it commanded getting tired of his own frightening games. A thousand faces wearing gruesome

grimaces crossed its face. Hathra could swear he saw his own among them having an expression as if

thousand of talons ripped through his soul, leaving only painful shreds. His lungs convulsed violently,

and he could taste his own blood in his mouth.

"Your eyes will not close until you die, if you don.t do what I tell you," the specter stated

calmly. "The way takes you to Ched Nasad, I see, and that is where I come from. My family was one

of the higher in rank. I left the city long time ago, searching for the weapon of the dwarven leader that

fell here defending his home." The specter started fading, as if losing its power to stay on this plane.

" got to hurry," it said, not seeming so confident any more. "Take my hand to my family, and

remember, if you don.t you will wish to die." And with those words it faded to nothing.

Roman swept the sweat of his forehead. He looked at Hathra and saw him staring somewhere

far away, not moving. Roman stepped closer and searched for Hathra.s pulse. It was faint and rapid,

but at least he was still alive. Only then Roman understood that he would have to bring Hathra back

from unconsciousness for the third time in a single hour.

..

"Master Wode, the scouts have given the sign. The path is clear." Yelled Radul, while his

dark violet robe was floating behind him on the wings of the underground currents. Wode started

towards the Matron, to tell her the news.

"The path is clear Matron, should I order a move?" Wode asked with a deep bow.

"No, let Indarae do that, you have more pressing business to attend." Nedylene responded,

and when she saw Wode.s questioning look she continued. "You shall go over there yourself, and see

if everything is in order. We can take no more risks."

She knew that coming in small numbers in Ched Nasad meant certain eradication in the

matter of days.

Without saying a word, Wode waved his hands and went through the glimmering, watery

surface that just appeared in front of him.

As soon as the portal behind Wode closed, Nedylene addressed her second eldest daughter,

Indarae.

"When we arrive and settle in Ched Nasad you will make sure to find out everything about his

studies. Let your sister Kirrana help you. If we find anything he hasn.t told us about, we shall kill him

in the praise of Lloth." she finished.

"And don.t put Akordia in this… or you will be punished," Matron Mother Nedylene Ivril

added with a wicked smile.

She was beautiful. Locks of her snow-white hair were falling generously on her back, tied

together with red leather stripe. Large, sensual lips dominated sharp lines of her face. Generous breast

were filling her red leather corset, half-hidden by her spider-engraved cloak. Leather boots on her feet

climbed all the way up to her thighs, crimson red leather, just as her cloak. The only dark part of her

clothes was her short leather skirt, overstating her divinely shaped hips. She dressed her best,

determined to impress everybody who would see her entering Ched Nasad.

Somewhere on the end of the group, eye of the wounded troll looked at his master Nym, who

was deep in the darkest corners of his desires. Oh, how he wished that those beasts killed Roman

today. Before going scouting, idiot stopped him from punishing that ugly slave Bark. If it weren.t for

Wode, he would burn him with his magic where he stood. But he knew he will get his chance, when

Roman would fall in the false security of their house in Ched Nasad. He couldn.t wait to see his troll

tear him in peaces when Nym was finished with him. Thinking what spell from his repertoire he

should use, Nym looked at the wounds on his troll that were healing by themselves rapidly. He

wondered if the stupid beast was aware of the building tension in the family, of the enmities between

Wode and the rest of the family, led by Kalannar, and this new one, between himself and Roman. The

long time spent as the slave of the family made him more experienced. The troll succeeded to prolong

his lasting time, every Drow slave had.

After a couple of hours, the family arrived to the ruined temple of Moradin. They encountered

no enemies on their way, but saw many dead Grimlocks. Wode examined their wounds, and

concluded that all but one were slain by Roman. Their bodies showed no signs of violence, but they

lay quite dead. His thoughts were interrupted by Indarae.s screaming.

"No! You fool, you want us to expose ourselves, now when we are so close to salvation," she

was yelling at one of the family.s fighters.

A sharp voice from behind her made Indarae freeze.

"And who gave you the clearance to order anything without asking me?" Nedylene asked as

her daughter started to apologize.

"Mother, but I-" a loud smack shook the cavern.

Most of the gathered Drow turned to view the spectacle. Indarae was holding her burning

cheek, head down, more embarrassed than actually hurt. She gritted her teeth trying to appear

confident. "I.m sorry mother, it shall happen never again." Nedylene ordered a

throughout "sweep" of the structure. A group of twenty warriors led by her youngest daughter Kirrana

entered the temple, crushing ancient bones under their feet. Ten minutes later, Kirrana declared the

temple as safe and Ivril Family entered the building leaving only Kalannar and five other warriors to

watch the entrance. On the top of the temple Wode held a tirade to Roman and Hathra.

..

"You let them go! All of them! Did you go mad?" Wode yelled at Roman noticeably

unnerved. " keep your secret, for now. But you owe me Valbrinar." Wode added somewhat calmer.

"Letting go four full powered dwarven slaves, what were you thinking?" he couldn.t resist adding

once more.

As soon as Wode left Roman smiled full-heartedly. Of course I was thinking, he thought.

Two hours earlier they met four dwarves tied and hung upside down, captured by Grimlocks and kept

for food, probably. He dispatched seven guarding Grimlocks, and without a word let all of them go,

even showing them where their equipment was. What he didn.t know is that Wode watched the whole

show under an invisibility spell. But, he was safe from Wode. The old wizard is gathering allies for an

inevitable clash against Kalannar and Nedylene.s daughters. And in that clash none of his puny

apprentices will help him. No one will help him if I don.t. Roman smiled once more, raising a few

brows as he went through the camp.

..

A couple of miles away, Grudar, Dogur, Bodo and Tadran were frantically trying to reach exit

that was six feet above them. They were hurriedly piling up the large boulders to reach the desired

height. Finally, Bodo set the last boulder gaining a foot he needed to reach the small exit. In that exact

moment, a large pack of Grimlocks entered the tunnel from a nearby cavern. Tadran was the last to

squeeze through the hole that led to freedom. Sturdy Tadran beheaded the first Grimlock that tried to

enter the hole with his large axe with a blow that would kill a Rothe. Fearlessly, the rest of the

creatures continued the climbing over their dead companion, while blond Tadran waited with his axe

ready to strike, his eyes two pools of pure fury. Dogur cursed himself for leaving his weapon behind,

trying to squeeze through, beside the fat Grudar. Grudar looked at him angrily, with his one remaining

eye, for the other one was just a bloody hole. Bodo.s prayer.s to Clangeddin were accompanied by

loud clatter of his teeth. Oh, he did not want to die here.

.

.

..

"We are surrounded Mother," Wode.s voice sounded worried, indeed, "It seems that they

lured us into entering the temple. They have all gathered around, waiting at the safe distance.

Something more intelligent is controlling them, I think." Wode forced himself to look through the

window once more, only to see even more Grimlocks gathering around the ruins. Their numbers were

not nearly as large to fend off any possible attacks. Nedylene knew that as well, but she had no idea

how to escape this cursed place.

"Very well, Wode. Go with heed." Nedylene said after a short break. "Go and find out what

do they want. Hathra was babbling something about drow skulls and Illithids. If their control chain

can be broken, we may still be able to reach Ched Nasad. Go, Wode! " She ordered hoping that

Hathra.s claims are true.

Wode wasn.t thrilled about scouting. The bitch is sending her best wizard to do the job of

expendable warriors. But, he couldn.t argue with Nedylene, not yet. Thinking of most painful death

he would put Nedylene and her daughters through, Wode levitated to the roof trying to reach the exit

from the cavern. Grimlocks shuffled uneasily as he went straight through their ranks, but somehow

couldn.t discern his true location. Finally, he reached his designation, and entered the narrow hallway,

scanning it slowly. A typical Underdark tunnel, this one was covered with fungi radiating various

colored glows. Hesitating, the wizard looked down to the temple once more, and reluctantly started to

make his way through the tunnel. He knew that a single moment of carelessness could cost him his

head when dealing with Illithids, the Mind Flayers. Trained to serve as backup to melee warriors in

combat, Wode wasn.t so sure about himself when fighting toes to toes. After ten minutes of slow and

frustrating crawling, Wode found himself facing a solid iron door, locked as he had expected.

Touching the door with his fingers, Wode tried to find a knob or a secret lever that would unlock

them. He found none, again as he had expected. Cursing himself for not doing this right away, he

pulled out of his belt pouch a small piece of wood - once a part of a battering ram – and uttered a few

magical syllables. The door flew back a couple of feet, and landed on the stone floor with a

tremendous crash and raising more than few sparks while sliding on the floor of the small cavern.

Startled by the crash, several Grimlocks needed a moment or two to organize the attack on

the intruder. A moment was too much when dealing with a wizard as powerful as this one. Taking a

curled piece of cooper wire hidden underneath his bracer, with a single word Wode sent a crackling

ball of electricity among the throng, leaving only smoking bodies to scream in agony. As soon as he

thought his troubles over, a larger group of monsters appeared from around the corner, stumbling

around their fallen comrades. Wode painfully took a fistful of ants from one of his pockets – ants were

very expansive in Underdark – uttered a magical chant, put them in his mouth, chewed and spat out.

Instead of dead ants, a thousand of reddish drops flew from his mouth, burning the oncoming beasts,

melting their flesh without effort and eventually killing all but two of them. Fearlessly, those two

charged him. Wode dodged one clumsy axe swipe, but other one connected on his ribcage, breaking

more than few ribs. From the ground, the wizard cast a simple spell, and small magical balls flew

from his fingertips, killing both of the Grimlocks.

Sharp pain in his chest forced Wode to remain lying on the floor for a short period of time.

Realizing the dire peril he was in, Wode supported himself on the wall and ignoring the pain, moved

through the door in the chamber beyond. The scene he saw from the high ground he was on made him

tremble. More than thousand of Grimlocks were gathered around a black obelisk screaming and

fighting with each other. Surrounded by drow skulls in the middle of the chamber stood an Illithid,

dressed in unusual dark leather. He threw his hands in the air and his mental powers calmed the

Grimlocks. All the yelling and grumbling stopped and turned into grave silence that made Wode even

more restless. Soon the creatures divided themselves in groups and started leaving the chamber

through three large tunnels. Wode wanted to leave, but he wisely waited for Illithids to leave, not

wanting to push his luck. The Mind Flayers tolerated no one. They stun their opponents with brain

waves and than latch their four tentacles on poor creatures head, to suck out its brain.

The dark leather armor looked silly on the creature.s misshaped body. To Wode.s

indescribable horror, two more Illithids joined the first one. The one with crown tattooed into its

enormous head was obviously the leader, since these other two treated him with respect. He was the

largest of the things Wode has ever seen. The wizard shuddered at the sheer size of its tentacles,

thinking if brain sucking would hurt him or he would feel nothing at all. He hoped it is the latter. He

once actually saw the gruesome act, when on the slave marked of Ched Nasad an Illithid sucked out

orc.s brain. The Orc only lolled his eyes and fell.

Replaying that scene over and over in his mind Wode decided that it was time to retreat. He

will advise Nedylene to send a squad of warriors to fight Illithids, or even that psycho, Roman. Wode

slowly crawled back, and when he was sure he was on the safe distance started running back, not even

aware of the sharp pain in his chest. He did not slow down until he reached the roof of the temple. He

only wanted to come to Ched Nasad and continue the research he was on before they were expelled.

Breathing heavily he went straight to Nedylene to report on his – not so promising – findings.

In the basement of the temple an interesting conversation was taking place.

"Maybe you are right, Kalannar. We would kill two bugs with a single strike. I would become

the head of mages, and you would eliminate the only threat to your position, Roman." Nym whispered

with mirth in his voice, "Mother will never know." He finished looking questioningly to Akordia.

Looking back at him evilly she smiled, "Maybe Nedylene won.t be the Matron when you

finish with Wode and Roman," Nym stared at her shaking his head and Kalannar let his jaw hang

stupidly in air. "She and Wode were the reasons for our exile. When I claim the title of Matron, you

two will stand by my side." Akordia threw the bait.

"Kalannar will become Patron of the house, as well as staying on his position of

Weaponmaster, and you Nym, you will become heads mage, alchemist, and everything Wode is right

now." Akordia promised self-confidently. She knew she had them hooked.

"Now, get out of here before we become suspicious!" She ended the conversation, moving

away and shaking her hips aware of how that affects Kalannar.

She was very satisfied. She had Kalannar and Nym as the brand new additions to her

conspiracy. Already all of her sisters stood by her side and a lot of warriors were dissatisfied by

Nedylene.s rule. Akordia just couldn.t wait to reach Ched Nasad.

Radul watched the Grimlocks swarming around the ruined temple of Moradin. Hathra stood

beside him, seeming oblivious to the world around. Only would Radul remember that Hathra was a

foot beside him when he heard the coughing and spitting. They were both scared by the situation they

were in, and felt the pressure of closing doom. Radul decided to end the unnerving silence.

"How goes your writing? I heard that illness is making it hard to keep your hand and mind

steady." Radul asked.

Hathra coughed and spat out a greenish slimy substance on the floor. "Who told you that

Radul? Who?" He yelled through the blood in his throat.

Radul laughed. "Don.t excite yourself. The warriors talk of it. They can.t understand how

once mighty fighter turned into an empty shell."

Hathra gripped the handle of his sword, turning his knuckles white. His eyes filled with tears

he felt something between rage and self-pity. He turned his back to Radul, fearing that he would not

be able to contain his tears.

Coughing silently he said. "I.m in my final hours, I know that, but let them talk. Let talk those

that are full of life, because they know not that I can pull some of them with me in the Nine Hells.

This is not a way for a warrior to die. I weep for not dying today on the battlefield, for my blade could

carry dozen of Grimlocks with me." He finished, turning around and letting Radul see the silvery

streams flowing down his cheeks.

He coughed violently, and supported himself on the wall remembering that cursed day more

than fifty years ago as if it was yesterday. He and Kalannar were rivals, but also a fighting team

surpassed by few. On that day beneath the city of Automata they fought a Slaad, a froglike giant with

bony blades on his fists that shred flash and bones as if they were paper. The fight lasted for over an

hour, until Kalannar impaled the monster on his great sword killing the creature. But in his final

moments, Slaad managed to get a surface scratch on Hathra, implanting its egg in Hathra.s lungs.

That egg is constantly growing - only slowed by Wode.s potions – and destroys Hathra more mentally

than physically. "It will once come out of your stomach, and then devour you easily, to gain strength,

and you will feel every single event." Wode told him once. That turned Hathra into a ruin of a man,

afraid to sleep, afraid to even close his eyes.

Radul heard that Hathra once tried to take his own life, but mother Nedylene stopped him in

his intentions telling him that there are much worse things than to die, and that she will show him

some if he tries that again. Everybody knew that Hathra had an important task at his hands, but

nobody knew would he live long enough to fulfill it.

..

"I want those Illithids dead!" Matron Nedylene ordered to the gathered Drow. "They control

the minds of those Grimlocks and keep them organized. Their deaths would give us a good chance of

escape." Her voice rang loud off the temple walls.

"Who will volunteer?" she asked, and when she saw no eager faces to fight the Illithids she

added. "Don.t make me choose for your own good."

Kalannar, Nym, Akordia and Indarae waited, looking at each other. Surprisingly, a lean figure

stepped in front of the Matron, bowing low. "It will be a pleasure, Matron," Roman Valbrinar said

confidently. Behind him Nym and Kalannar exchanged glances and smiled. Suddenly, Nym pushed

young wizard Scagnia, and he stumbled through the crowd to end up right in front of Nedylene.

Scagnia knew that it was late to turn back now, and he accepted the inevitable.

Beside him, Roman stood straight and proud, with a slight smile on his aquiline facial

features. He was a bit shorter than an average dark elf, but he looked compact indeed wearing nothing

but a slick black cloth robes that showed muscled body beneath. His knuckles were bandaged by

black cloth, an enchanted cloth hard as mithrall but carrying no weight, a gift from a long dead friend.

He wore a single ring on his left hand and a spider-decorated belt. A single piece of tree crust hung on

a chain on his neck, giving his skin more then natural hardness. And also, there was a Piwafwi, a

hooded cloak that told everybody of his noble heritage, and more important made it easier for him to

blend into the darkness of the Underdark.

His white hair was divided into three braids reaching to the half of his back. Each of the

braids was held on its end by a brooch. At first sight these brooches appeared as a normal uncarved

pieces of mithrall, but upon inspection by magical means, with the same spells that removed

concealment from an invisible creature, carved runes could be seen upon them. The first one wore the

insignia of House Ivril, the second one the insignia of Long Death monastic order from surface world,

and the third one - Roman.s most important one – a carving of a pair of black lenses that form a mask,

the symbol of the Masked Lord, the symbol of Vhaeraun.

Scagnia in these few days of fighting wasn.t even scratched, wisely fleeing whenever a single

Grimlock broke through the front lines and headed for the mages. Now he knew his time neared its

end. Wode – even Wode! – returned wounded from the passage he and that psychotic fighter – what

was his name? – Roman. He saw Roman in battle and knew he was highly competent, but that made

him feel no safer. Those brutes are jealous of us wizards, noted Scagnia, and always wait for an

opportunity to get rid of us, mentally superior.

Nedylene broke his imagined scorching of Roman with various spells, and signaled for two of

them to get on their way. Scagnia hung his jaw dumbly, expecting at least two dozen fighters to be put

at his disposal. Before he succeeded in angering Nedylene, Roman dragged him by his hair toward the

stairs leading to the temple.s exit.

Two feelings were mixed in brave drow.s heart, sorrow and fury, accelerating his metabolism

and increasing the amount of adrenaline in his blood. He lived through many battles, but they took

their toll physically and, even more, mentally. Scar over a scar, wrinkle over a wrinkle. He wasn.t old

for his racial standards, ninety-five, but he seemed as he lived through five centuries. Only the faith in

the Masked Lord gave him strength to go on and tolerate the torture of Lloth worshipping society. The

bitch played with his life, as well as with lives of other brave warriors that gave their lives for her

cause, for the wrong cause. Once, when the internal battles for place in the hierarchy stopped, the

whole race would unite under one banner and strike out to the surface, where they really belonged. He

imagined himself to be the leader, guided by Vhaeraun himself, and lead the armies of the drow out of

the Underdark, just as a little poor child imagined to be a lord with all the gold in the world. There

was only one difference between those two imaginations – that child had slight chance to fulfill its

dreams.

Desperation was hidden beneath the stern mask of the warrior as he and Scagnia moved

through the same meandering passage Wode did a couple of hours earlier. Moving swiftly they soon

reached the broken door and the cliff that gave good view on the black obelisk. Not a single living

creature could be seen, and only fires moved, throwing their shadows on the skulls surrounding the

erect stone. Roman and Scagnia took the stone stairs leading straight down, and expecting the

Grimlock horde to charge them any moment, came down in front of the obelisk.

Three passages were leading out of the cavern, and not wanting to lose too much time Roman

took the nearest one and silently signaled Scagnia to follow him. Hesitating, Scagnia followed slowly,

but as soon as he lost Roman from sight went running down the corridor. Soon they reached the cliff

with narrow curving stairs that led to the darkness beneath. As soon as Scagnia started to explain that

there is no way he is going down, Roman started for the stairs, balancing perfectly and jumping over

the places where the rock of the stairs was crumbling. Finding himself alone again, Scagnia muttered

few curses and slowly stepped on the first stair. Not daring to look down, Scagnia slowly descended

cursing himself for not preparing any magic that would allow him to fly. Finally, he reached Roman

who waited impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, and from the flashing sparks in his pink eyes

Scagnia could see that Roman was hardly controlling himself. Not wanting to test his luck against this

dangerous-looking elf, Scagnia was forced to put his gaze back down on the floor.

Another passage opened itself in front of them, this one covered with slimy organic substance

dripping from the strange fungus on the ceiling. Touching the mass with his finger Roman stated that

it is not acidic, and moved straight into the passage, ignoring the drops falling on him from the

ceiling.

"This one is even more demented than I thought," Scagnia stated and moved behind Roman

trying to evade the dripping substance. For every drop he evaded, three hit him on the head.

Suddenly Roman signaled Scagnia to stand back, and he was more than eager to oblige. In

front of them the passage opened in the blue-lit chamber, with a single piece of furniture that

resembled a translucent sarcophagus. Moving slowly, Roman entered the room and than stopped,

struck with horror. Within the sarcophagus, surrounded with the same substance they moved through

in the corridor, lay a single Illithid obviously hibernating. Not waiting for it to wake up, Roman

swung with his fist in a wide arc, aiming for the sleeping monster.s bulbous head. First the

sarcophagus and then the head shattered under a tremendous blow. The aberration with a large hole in

its head jerked a few times and then lay very still.

Scagnia.s screams forced Roman to take hi eyes off the gruesome scene. He uttered a

triggering arcane phrase, and with the humming from his spider-decorated belt, tiny but firm hair

protruded from his palms and soles. Swiftly, climbing up the wall to the ceiling he moved upside-

down on the ceiling, looking as some kind of a giant bug. The scene he saw made his blood burn with

a killing desire. Scagnia was casting a spell, while ten or more Grimlocks charged unstoppably toward

him. He above the wizard, and just before the first Grimlock reached the helpless weakling, Roman let

himself fall from the ceiling, kicking the Grimlock in the head and snapping its neck. The monster

never knew what hit him. It took other Grimlocks a moment or two to study their newest opponent

that came out of nowhere. A moment or two was long enough for Roman to beat three of them to

death.

When Grimlocks charged again, Scagnia composed himself and started casting various

offensive spells. Roman evaded swings of axes easily, and more than once Grimlocks hit each other in

the havoc of battle. In no time, all of the monsters were dead and lay with their limbs twisted in

unnatural ways, and their flesh scorched by magic. Roman.s whole body ached. He put a lot of his

power in this fight and knew he could do just one or two more of these before he had to rest.

They fast backtracked their way to the obelisk chamber and were soon moving through the

middle passage filled with fungi that gave off a dispersed blue and green light. Short after, they saw a

parallel tunnel joining this one in front of a massive door. They both understood that this was the third

passage from the great chamber.

"Great, two Illithids at once," noted Scagnia sarcastically.

Roman was more interested in the scuffling sound from behind the door. Before he could

react, the door swung wide open and two large Grimlocks moved slowly in the passage, wielding

dwarven axes and chain armors. What struck them both the most is that Grimlocks seem to move as if

they did not control their own bodies.

"Zombies!" screamed Scagnia.

"No. Thralls." Calmly responded Roman, referring to the mind slaves of the Illithids,

wretched creatures without their own will, with only purpose to serve their Illithid masters.

Roman understood that this door marked the exit from the Cavern of the Cloven Heads. The

big carving in dwarven language above the door read: "Leave the home brave. Never lose the hope."

Roman tried to find the inspiration in that message as he jumped on the first thrall, stiffening

his foot in front of him. His foot went through the armor just as a spear would, to shatter the creature.s

plexus. Thrall fell limply on the floor, fighting hard to draw breath. Roman.s heel finished it, spilling

monsters brain matter on the dirty floor.

But, Scagnia was in trouble. A heavy axe chop made a severe cut on his thigh. Scagnia fell on

the floor loosing his consciousness. In the same instant, three metal stars hit the Grimlock in the back

of the head, felling him lifelessly on top of Scagnia.

Roman.s veins pumped heavily, unable to deliver the amount of blood his body demanded.

Exhausted, he lowered himself on his knees and tried to steady his heartbeat. A dancing shadow

appeared on the floor in front of Roman, and he immediately recognized the misshaped form it held.

He threw himself to the side, but too late. He felt his brain exploding, and the pain made him fall on

the floor. He felt four slimy tentacles touching the back of his had. He fought with all his strength to

turn around and kill the aberration, but to no avail. He did not move even an inch from the floor. To

his sheer horror, Roman felt the tentacles ripping his skin and sticking firmly to his head. He closed

his eyes and just tried to ignore the pain, the pain he knew that was to come.

Scagnia somehow regained his consciousness and pushed the Grimlock corpse off him. He

wished that he didn.t. An Illithid was holding Roman – who gave no life signs – in a deadly embrace

with it.s tentacles, and the other one, the one with tattooed crown Wode was speaking about, was just

entering the chamber. And Scagnia acted of pure desperation. He uttered a quick arcane syllable and a

bolt of pure electricity left his outstretched fingertips, slamming between Roman and the monster,

sending them flying on opposite sides. The remaining Illithid ignored Roman who landed right in

front of him, thinking him dead from the holes on his head and a big scorched wound on his back, and

went straight for Scagnia who was desperately searching for components for his next spell. He made a

mistake.

As soon as he stepped over Roman, drow.s eyes popped open, nothing but fury in them.

Roman locked his legs around Illithid.s and pulled hard. Tattooed Illithid banged hard on the floor

beside Roman. No finesse or technique guided Roman in what was next to come. He rolled himself on

top of the Illithid, and resembling more a feline beast then a humanoid started punching, kicking –

even biting – at the Illithid. He literally had torn the monster apart with his bare hands and teeth.

Scagnia had to call his name more than once to get Roman.s attention. At last Roman looked at him,

then at the torn unrecognizable body he was sitting upon and blacked out.

Roman woke up to find Scagnia sitting few feet from him, working furiously to cut the

tentacles off the Illithid he had killed with lightning, probably to use them in his alchemy

experiments, he concluded. Roman tried to stand up, but his body wouldn.t listen to him. Only when

his head banged hard on the floor, Scagnia registered that he was awake.

"You woke up earlier then I though you would." The wizard stated.

Roman paid him no heed as he slowly scrambled to the sitting position and closed his eyes.

He blanked out Scagnia.s grumbling, he blanked out dripping of water somewhere down the hall, he

blanked out the pain in his head and back, and he blanked out everything until he was alone with his

thoughts. Scagnia couldn.t believe his eyes. The wounds on Roman.s head closed themselves rapidly,

so did the lightning burned flesh on his back. The wizard saw priestesses do something similar with

their potions and spells, but Roman was no priest. He did not quaff a potion, nor did he chant any

prayers. He just sat on the floor, breathing steady and all of his physical damage seemed to go away.

Scagnia was still mesmerized by the scene when Roman stood up and went for the door the two

Illithids came out of. Scagnia shook his head and went after him.

"How in the Nine Hells did you do that?" the wizard asked running to catch up with Roman.

"You just wouldn.t understand…mageling," came the reply, emphasizing the last word

mockingly.

"I would be more thankful if I were you, if it wasn.t for me your brain would be sucked out."

Scagnia insisted, clearly offended by the reply.

"If you did not kill the ugly tentacled bastard, you would be dead too." Roman stated coldly,

never looking back at the wizard.

"But…" Scagnia started to protest but found no reply to the cold truth. If his life wasn.t

threatened he would indeed let Roman die, and then even boast around that he killed him on his own.

Those are the ways of the dark elves.

They entered the room with two containers with preservation fluid and many other trinkets

none of them knew what to use for.

"Stand back!" Roman ordered sharply, and before Scagnia could even react, he scuffed a

strange metal contraption from the floor and started breaking everything he could break within the

room. Glass flew wildly, crystals were turned into glittering dust and the slimy liquid spilled on the

floor.

In few minutes once neat room was turned into chaotic wreckage. Roman shrugged and

turned away when he heard a tiny "cling" from somewhere within the room. An unremarkable copper

ring rolled in front of his feet. Thinking it a fine souvenir from this adventure, Roman slipped it in his

cloak.s pocket and signaled for Scagnia to follow him.

..

It was more than a day ago since the Grimlocks dissembled their ranks and left the temple

perimeter. The big group counting over two hundred drow moved along the thin stone bridge from the

other side of the temple. On the both sides of the bridge loomed a deep gorge and Hathra the bard did

not want to know how deep. They moved one at the time, and row was beginning to break in two

because Hathra couldn.t keep pace with agile Roman in front of him. He tried to muffle his cough

remembering what Nedylene promised to do to him if his "loud illness" – as she referred to it -

brought beasts of the Underdark on their trail.

The book he was working on was the only thing that went well in his miserable life. His

illness has grown much worse since they returned to the Underdark and his mental state was growing

much worse by the day, for he saw no salvation from his inevitable horrible end. He knew that the

stories priestesses told about the evil kingdoms of the pale elves on the surface were lies. Those places

bathed in light filled Hathra.s mind more and more by each passing day. He would have loved to see

the Night Above before he died.

He compared himself, a target of mocking and teasing from the whole family, and Roman a

proud warrior that in short time with the family accomplished more than Hathra in his whole life.

Roman was in the mercy of Matron Mother, and much more important, he held the heart of Vinera – a

brave female fighter Hathra once loved with all his heart. He watched them walk one beside the other

and laughing at something. His jealousy told him that he was the object of their joking and gave a

resignation sigh. Yes, he knew, they would probably treat him like this at the surface as well. Maybe

the stories of the priestesses were true after all.

"What.s on your mind, poet?" Wode.s voice made him leave his thoughts. "Watch where you

are placing your steps, for walking like that you will sure finish as food for the carrion eaters." Wode

finished, and only then did Hathra see that the wizard was sitting on a glowing disk and floating

comfortably above him. Hathra thought being consumed by the carrion eaters not a bad thing and

actually wanted to thank Wode for the idea, but threw the notion away when he remembered

Nedylene.s warnings.

Wode, as well as most of the others was wearing his best outfit for this occasion. He wore a

black leather one-piece armor that emphasized his muscled body. The armor had no runes or

decorations; it was black leather from head to toe. Only were his open-fingered gloves decorated with

dark green gems encircled by golden chains. He shaved his head neatly for this great moment. They

were entering Ched Nasad after more than a century.

As if reading his thoughts, a patrol consisted of exclusively males met them after less than an

hour.

"I have the honor to offer you welcome in the name of the Matron mother of the fourth house

Shyntlarae Auvryndar, and we hope that your return will strengthen our magnificent city even more."

The patrol leader addressed Matron Nedylene bowing low. "If you would let us escort you to the city

gates…"

"Lead the way warrior," Nedylene cut him short anxious to enter the city. The patrol leader

bowed once more and ordered his patrol to position themselves around the Ivril family group. He

stayed to the side of Matron and her daughters on the front of the group.

Wode saw the runes with the name of the city and he knew that the gates were to appear any

moment now. He wondered what has changed in the City of the Shimmering Webs for these two

centuries of the exile. Two centuries is a significant time even by the standards of the dark elves.

Talking to the one of the patrol members Wode found out that the city was still battling with the hives

of the vicious Eye Tyrants on the north, and that after the fall of the Hellgate Keep the city is the

haven for its commander, cambion Kaanyr Vhok, and the city and the remaining of his forces are

negotiating about a possible joint attack on the High Forest on the surface.

Those news made him vividly remember the day of they exile, the day the whole family was

banished to the Outer Planes. He heard the voice of the leading Matron of the city Aunrae Nasadra

ringing clear in front of him, Nedylene and the Council of the Twelve. She was probably still the

leader of the city. He again floated back two hundred years ago and felt the piercing gaze of Aunrae

on his skin.

"In the name of Almighty Lloth, Council of the Twelve banishes the Ivril family from the city

to the Outer Planes, because of the secretive work of their wizard Wode Ivril on the mixing of the

properties of the Drow and the sacred spider to form a new breed mightier than Drider. As Lloth does

not bless the given creature, the process is considered sacrilege. Tomorrow will the family pass trough

the Portal of Shame, and will not return of two hundred years. For those that remain in the city, the

punishment is transformation into Drider." Ruling Matron mother of the city said on that ill-fated day.

He felt the shivers go down his spine. His family still considered him the main reason for

their banishment, and they kept him alive because he was more powerful than most wizards of the

other families. Now, when he saw the gates, Wode felt alone and vulnerable more than ever before.

He watched the people around him with obvious paranoia, waiting for someone to pull out a hidden

dagger and stab it in his heart. He looked over his shoulder often, looking who is behind him,

expecting an assassin with poisoned sword to finish his misery.

No, he wasn.t pitiful. He just wanted to enter their compound, to get his laboratory in working

order and to continue with his experiments. He was so close to his goal. He needed just a couple more

weeks to complete the research he was working on. No one was aware of his research, not Nedylene,

not her stupid daughters, not his ambitious apprentices, not even Lloth. He didn.t notice he was

laughing aloud until Nedylene addressed him.

"You are happy for the return, or for fulfillment of your secret plans Wode?" she asked,

eyeing him with malice.

"For the return Matron, of course," he lied "I.m thinking of our glory from long ago, and of

the steps we should take to reclaim it. It is going to be a hard task."

"Don.t you lie to me!" She screamed, gathering attention from more than couple warriors. "I

know that you are only interested in your experiments. I hope I don.t have to remind you what will

happen if you do something that will put us out of Lloth.s favor again. There are much worse thing

than becoming a Drider, you know," She said calming her emotions. "They don.t teach you males

about that at the Academy." She finished, fixing her hair and turning away.

Wode swallowed hard, and charged out his frustrations at the unlucky soldier that was next to

him.

From the distance, Roman watched the whole spectacle and just shook his head at the silly –

it seamed to him – ways of his people.

Through the opening in the cavern the gentle blue lights of the city bathed the weary travelers.

From the gate of Ched Nasad, positioned slightly higher, the whole highest layer of the city could be

seen. Actually, the city had seven layers, the highest one being the most magnificent and clean one, to

the lowest seventh level, reserved for the slave markets and the mansions of the lowest-ranking

families. As far as the sight could reach, the sea of blue shimmering calcified spider web, which gave

the city its nickname – City of The Shimmering Webs -, surrounded the large cocoons.

Those cocoons were the houses of the ruling families privileged to live on the highest level. A

long time ago – more than five millennia – Lloth herself covered the cavern with her web. Then, she

burned the web and when it cooled it became as hard as stone and it glowed with bluish hue of the

faerie fires. Nowadays, Ched Nasad is considered one of the largest Drow cities, alongside

Menzoberranzan and Sshamath.

Surrounded by the drow that came out to see the spectacle that was the return, Matron

Nedylene proudly marched in front of the group leading to the central stairs leading to the lower

levels enjoying the sights of the city. From the ceiling of the cavern, large stalactites hung holding

balconies full of the curious spectators. The warriors of the ruling houses, punishing severely anybody

that got too close to the procession, protected the main street of the city.

Descending deeper in the gorge of the city Nedylene viewed the marketplace – the real heart

of Ched Nasad. Her attention - as everybody else.s – was drawn by a gargantuan Deep Dragon,

probably one of the largest of his kind, who was bartering with a terrified Duergar merchant over a

gem. On the other side, several humans dressed in red robes argued with an Illithid over some

components. They looked stupid indeed, for the Illithid was not uttering a single word – conversing

with them telepathically – and they were shouting and screaming back at him. Nedylene breathed

deep of the mixing scents of the marketplace, feeling satisfied, and concluded that nothing has

changed at all.

She has changed her facial expression when they arrived at the lowest level, at the place of

their house-to-be. The smelly wreck of the stalagmite gave odor of lizard dung, and rotting moss

covered the whole "house". The emissary from the Council informed Nedylene that their place is now

the last in the hierarchy of the city and that the got the house of the family eradicated twelve years

ago. He added that in now served as the hunting ground for the young nobles of the ruling houses

before he disappeared, not wanting to bring Nedylene.s wrath upon himself. He was only a male, in

the end.

Nedylene turned around, facing the fact that it will be a hard job to build a respectable house

on this dung. The difference between this and the other layers of the city was more than evident.

Thick mist covered the streets of the layer, and the rotting bodies of long dead slaves were more than

common sight.

Radul, Wode.s lowest ranking apprentice watched the temples of Lloth, schools of fighting,

supply stores and other buildings on this layer with obvious fear. The constant hiding from the nobles

of higher-ranked houses in the Rooms of Pleasure, evading the stares from priestesses of Lloth,

constant threat from those that viewed him as a threat to their position were all the frustrating facts for

the life in the Lloth worshipping society. In the society where the child is first taught to hate and then

to walk, where the child was learned to watch his back constantly and to watch other.s backs – so he

could stab a blade in them, given the opportunity. A thousand thoughts were swarming in his head

when he bumped into a wall – head first. No wall, but the sturdy back of Kalannar the Weaponmaster,

he realized when the enormous drow turned around to face him issuing a threatening growl.

Radul was more then happy with the outcome. Just a swollen eye and one or two broken ribs.

Praise Lloth.

Wode watched the compound, already picking the most desirable place for his new

laboratory. The gate was melted away, appearing as no more than a useless heap of metal. In the

middle of the fenced area, three stalagmites stood erect, the middle one as big as the other two

together. Once finely decorated balconies now were only moss-covered ruins and the bridge

connecting the stalactites was broken in several places. The scene itself described the fate of the

family that lived here before.

..

His hands trembled with excitement; still, he managed to open the cylindrical container.

Inside it was a bright black disc with six indentations, each holding a crystal of different colour and

shape.

He studied them for a few moments, his right hand hovering near the crystals as if feeling the

warmth they were radiating. Hesitantly he reached for one of them, but then seemed to remember

something; turning suddenly, he approached the door, locking it with several magical gestures.

One can never be too cautious, thought Wode. He knew only too well that no one, not even

Mother Nedylene dared enter his chambers without knocking; yet he was not prepared to take the risk.

Now that he was so close to his goal, ruining it all for a stupid error would be inexcusable.

He was at the table in a couple of steps, reaching for the greenish crystal. His palm, damp

with perspiration, turned the object as if appraising it. He could only hope that all would go well, that

he would be able to return without having to deal with any potential threats. The road before him was

brief yet perilous, unpredictable and lethal.

Breathing in deeply once again, he palmed the crystal with his left hand. His right palm

crossed over it, followed by magical incantations that made the crystal glow brighter and brighter,

almost blinding him with its light. The long, sharp claw-like nail of his right hand made a deep cut in

his palm, and as soon as a drop of the red effluvium touched the crystal a portal appeared before the

mage, a portal of quivering red liquid conjured up from blood and pure evil.

Wode shivered as he observed the nature of the Lower Plane through the magical portal. He

had studied magical books describing the evil planes; yet no book could have prepared him for what

he was observing now. The eruption of horror could hardly have been described by anyone.

A strong wind blew into the untidy, over-littered room filled with books, sending books and

scrolls into a frenzied flight all over the place. Wode could hear the laboratory apparatus and test

tubes, items that were worth an entire fortune, smashing and cracking against the stone walls and

floor; yet, nothing mattered to him any longer.

All he knew was that he could not perceive the true nature of the plane from his room, only

when he ventured into the plane itself, and this frightened him. He had heard stories of numerous

travelers never returning, or if they did their minds never managed to overcome the consequences.

They became insane, staying awake for many sleepless nights, hearing their names called out by

beckoning demons.

Determinedly he stepped into the portal, closing his eyes as he passed. There was no deity for

him to ask guidance and assistance from; his faith rested sure in himself, as he considered the Deities

divine manipulators of their obedient followers to purposes unknown to anyone but themselves.

Hence, he did not believe.

His eyes were still closed when he entered the plane and felt hard ground beneath his feet. He

could not hear anything but the howling of the hot wind that plastered his robe to his body.

"Now Wode, open them," he said to himself and opened his eyes.

No mortal could ever have created anything as horrific, bizarre and fiendishly perverse as the

sight before his eyes. Millennia of malicious evolution had crafted this place into a nightmare of

primordial evil.

The first thing he perceived was the sky, if one could term it that at all. A gigantic eye

covered the sky, the eye of a devil on vigilant watch as if it sought something across the hellish earth.

Thousands of enormous capillaries pulsed in the eye and Wode imagined himself inside one of them,

being carried by the dark red blood. He shivered with the thought.

He realized that he stood upon a cliff which descended on one end into a valley split into two

by a wide, slow, black river. A mist crawled out of the river, seeping around like a living being. It

spread into eternity.

Shivering with fear, Wode studied the ground. The blood-red earth was mixed with bones.

Wild with fright he reached the end of the cliff. Thousands of layers of bone formed what he was

standing on. Millions of dead are resting here, realized the bald-headed mage.

There was no reason for him to waste time and he knew it; Wode ran down the cliff,

stumbling over the countless bones that emerged from the ground. He was soon out of breath, the

sulphuric air he inhaled weighing heavily in his lungs, forcing him to cough.

As soon as he entered the mist, he realised that there existed things far worse than those he

had already seen. The rocky terrain surrounding the river was covered in blades of bone of various

lengths. Across them crawled thousands of naked beings that resembled humans, if human was the

appropriate term. They spread everywhere around the black river that flowed slowly. Their wide-

spread eyes and pink bodies were covered in thousands of cuts that healed and healed…

One of them grabbed mage.s leg and directed a pleading stare into his eyes, uttering

something that Wode could not understand. He kicked at the creature, and it curled up into a fetal

position, quivering. Goosebumps formed in Wode.s skin.

What sort of place is this? He wondered, looking at the black, greasy, slow river.

How can anyone, anything survive here?

"It takes some getting used to, mortal," came a deep, heavy voice behind him, and Wode

sprang as if struck by lightning. He took a few steps backward once he saw who it was that had

addressed him.

The creature was over ten feet tall, clad in leather armor. Upon closer inspection, Wode

realized that the leather was actually human hide. The robe, frayed at the edges, was crafted out of the

same material.

Wode could observe the face of the creature, although it stood at some height from his own.

The deep-set eyes burned with infernal flame, and the bony structure of the face contrasted the

powerful, muscular neck upon which it rested. Two sizeable horns protruded from the demon.s head,

whose enormous jaws spread into a sickening smile, reevaling a row of razor-edged teeth.

The face and all visible body-parts of the demon were covered in tiny spikes, and Wode

caught himself wondering how many victims had met their end in the lethal embrace of the demon.

He shivered with the thought, glancing at the powerful hands that clenched every few moments in a

spasm of desire to crush and strangle.

"Irkkidul?" managed Wode, attempting to conceal his fear. He could recognize the eyes of the

unholy creature. They had carved themselves into his memory as he observed them in the liquid inside

his chalice of summoning.

"It is I, mortal," replied the demon, stepping closer to the mage. "I have here what you

sought… the blood of all species of my subjects. It is all here, inside the bottle."

Despite the surroundings, Wode managed to smile with relief. The demon had kept his

promise. The final component of the Becoming, and also the one hardest to find, was there, ready for

use. Without it the mage would never succeed in fusing with a being of another species.

A simple bottle with a glass stopper appeared in the demon.s hand; it was filled with crimson

liquid. He offered it to Wode, whose trembling hands accepted it in fear of spilling its contents.

The warmth of the bottle took him by surprise. The liquid inside it appeared to be alive, as if

it strived to escape the confines of the bottle. The bald mage pocketed it quickly.

"Now for your end of the bargain…" interrupted the infernal giant. "The first fruit of your

labour is to be sent to me as soon as it is created." The horrific head leaned closer to the mage, a

fiendish grin splitting the face into two. "I hope that the first trial shall not be performed upon

yourself."

"Certainly not!" frowned Wode. "You shall receive your reward, Unholy One…"

"I hope so, mage, for your own good," Irkkidul replied and turned his back to Wode. "Leave

now. I have had enough of your presence…"

Wode sighed with relief. Hastily, he prepared a return spell and disappeared. Even the gray

dullness of the Astral Plane pleased the eye after the horrors it had witnessed moments ago. Wode

gave himself up to the force that led him and soon felt his feet touching the familiar floor of his room,

the room that swam out of the blue mist and took its form around him.

Having stored the small bottle in a secure drawer, Wode collapsed onto the bed without

removing his dirty, bloodstained clothes.

He was asleep immediately.

..

His stroll around the city marketplace had one purpose only. The magic items that had always

been the subject of his attention were of no interest to him, and neither were the magical scrolls

imported from the Night Above. Today his business here was entirely different.

Wode was out to buy a slave.

The very phase of the Becoming, or fusion with another species, had not been thoroughly

examined yet. He required a laboratory animal. Besides, he was also obliged to send the first fruit of

his labour to Irkkidul. He had to be careful.

The monstrous creatures, available at relatively low prices, would never do. Umber Hulks,

trolls, hooked horrors and many others were there, all available. Wode knew that these monsters could

survive the process of becoming one of the Breed much easier, due to their powerful bodily structure.

The only good indicator would be a member of the species closest to his own.

No drow were available on the city markets, as drow slavery was illegal. A drow may serve as

a servant, but never as a slave. This meant that Wode.s choice was narrowed down to the small group

standing in a corner of an enormous pit filled with numerous gnolls and goblins: a few surface

humans, several half-orcs and one extraordinary elf.

Wode was surprised by his presence. He must have been captured only recently; elves die

quickly in captivity, he knew, their spirit broken and body exhausted by starvation induced by sorrow

until their soul and body part.

Such a feeble race, thought the mage. No wonder that the surface raids had always been so

fruitful. Had it not been for the humans, Wode thought, the surface kingdoms would have long fallen

before the force of the drow.

He was interested in purchasing the elf nevertheless, so he turned to the obese duergar in

charge of the sale. Black eyes met Wode.s own and could not bear the intensity of the mage.s gaze.

"How much for the darthiir, dwarf?" he asked the duergar who immediately started cracking

his thick fingers at the prospect of a fruitful bargain. The gray dwarf grinned with faked affability,

revealing yellow remnants of often-broken teeth. He peered at the elf with one eye closed, as if

appraising him, and turned toward Wode.

"Much respected magician," spoke the duergar, after careful scrutiny of Wode.s appearance,

"the long-eared one is worth five hundred golden coins. Yet I am prepared to part with him for only

four hundred bright ones, which is a pittance for a drow of your resources."

"Four hundred!" exclaimed Wode, raising his arms and gazing upward. "For that sum of gold

I could buy a troll!"

"Ah, but master," the duergar ventured closer to Wode, lowering his voice, "this is no

ordinary elf, you see. Look at his skin, it is gray… he must be a leader of some sort. We went through

great trouble to capture him."

The duergar neared Wode even further, whispering silently and shielding his mouth with a

wide, sweaty palm, as if protecting his words from over-keen ears.

"In my opinion, he is of noble birth, master," Wode was almost nauseous from the vile stench

of decay coming from the dwarf.s mouth. "And then, just observe him. That long hair, muscular body,

comely features… there are other uses for him, if that is your preference…"

A head-butt reminded the duergar where he was and who he was addressing. The thin legs

underneath the fat body buckled and he dropped to the ground, hands clutching the broken, bloodied

nose.

Furious from the insult, the bald-headed mage began preparing a disintegrating spell, ignoring

the group of armed guards approaching him and the prone tradesman. His sole desire was to destroy

the insolent merchant as quickly as possible.

"Pray do not kill me, master," screeched the dwarf. "The elf is yours, as a present from my

own unworthy self, just do not kill me…" he was sobbing now, tears streaking the gray filthy cheeks.

Wode broke the incantation off. He no longer felt wrath, only contempt for the quivering heap

of lard lying before him.

"What seems to be the problem, Torgull?" inquired the captain of the watch, approaching the

tradesman. His long hair was decorated by strips of lizard skin. His powerful hands rested on the hilts

of his two swords, prepared to draw them at the slightest hint of danger. "Cheating on your customers

again, eh?… Perhaps I ought to punish you again?"

"No!" pleaded the dwarf. "The master and I have solved our little… disagreement, and…"

"Is this true, much-respected one?" asked the captain, turning to Wode. It was obvious that

the dwarf had ruined his day, and he glared at the obese ball of flesh lying on the market ground.

"All is well, captain," replied Wode.

A scrutinizing glare later, the warrior turned toward his patrol and ordered them to move. The

watch followed him obediently and proceeded with their business in a triangular formation, their keen

eyes searching the market-place for the smallest sign of trouble.

"Get up, you fat aberration, and hand over the goods…" came the quiet, yet menacing voice

of the mage and the dwarf scrambled to his feet, still wiping the blood off his large nose. He yelled to

the orc guarding the prisoners to take the elf out of the holding pen, and was obeyed silently.

The elf ascended a flight of stone steps and stood next to his new master. Wode noticed that

his acquisition was about his own height; he moved like a great feline, his anatomically perfect

musculature moving in total coordination, revealing excellent physical condition. A strong warrior,

thought Wode. I could hardly have done better for my experiment.

They set off toward Wode.s laboratories. The mage studied his slave more closely.

"What is your name?" he asked in perfect elven, a language he had learned from the books

along with the other surface tongues.

The elf gave him no reply. Wode could observe the derision in his eyes, and did not mind the

contempt one little bit. The elf was after all a warrior, a proud warrior who had been enfettered and

now marched beside the mage as his slave. It was a matter of honour that Wode knew to respect.

It was better for him to remain ignorant of the elf.s name anyway. He was probably to die at

the hands of Irkkidul or one of his subordinates. His gaze was on the elf once again. He was a specific

one, full of power and pride, feral of temper and resolute of spirit.

Wode felt a sensation close to pity.

..

Bound to the stone table, the elf.s nervous eyes fluttered from the bald mage to the bottles ad

instruments he was preparing. Hundreds of surgical knives of all sizes, needles, saws and other

paraphernalia lay in the metal basin beside his head. The elf attempted to guess their purpose and

shivered at the thought.

Wode carried the heavy cylindrical container, filled with murky liquid, closer to the table and

sensed the elf.s stare upon himself, studying him carefully. He craned his neck to look over the table

into the container, yet the cloudy liquid was all he could see.

He was afraid. The cave-like chamber was cold. Once again, his arms strained against the

metal fetters that bound them, but to no avail; the fetters were too strong.

"I go by the name of Naurr…" he attempted to initiate a conversation with Wode. The bald

mage raised a quizzical eyebrow and proceeded with the preparations for the operation. "What do you

want of me?" the elf shouted, his silent contempt disappearing before his fear.

Wode contemplated Naurr with a kind of sadness. Over the ten days the elf had spent in the

mage.s hide-out, he had not uttered a word. He had ignored Wode, staring angrily into the floor. The

mage felt pity for his slave, yet there was nothing to be done about it now. If he failed to deliver the

first of the Breed to Irkkidul… that option was not worth considering.

Having finished the preparations, Wode approached the metal basin and sank his hands into

the cold liquid. When he retracted them, Naurr could see a curved, sharp blade, black in colour.

Involuntarily, he began to shiver with fear. Wode raised the blade and viewed it in the dull glow of the

magical lamp above the table. Then he lowered the blade toward Naurr.s face, right above his eyes.

Beads of sweat rolled down the elf.s face, and Wode wiped them off with his free palm. The

wide-open eyes closed upon sensing the cold blade right on the spot where the eyelids come

together…

A horrific scream reverberated around the room, as Wode made an incision in the other eye as

well. Bloody tears flowed down the warrior.s face. He was shaking with pain, cold and fear, and the

pain increased as the mage extracted the empty bags of eyes from the eye-sockets that bled profusely.

This, however, was not the end of Naurr.s sufferings. Wode severed his hands right below the

wrists, separating the skin first, then the fascia and muscle with the moves of an expert. He used a saw

on the bones, leaving the elf in spasms of pain, sobbing through the tide of blood coming through his

nose and mouth.

He made a few steps toward the table containing his laboratory equipment and opened a small

wooden box, extracting Irkkidul.s bottle from its inside. Holding the bottle carefully, he approached

the spasmodic form that had once been Naurr. A few droplets of the liquid went into Naurr.s empty

eye-sockets, and others fell onto the severed stumps of his wrists.

The nerves and blood vessels in the severed areas began moving as if alive, sending new

shocks of excruciating pain through the body of the warrior, accompanied by a new series of screams

from his throat. The unearthly sounds reverberated through the hallways, but there was no one to hear

them.

Having replaced the bottle, the mage moved swiftly toward the cylindrical container. He

opened it and reached inside; two powerful, heavy claws of brownish hue, of reptilian origin if one

was to judge from the rough, scaly hide, were in his hands when he retracted them. The four long,

black claws protruding from each were as sharp as knives.

Wode placed the claws carefully next to the metal basin and reached into the container once

more. This time he took out a pair of feral, red, reptilian eyes. He did not place them on the table;

instead, he held them in the palm of one hand while pouring some of the red liquid from the bottle

onto them. The effect was the same as the one on the elf.s wounds.

Simultaneously he placed both eyes into Naurr.s eye-sockets. The elf was unconscious by this

time, and as soon as the eyes entered the sockets their unseeing gaze turned upward.

He repeated the process with the claws, fusing them onto Naurr.s stumps which accepted the

new extremities with natural ease.

The bald mage completed the operation by inserting a long needle into Naurr.s jugular vein.

The murky liquid flowed through it into the elf.s body, causing reflexive shivering of the sinews.

Like an epileptic seizure, the body began to shake forcefully and white froth formed at the

mouth. The elf.s organism was combating the foreign bodies inside it. Wode reached for two blue

bottles from the table and emptied their content in Naurr.s mouth, calming the seizures immediately.

The operation was completed.

Wode.s calm hands took a simple sewing-needle and some thread and began sewing up the

eyelids of the elf, who now rested peacefully upon the table. He straightened himself up to his full

height and wiped the sweat off his brow with blood-smeared hadns, wondering wheteher the elf

would survive the fusion.

Then he remembered Irkkidul and hoped that he would.

..

Bound in chains, Naur stood beside Wode. The mage was reaching into the small cylindrical

container, preparing the same crystal he had used for his first journey to the Planes.

The elf stood with his head lowered, swaying slowly from side to side and shivering. The

terrifying claws clenched and unclenched in a futile effort to tear the magical fetters apart.

Paying no attention to his slave, Wode opened the portal and reached for Naurr.s chains,

leading him through the gate to another world. The bald mage paid no attention to anything now: his

sole point of interest was the misty landscape where he had last encountered Irkkidul.

His nervous gaze skipped across the terrain, hoping to spot the fiend before he himself was

spotted by one of the demons who lived here. For them, he knew, he would be nothing but easy prey.

He actually sighed his relief when the familiar shape appeared before him from the bones and

earth.

"Ah, you have kept your word," spoke Irkkidul, cleaning himself of the reddish dust. "You

have brought me the First of the Breed…"

"Aye," replied Wode briefly, attempting to hide his agitation. "My part of the bargain has

been fulfilled."

The demon.s enormous arm grasped Naurr.s head and lifted him closer to the horrific face.

He studied him carefully, his claws and sewed-up eyelids.

"Our obligations to one another cease here, then," the demon concluded. "You are free to go,

Wode. But, before you leave, tell me: what have you assembled the First from? His eyes are sewed

shut. Why is this?"

"The gaze of the First is lethal," replied Wode coldly, noticing that the elf was listening

intently although he could not understand a word of the language they were conversing in.

"His eyes turn to stone anyone who dares meet their gaze," he explained. Vivid interest was

clearly written across the demon.s fiendish face, and he wondered what sort of fate he had prepared

for the elf. Turn him into a slave for eternity, to join the ranks of thousands of infernal creatures

already under his command, undoubtedly.

Or perhaps use him for one of his experiments? Wode could never know.

He opened the portal before him, using the well-known movements. His eyes stared straight

into those of the demon Irkkidul as he stepped through the oval gate.

Once aagain his gaze settled on the elf Naurr, whose closed eyes were turned toward him, as

if they could see the bald mage. The expression of despair was so evident on the face twisted beyond

recognition by pain and suffeering that Wode regretted giving him to Irkkidul.

The familiar settings of his laboratory materialised before his eyes. He spent several moments

staring hard at a spot on the cold stone floor, contemplating something. Then he flinched, remebering

where he was, and sat in his chair with an expression of satisfaction across his features.

All was prepared for the Becoming.

..

"More slaves!" screamed Akordia happily. Her deep blue dress was almost touching the floor,

and her generous breasts were even more beautiful, decorated by massive pearl necklace. From the

restored balcony of the central stalagmite she watched as Indarae, escorted by Roman and Radul,

entered the compound leading twenty slaves –mostly goblin – shackled behind her. In these two

weeks since their arrival in Ched Nasad the rich coffers of her family were nearly empty. The wealth

they were gathering for over two hundred years in the Outer Planes was spent in the matter of days.

But she did not consider them wasted, nor did her mother. The once rotten stone was turned into a

magnificent compound. A huge mithrall gate, emblazoned by two large silver spiders, marked the

entrance. The balconies and bridges connecting the three parts of the complex where now decorated

by pictures showing the Drow slaughtering the surface Elves. New slaves were bought and new

weapons and armor were forged.

Lesser priestesses got corns on their hands from whipping the slaves, urging them to clean

and build faster. The whipping did not stop until the last corner of the house was not shining with

tidiness. While they were cleaning the basement – which Nedylene reserved for keeping slaves – they

even encountered few nasty monsters, but the warriors dispatched tem fast. The only time Akordia

had for herself, was when she and her sisters offered prayers to Lloth, thanking her for her mercy.

"Mistress Akordia," one of the warriors addressed her humbly, "Matron mother asked if you

could come to the council room, all of the priestesses will be there." He finished, obviously fighting

the urge to stare at her bosom.

Akordia smiled wickedly and leaned over, taunting the young male even more. With specks

of sweat appearing on his forehead, he bowed once more, and almost ran away. Akordia laughed

aloud now – making sure that the poor youngster heard her – and went to prepare herself before

heading for the Council Room.

She scooped up her magical jewelry, a ring and an indiscrete necklace she never met her

sisters without. As all of the priestesses Akordia trusted no one, especially now that she was second in

charge of the family. It often happened that the younger sister killed the older to claim her spot in the

house hierarchy. In the case of the death of Matron, her eldest daughter would claim the spot. That

was the rule she was counting on. If she killed Nedylene, she would become the Matron mother of

House Ivril. Although she respected her mother, even loved her in a bizarre way, she brought that

decision without second thoughts. She considered that Nedylene was not aggressive enough in house

politics, and in the politics concerning the other houses.

While Nedylene did nothing to find out about the weaknesses of the other houses on their

layer, houses ranking thirty, twenty-nine and twenty-eight in the order of the city, Akordia was busy

gathering spies and informants from other houses. What she found out pleased her greatly.

Apparently, House , the thirtieth house, was gathering strength to attack House Valhoon, house

ranking one above them. Akordia planned to use their war for her own purposes and immediately after

attack the victorious house and thus jump two places in the hierarchy. Her next step would be to

attack House , which was rumored to be under the protectorate of house Auvryndar, one of

the ruling houses. But Akordia trusted rumors. Never, unless they pleased her.

She entered the room last, after all the priestesses and could see the angry look her mother

threw her way. All of the priestesses were gathered around a black table, Nedylene sitting on the front

of the table, Indarae on her left and the chair on her right was waiting for Akordia. Other priestesses,

Solen, Andalae, Kirrana, Ilmra and Dhaunae sat across each other in that order. As soon as Akordia

seated herself on her chair Matron Nedylene started speaking.

"The Return of the Ivrils has ended. The purpose of our meeting is a discussion about our

position as a last house of the city." She said, not covering her pain at the last fact.

"The next period for our family should be a period of mounting power and weapons for the

wars that await us. In the next ten or more years I expect us to be among twenty-five ruling houses."

She said confidently.

Akordia couldn.t take more of this nonsense, and she slammed her fist hard on the table. "

Why wait mother?" she protested, "we have more power than any of the five if not ten houses ranking

above us, and we could beat any two of them combined."

The statement – the truth – pierced Nedylene.s ears much more than Akordia.s high-pitched

voice.

She stood up, trembling with fury. "Another of your outbursts while I.m talking, and we will

have one less priestess in the wars to come," She hissed. "I swear by the Spider Queen." The last

statement drained strength from Akordia.s limbs.

"I.m still the Matron of this family, do not forget, and I make all the decisions. I will have no

more intrigue from you or from Wode. Did you understand, bitch?" Nedylene said before punching

Akordia so hard, that her eldest daughter.s eye closed in the matter of seconds.

..

I the room lit by the wavering light of the candles, a most incredible act was taking place. In a

little stone pool filled with water richly colored with blood, sat the archwizard of the Ivril family,

Wode Ivril. Holding a sharp knife in his left hand, he was cautiously severing his own right hand right

below the shoulder. He has enacted some pain relieving spells to prevent losing consciousness in this

sensitive act. In the matter of minutes precisely prepared skin with nerves and blood vessels intact

hung above an inch of clean bone of the almost-severed limb. In another minute his whole right hand

dropped in the pool with a loud splash. The wizard rested his head on the edge of the pool laughing

deliriously. After that brief moment of rest, Wode reached with his remaining hand for the thing

covered with black silk standing on a pedestal beside the pool. He threw the silken blanket of it, and a

glass container appeared, holding a huge greenish hand suspended in a preserving liquid. The

experienced warriors of the Underdark – and of the surface – would easily recognize the hand of a

giant monster known as a troll. Towering over nine feet and weighing up to one thousand pounds,

trolls were able to kill a dozen warriors without an effort.

Wode knew more than that.

Wode knew that the most horrible thing about a troll was that it could regenerate it wounds

rapidly. A shredded troll would be as good as new within hours. An ultimate warrior if could be given

the skill of an intelligent being. Of a dark elf.

What Wode didn.t know was that he was the first one to become what will later simply be

know as The Breed.

He pulled a small lever on the side of the container, and the preserving liquid started spilling

down to the floor. Waiting for the container to empty, Wode took a needle connected to another

container in the room by a glass tube. He slowly found his aorta, and stuck the needle in, causing the

black viscous liquid to rush from the container to the needle. Convulsions shook his whole body and

the blood started to flow freely from his nose and mouth. Hardly drawing breath, the wizard spilled

the powder he prepared in his good hand over the remains of his other hand. Cut vessels, skin and

nerves started moving on their own accord, to Wode.s ultimate delight. He took the monstrous hand

from the now empty container and without thinking put it on the place of his severed limb. In the

magical collision, two tissues stuck together as if they were never apart at all.

Wode stood up in the pool and issued a feral scream that shook the whole lab. He managed to

squeeze the fingers of his new hand before falling unconscious from the exhaustion.

..

"He is in his lab mother," Solen Ivril explained. "He is always in his lab. Radul and Hathra

are bringing him food and drink in his chambers."

The young priestess looked at her sisters seeking refuge from her mother.s wrath, but

knowing that she wouldn.t find any. To her relief, she saw Nedylene turn her heavy gaze toward her

older sister, Indarae.

"What.s happening to Wode, Indarae?" Matron demanded. "You were the one to find out

what is he working on this time."

Indarae gathered strength to look her mother in the eyes. "I don.t know, mother," she said

apologetically. " I tried to find out but even Nym couldn.t help me, I swear."

"I be damned if I don.t burn that den of his to the very foundation," Nedylene muttered.

"Akordia, tomorrow you will tear apart his laboratory and bring me anything you consider suspicious.

And, if he complains… kill him." She finished with iron determination in her gentle voice.

Akordia nodded more than happy to oblige. Everything was going as planned. She would

have Wode in her grip, and than she could start planning the very act. She could plan how to kill her

mother. Nedylene.s voice made her dismiss her sweet thoughts.

"The third reason for today.s meeting, my daughters, is Roman Valbrinar," the name itself

made her daughters angry. None of them liked him at all. His arrogant, disrespecting stance brought

him a lot of enemies in the family.

"Indeed, he is one of our most valuable males, but I sense that he holds no respect for Lloth,"

Matron continued. "I have never seen him enter Lloth.s temple to offer his prayers, thus, I have

decided to declare him infidel. He has to die." She stated bluntly.

Akordia smiled, for her mother.s actions brought her one step closer.

"Should we kill him right away, Mother?" Ilmra asked, happy for the sealed fate of the

disliked drow. "Myself and Kirrana can do …" she stopped when she saw her mother look through

the window absently.

"We shall wait a bit longer," Nedylene declared after a moment of silence. "We can always

use him in a suicidal mission. But again, where is the fun in that?"

..

Roman and Vinera sat in his room, naked and content after a fabulous night they spent

together, watching as Scagnia whipped the slaves – purely for pleasure, they knew. Drops of blood

flew wildly as he whipped an orcish slave, the poor creature buried under the boulder it was carrying.

Scagnia was frustrated by his position in the hierarchy, and he only could impose his power on the

defenseless slaves. For a whole month, Nym made him do the dirtiest jobs, not appropriate for a

stupid warrior, not to mention brilliant himself. That bitterness had to go out somewhere. Today, and

every day before, he used the whip as a catalyst for the transfer of his frustration into physical

punishment.

Only one of the orcs eyed the fragile, hunched with hatred, the others accepting the blows as a

part of their miserable life. That particular Orc was nearly seven feet tall and weighted over three

hundred pounds, three times Scagnia.s weight. Numerous scars on his body told the stories of the

battles he lived through. The multicolored calligraphy of his many tattoos showed everything from the

Horde in battle to a physically gifted Orc maiden in a lascivious position. Roman concluded that he

was once the tribe leader, probably put to sleep by poison and than brought into slavery. That Orc

certainly was worth talking to.

Vinera.s melodious giggle told him everything he needed to know right now. The most

beautiful of all Ivril females was his. He looked at her gracious figure, at the bluish light of the faerie

fires dancing on the smooth skin of her ring-decorated belly. He brought his stare up to meet with her

dark red eyes, the only eyes he cared about o this cursed world. He knew that she cared about him as

well. He could sense gentle love in her touch, and not the physical lust other dark elf females offered.

She viewed him for what he really was. She viewed him as her equal.

He lifted her easily off the ground, and carried her gently to the bed determined to replay the

night before.

..

Tens of miles south of Roman.s bedroom, four dwarves were resting on a stony beach of the

underground lake. Sturdy Grudar was tearing his shirt to use to stop the bleeding from his wounds.

But he felt better than yesterday, after another fight with an Umber Hulk, their third in one month of

roaming through the Underdark. He washed away the blood from the heavy mace he found along the

way, losing his thoughts in his image in the murky water.

Beside him, Tadran stood supporting himself on his greataxe and surveyed the cavern they in.

It was a small chamber and the spring created the small pool that went into the next chamber. From

the thundering of the waterfall, Tadran understood that the next chamber was probably thirty-or-so

feet below this one.

"So, mighty leader," young Bodo addressed him, the note of sarcasm in youngster.s voice not

escaping the old dwarf.s notice. "What now?" Bodo continued his teasing. "Ain.t this what ye

wanted, to inherit Agadar on the leader.s position?"

The last remark was too much for nervous Tadran to tolerate. He lifted the smaller dwarf in

the air, and tossed him in the lake.

"Ye ain.t worth orcish dung, ye coward." Tadran yelled. "Don.t ye ever talk to me like that,

ye goblin leper," he said looking at soaked Bodo with his bloodied eyes. Tadran started hit him once

more, but he composed himself and leaned on his axe once more.

"Where to, brethren? Where?" White bearded Dogur, the oldest and the wisest of the group

asked, while flipping silver holy symbol of Clangeddin Silverbeard, dwarven god of battle, over and

over in his hands.

He expected no answer, and he got none. They were wandering in circles for days, and found

nothing but fungi and monsters. They ate the mushrooms hoping they were edible, and relying on

their racial resistance to poisons. Dogur prayed to Clangeddin a couple of times, begging him to show

him the way, but got no answer. His healing magic was starting to wear off, and he felt desperate

indeed.

Agadar Ironheart, their clan leader, asked them to venture to the Cavern of the Cloven Heads

in the search of ancient relics belonging to the long-dead leader of the clan that originally inhabited

the Cavern, before Menzoberra slaughtered them all. Twenty of the clan.s best warriors gathered

around Agadar and needed a cleric to support them on their way. Dogur was too old for such an

adventure, but his pride forced him to accept Agadar.s invitation. What an old fool he has been…

One month later, before even reaching the Cavern, only four of them remained alive. Agadar

was, ironically, the first one to be killed, and was eaten by a Hook Horror. The remaining fifteen

warriors died from traps or from Grimlock axes. The four of them were captured and held by the mind

flayers, probably for enthralling, until the drow with curious haircut and even more curious fighting

style killed their custodians and made the most curious decision. He let them go. And even showed

them where their weapons were held. Dogur still couldn.t believe that he actually let them go.

Nevertheless, he was in drow.s dept, and would repay him gladly if their paths ever crossed again.

There was a slim chance for that considering their current situation.

Tadran stripped his axe across his back and went in the water heading straight for the

waterfall.

"Where?" Bodo screamed after him.

"To the Nine Hells," fat Grudar answered instead of Tadran, standing up and following his

leader. "We ain.t got nothing to lose, we are goin. down the durned waterfall."

Bodo saw Dogur enter the water, took his hammer and bobbed hastily after his friends.

..

Hathra leaned back in his comfortable chair, pleased. He put out the candles and wiped the

ink of his blue tongue. The masterpiece of his entire life sat on the table in front of him. Black book,

magically decorated by hundreds golden spiders, crawling all over the cover. That enchantment was

his work as well. Matron would be pleased. He took the tome, and looked at his room once more. It

was small but comfortable. A large bed and a fine writing table was all that a dying poet could ask for.

He coughed once and went for the door, eager to show the book to Matron Nedylene. The stomping of

the boots in the corridor stopped him from opening the door. A high-pitched voice - Akordia.s he

knew - was issuing orders.

" … and don.t let Wode talk you out. Strip every corner of the lab, and show me anything you

consider out-of-place. If he starts to protest, simply kill him…"

Hathra felt the tingling in his spine. If Wode was killed, who would supply him with

medicines? Confused bard did not know what to do. He started trashing the stuff from his table,

searching for something that could help. And there it was. An old arcane scroll used to deliver

telepathy messages to a far away entity. He composed himself and started to read the runes on the

scroll aloud. He sent a warning message to Wode and uttered a triggering syllable. Suddenly the

glowing runes disappeared from the parchment indicating that he cast the spell successfully. He hoped

he had done it in time.

Hathra.s message probed Wode.s mind so forcefully that he jumped out of the chair. He

quickly conjured an invisible servant from the Plane of Shadows - together with a broom - to start

cleaning the mess. He washed out the remaining blood from the pool and uttered another magical

phrase that made the container that held the troll.s hand disappear. Surveying the situation once more,

he sat on the chair, tucked his monstrous hand beneath his robes, and took a book from his table – just

in time to hear the loud knocking on the door. Wode snapped his fingers dismissing the unseen

servant, and snapped them again to open the door.

His smiling face greeted furious Akordia, Indarae and a dozen obviously frightened soldiers.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked feigning surprise.

Akordia snapped her whip furiously.

"Don.t push your luck wizard," she snarled and motioned for the soldiers to start the search.

"For long enough have you hid your experiments from us and from Lloth. It.s time to see what you

have in this stinking den of yours."

"I.m sure there is no need for this nonsense," said Wode, fighting the urge to kill them all for

ripping apart his precious apparatus. "I have nothing to hide from you and especially from our dear

goddess." He purred, playing the only card he could.

Akordia went silent and joined her younger sister in the search. When the once tidy looked no

better than an ogre den, the group left the room with only Akordia looking at Wode as if to say, "

be watching you."

The archwizard of the Ivril leaned in his chair, conjured another servant to clean up the mess,

closed his eyes, and dreamed of strangling Akordia with his troll hand. And after he was finished, he

strangled her again, and again…

..

The trip to the residence of Melarn family wasn.t boring for Roman. He passed through the

enormous marketplace of Ched Nasad enjoying the sights and sounds. The most of the stores were set

in the gaps of the web surrounding the city, and more prominent merchants had stone buildings for

their stores. Of course, most of the merchants and buyers were drow, but Duergar and Illithids were

common, too. Roman felt his hair tingling when he passed near the group of the mind flayers,

remembering the encounter in the Cavern of the Cloven Heads. He monitored every move they made,

ready to strike back at any sudden move they made. Roman hoped he would see the dragon he saw

one month ago on his first excursion through the marketplace. Such a magnificent beasts, those

dragons. He wondered what one of his kind would be doing in the city of inferior races, and that

reminded him that he could finish a job, while he was still on the marketplace.

After an hour of roaming through the sea of merchants, Roman saw a tall, thin drow wearing

rune-encrusted robes. His thinning hair showed that he had over five centuries behind him, and his

scarred face showed that they were not so pleasant. Two goblins skittered around him, screaming at

each other in their guttural language. They looked funny in fine suits matching the color of their

master.s robes. A wizard, Roman hoped.

"Feel free to take a look over my store, mighty warrior," he said when he saw Roman staring

at him. "I see that you are interested in Ibrull.s magical items." He said and noted for the goblins to

bring him a massive chest from behind him.

"You are a fighter, I see, so you might be interested in these fine weapons I have to offer." He

continued his tirade and with a flick of a wrist opened the chest even before two struggling goblins

put it on the ground. A whole arsenal of weapons was displayed to Roman from chest.

Roman watched the wizard talk about the items and their history and thought his head would

explode from the information he heard. Finally, he leaned toward the babbling Ibrull and noted for

him to go silent.

"Actually," he whispered, "I came because of this thing," he said, and took the copper ring he

found in the room of the Illithid out of his pocked and showed it to Ibrull.

"I think it is magical, and I would appreciate if you could tell me something more of its

powers." He finished, giving the ring to the wizard.

"That will cost gold, you know-," whispered Ibrull, never taking the greedy smile of his bony

face. Before he could even finish the sentence, Roman stuck a solid bag of gold in his hands.

With a touch of an experienced merchant, Ibrull weighted the bag in his skinny hand, and

motioned for Roman to wait. He turned toward the crystal ball on the table behind him, and started a

soft chant. Roman could see the light emanating from the scrying device on the faces of two goblins

that peeked from under Ibrull.s robes, keeping an eye on Roman all the time. After a moment, the

light disappeared, and Ibrull turned to face him once more.

"You were wrong, warrior," he said with solemn voice, although Roman saw a mischievous

sparkle in his eyes. "This ring hasn.t got anything magical about it. But, you know, I.m a collector of

copper rings, and if you wish I could offer you a gold piece or two for it." Ibrull offered, putting his

hand around Roman.s shoulders.

The lie did not anger Roman as much as its structure. Damn, this man considered him a total

idiot for thinking he would believe such a futile attempt. He took the ring from wizard.s long fingers,

and eyed it as if appraising its value.

"All right, Ibrull," he started eying the hand resting on his shoulder, drawing an anticipating

grin from the merchant. "You have two choices. You can either take your filthy hand off my shoulder,

or you can let me rip your filthy hand off your shoulder, taking it with me as a souvenir." He finished

calmly, watching the grin dissipate from wizard.s face for the first time since they met. Roman turned

away, clenching the ring in his hand and started off for the compound of House Melarn.

He reached the destination in the matter of minutes. The fabulous structure was five or more

times the size of the Ivril compound. Large pointed stalactite was hanging from far above, its top lost

in the mist. The drow of Ched Nasad called it "The Blue Castle" and now Roman could see for

himself that they weren.t exaggerating at all. Blue faerie fires danced upon every inch of the structure,

disappearing at one moment and then reappearing the next. Hundreds of ornamental bridges and

balconies decorated the already magnificent compound. Roman forced his admiration back and with a

slight smile went to finish the grim business.

The only sounds emanating from within the gate were the screams of orcish slaves. Those

screams made him think about the oncoming meeting.

What if that specter lied to him? What if he wasn.t even Melarn, Roman wandered. Or even

worse, what if he was a Melarn running away from his Matron. Roman knew if that was the case, then

he would probably suffer in the dungeons instead of Mirisk. But never mind, there was no big

difference between a dungeon and opened space in this Lloth-dictated world anyway.

He neared the huge metal gate, the only possible entrance through the wall that surrounded

the whole complex. He saw ten warriors led by a shorthaired female approach him from within the

gate. The warriors opened the massive gate, and the female stepped out, looking menacing with her

snake-headed whip. The dominant spider medallion on her silvery armor told Roman that she was a

high priestess of Lloth. He bowed low when she approached him.

"You came to the property of House Melarn, third house of the city. State your business or be

gone before I kill you," she threatened the unarmed drow.

"I.m of thirty-first house, House Ivril," he introduced himself by-the-book. "I seek audience

with Matron Melarn," he stated, forcing a wholehearted, mocking laugh from the priestess.

"Why would she grant you audience, and what gives you the right to come out with such a

bold request?" she asked, turning the laughter into an angry snarl.

Roman smiled confidently, and moved nearer to the female.

"I carry a message from Mirisk, Mirisk Melarn." He stated and moved closer so he could feel

her hot breath on his face. "I think that Matron would be pretty disappointed if she didn.t receive the

message because of the arrogance of one of her inferiors, don.t you?" Roman mocked, looking the

priestess straight in the eyes.

She wanted to punish him, she wanted to slay him where he stood, but there was something in

those pink eyes of his, something that told her not to push her luck with this one.

"Follow me, male!" She ordered, signaling for her warriors to open the gate. "Next time I see

you, consider yourself dead." She threatened aloud, so all of the nearby drow could hear it.

But, she did not know that Roman Valbrinar could not be seen, unless he wanted to be seen.

Entering the courtyard of the house, many of the nearby slaves regarded the unarmed and

unarmored dark elf with strange haircut with passing curiosity. Roman saw that they were mostly

goblinoid, with several humans among them. Entering the central building, Roman passed beside

soldiers, priestesses and wizards. Many of them wore shiny armors, and gem-encrusted weapons. The

corridors were decorated with tapestries and mosaics mainly presenting the battles between the drow

and other races. Although he despised the whole Lloth-worshipping culture, Roman couldn.t help

himself in looking at those decorations with admiration.

The house guard was consisted mainly of drow soldiers, but giant spiders were common too.

He even saw a couple of spiders that had their legs appearing as huge swords. They were ascending

for over half an hour, when they finally reached the top of the stairs, Roman almost fled back down.

In front of the monumental door, two spiders, two biggest spiders Roman ever saw, stood still not

regarding him or the priestess. Their massive bulks occupied the whole corridor, and Roman – to his

ultimate horror - had to squeeze through them to reach the door. He could swear that they were

weighing over a thousand pounds, each.

The shorthaired priestess motioned for him to stop, and fell in some sort of spell-casting

trance. Suddenly, the door swung open, and the priestess pushed him inside, closing the door behind

him without a slightest sound.

Roman found himself standing in a large room, dominated by a golden throne that had living

spiders crawling around it. Two more of those sword-legged spiders stood in the corners of the room,

motionless. But what shook him most, was the black withered figure, half-sitting half-laying on the

throne. Matron mother Drisinil Melarn was ancient indeed. Her fragile frame looked as if a slight

breeze would break her in pieces, and her once thick mane was no more than few hairs emanating – it

seemed – straight from her skull. She had a long leather dress on her, which added even more to her

ghostlike features, and an onyx necklace on her neck.

Roman kneeled in front of her, staring straight in the floor before him. He brought out a

skeletal hand from his pouch – Mirisk.s hand – and laid it gently in front of the throne. He felt

Matron.s probing gaze on him.

" Mirisk was a fool," she said, with a strong voice that in no way resembled her fragile looks.

"I.m glad to see that he got what he deserved."

Roman saw the hand float of the floor toward Matron.

"How did you come upon his corpse, Valbrinar?" she demanded. Her knowing of Roman.s

true family name startled him at first, but then he reminded himself that he was dealing with one of

the most powerful personalities of Ched Nasad.

"A specter, calling itself Mirisk, showed itself to me in the Cavern of the Cloven Heads

during a scouting expedition. It told me to take the hand from the corpse below it, and to bring it to

the Matron of House Melarn." He answered sincerely, having no reason to lie.

From out of nowhere, she conjured a leather bag with House Melarn insignia and tossed it to

Roman. Never taking his eyes from the floor, Roman caught the bag in his hand and quickly tossed it

in his pouch.

"That is a reward for your troubles." Matron Drisinil explained. "And now get out of here,

I.m not in the mood to watch you crawl before me."

Luckily for Roman, she did not enact her mind-reading spells, for she would hear all kinds of

curses addressed to her, Lloth and all that worshipped the Spider Queen. Roman hardly contained

himself from throttling her right there, although he knew he would be dead before he reached her. He

bowed once more and left the room.

He didn.t see the splendors of the House Melarn residence while the same priestess that

brought him in was escorting him out. He saw only a mountain of spider corpses, while he stood on

top of it.

..

Swinging wildly with his two-handed sword Kalannar forced his two sparring partners bask

on their heels. Although his weapon was much heavier than their longsword-dagger choices, Kalannar

was scoring a number of hits on two young soldiers that tried to parry his swings; only to have their

weapons tossed aside. Not giving them a moment to rest, Kalannar continued with his devastating

attacks.

The circular room they were sparring in was large enough for Kalannar to execute his

maneuvers. The walls were scraped from many hits, and even splattered with blood on few places,

when Kalannar would lose himself in his fury and hurt his trainees.

One of the students, tried to jump on Kalannar, while he was retrieving his sword from

another wide swing. Evading the attacks of the other youngster, Kalannar turned toward the bold

jumping one and set his knee on the collision course with groin of the drow. The graceful jump turned

into an unceremonious fall when the poor lad.s groin connected with Kalannar.s knee. He fell down,

threw his weapons, and rolled on the ground screaming in agony.

Kalannar slowly turned to the other student, which now trembled with horror. Kalannar

smiled and went for a furious overhead swing. The frightened young drow jumped back, and

weaponmaster.s sword chopping a large lump of stone from the floor, in a multicolored sparkle show.

The trainee jumped back a bit too much, and felt the cold stone of the wall behind his back. The huge

weaponmaster then went for a vicious horizontal slash, threatening to cut the young lad in half. The

poor creature did manage to deflect the attack a bit, but the flat side of the sword connected with his

head and broke his jaw with a sickening crack.

Kalannar was putting his sword back in its sheath, when he felt sharp pain in his left shoulder.

He turned around to see the drow that got hit in the groin back on his feet and with a bloodied dagger

in his hands. The lad was smiling thinking that Kalannar would congratulate for such a wicked hit.

But the weaponmaster of house Ivril was blinded with fury. He clenched his sword, and before the

youngster could react, chopped his hand off, right below the elbow. The young drow widened his eyes

in terror, looking at his disembodied hand at the floor, still clutching the ill-fated dagger. Then he fell

on the floor, howling in pain twice as loud as he did earlier.

" I.m disappointed," Kalannar stated, not paying heed to the wounded drow. "I should have

killed you. You fight with no improvisation, using only the well known maneuvers a goblin could

parry without effort."

He turned to the trainee with the broken jaw, understanding that the other one is not listening

to him, because he lost his consciousness.

"An Umber Hulk would never spare you the way I did," he went on with his tirade. "Now get

out of here and drag this one to the temple, so he doesn.t bleed to death in my sparring room," he

yelled at the wounded drow.

"And send me a slave to clean up this mess you two made!" wicked weaponmaster yelled as

the poor drow dragged his unconsiouss companion out of the room.

Kalannar paid no heed to the wound on his shoulder, although the blood was pouring freely

from it. He has taken hundreds of those in his almost three centuries of life. He was known as the one

that fears nothing. At the sight of blood he would enter an unstoppable rage, tearing through the ranks

of his enemies.

Kalannar relied on his strength more than finesse, what was pretty unusual for a dark elf.

When he would bring down an opponent, he would decapitate him quickly, already searching for the

next victim.

As he headed for his room to get some rest, he eyed a group of young warriors showing off

some battle techniques, and they scattered quickly, getting out of the way of Kalannar lil Streeaka –

Kalannar the Fearless. He was used to that, but after all those years he couldn.t help but smile at the

sight of five warriors running away from his mere glance.

He entered his room on top of the Warrior Tower still smiling, and he took a look on the

courtyard below through the window. He took a look that spoiled his day, for he saw Roman

Valbrinar enter the compound. He hated him with all his heart. Roman.s cocky attitude went on his

nerves, and he wondered why did Matron tolerate such obvious disrespect.

But, his day would come, six and a half foot tall weaponmaster of House Ivril knew, the day

when he will add another notch to his countless-notched sword.

..

Long, intoxicated nights in the Houses of Pleasure numbed Hathra.s senses, and in that way

relieved him temporary of the burden that was his illness. This particular house stretched on seven

floors and could offer shelter to more than a hundred drow. Armed guards were stationed on every

corner, preventing the quarrels between members of rival houses. The house rule, that forbid the

customers to bring their weapons in, did them little good, for the priestesses that visited

– the Houses of Pleasure – needed no weapons if they wanted to kill someone.

Laying on a comfortable mattress on the balcony of one of the , this one

owned by a merchant called Vlos, Hathra enjoyed the vapor of the narcotics imported from the

surface. He had enough money for such an expansive pleasure. He had enough money maybe till the

end of his life, considering his current health. But Hathra decided he would not think of such dark

thoughts as he breathed the numbing vapor deeply.

Nedylene didn.t hide her pleasure when he presented her his book. Her eyes shone proudly

when she took the book named "Return of the Ivril" in her hands. She awarded him generously before

carrying the book in the house treasury, among magic items and religious symbols. His job was done

and he could lat himself enjoy these few months he had left.

He coughed and spat a little blood in the silver bowl before him, and took another

wholehearted pull at the curving ornamental pipe that burned sweet intoxicants. He did not want to

think about Matron Nedylene, Wode or Vinera that was now in love with Roman. He only wanted the

drug to rip his soul out of his pained body, and to take him to the journey through all the sweet places

of consciousness.

Actually, the narcotics took even more toll on Hathra.s wretched body. He now weighed less

than eighty pounds, his scarred body looking frightening indeed. But he couldn.t help himself. Since

he discovered that the drugs were the only think that could take his mind off his terrible disease, he

consumed only more and more. Actually, he hadn.t even exited Vlos. for the last

two days.

That was one of the prices male had to pay to the society.

Hathra felt like falling deep, deep into a chasm and the hot wind gently stroked his broken

body.

..

Patrolling around the city was the most interesting event for the soldiers of the city, but not

for Roman Valbrinar. It was just another risk to take, and Roman did not feel like risking the nest of

that bitch Lloth that was Ched Nasad.

Twenty warriors surrounded the wizard and moved silently through the worn corridor

used by caravans entering or exiting the city. It was quite boring, and only a lizard running across the

corridor from one of many side passages made the turn their heads expecting a monster.

Roman stuck close to Vinera; her delicate features accompanied by a hand-held

crossbow ready to fire at any sort of danger from the darkness. She was the only one of house Ivril

beside him patrolling on that day. She was also the only woman in the group, and Roman had to calm

himself a few times when he saw lascivious messages exchanged between his companions in drow

hand code.

All of the soldiers avoided talking to him, either for considering him a member of

city.s lowest ranking house, or out of fear from his dark – even for a drow – facial expression. The

formation was a simple circular formation, with a wizard in center, for giving magical support from

the back.

" I.m not sure Quiron," - the wizard addressed the patrol leader in curious blue armor

– "that was should venture any further. We are entering an unsafe territory. I heard that Umber Hulks

roam this corridors in large numbers."

Closing his one eye and thinning his already thin lips even more, Quiron turned around to

face the wizard. His hand was on the hilt of his sheathed sword, ready to start the lethal dance on first

sign of danger.

"Maybe Moriel doesn.t feel safe enough among twenty fine warriors," he changed his angry

expression for a teasing grin. "Or, maybe he doesn.t think I.m competent enough to be a patrol

leader." He went on, thumping his hand impatiently on the picture of a deep dragon carved in his

armor.

"You are misusing the ranking of your house, Quiron," the wizard screeched. His blue and

yellow robes were touching the ground, and only thing visible beneath them were black leather boots.

Quiron eyed Moriel and two other warriors that wore the same house insignia as the wizard,

thinking to finish with that failure of a mage once and for all. He reconsidered his course when he

thought of all the interrogations he would have to go through, to explain his actions.

"We can set the position of my house aside," he whispered to the wizard. "If you wish to fight

me one-on-one." Quiron finished and motioned for the group to continue the scouting.

Not much more time passed before Quiron motioned for the group to stop, signaling danger in

the silent language of the drow. Six huge Umber Hulks were gathered around a small spring, probably

coming there for some fresh water.

Should we retreat? They are out of our scouting perimeter. Moriel asked Quiron, his hands

flashing wildly.

Quiron didn.t pay him much heed. He was flashing messages with his hands, setting the

attack formations.

Roman shared Moriel.s opinion on this matter. The monsters were far away from the city and

there was really no reason to attack them. He wandered how many lives will be lost because of foolish

pride of their patrol leader. Roman has set himself on the right flank, along with Vinera and three

other warriors.

Their formation was divided into five groups, each consisted of four warriors. Each of the

groups was to engage one Umber Hulk, using the maneuver known as Bautha . The maneuver

consisted of one warrior playing bait for the beast, dodging its blows, while others slashed at it

repeatedly, until the aberration would fall from loss of blood. Quiron led the central group, his fine

sword shining. In the back, Moriel was casting some kind of protective spells on himself. Quiron

raised his sword high in the air, and then pointed it at the unsuspecting beasts. Twenty and one dark

figure charged in the battle, the last battle for some of them.

Large insect-like creatures were standing on two legs, towering over nine feet, with large

natural-armored torsos and limbs. Their horrifying mandibles could snap a drow elf in half. As soon

as they sensed approach of many feet on the stony ground with their tremor-sensing abilities, they

turned and charged on the oncoming drow, giving away piercing screeches. Roman saw one fighter of

his own group stop, standing confused, and not noticing the oncoming monsters or his comrades.

Then he saw that similar thing happened to at least five other warriors from the other groups.

Quiron was the first to reach the large bugs, setting his sword in front of him to deflect any

oncoming blows. He dodged the heavy swipe of one Umber Hulk, while two of his comrades scored

effective hits on the creature.s back. The other groups worked the same tactics, and one of them had

Roman as bait. He was dodging the clumsy swipes easily, rolling to and fro to get the beast in the best

position for his group-mates to strike. Behind, Moriel was scorching an Umber Hulk with a thin ray of

flame from his hands, while the beast was engaged with a giant spider the wizard summoned earlier.

Quiron and Roman were evading the futile attack easily, compared to other three baits. Two

of the drow were already down, covered in blood and gore. The third one was apparently tiring, for

each swipe of heavy claws came nearer than the previous one.

Frustrated by Roman.s easy evasions the beast suddenly turned around, and grabbed the

unsuspecting young warrior that has been attacking from the back. The poor youngster screamed as

powerful arms lifted him of the ground, and the mandibles crushed his head. Umber Hulk tossed the

obliterated corpse to the side and turned to face Vinera.

Roman knew he had to act fast. The beast was ignoring his punches, and he couldn.t score

any serious hits through the hard carapace. In the act of desperation, Roman jumped on the creature,

landing comfortably on aberration.s shoulders. The beast had Vinera cornered and her sword tossed

aside by one heavy backhand hit. Umber Hulk seemed to not notice Roman even now when he was

sitting atop of its shoulders. The beast was only interested in the clean kill it had in front of it.

Vinera flinched as the beast brought its arms up for the strike, the strike she knew would

prove fatal. Suddenly, creature.s head jerked forward with a loud crack from behind. Realizing that

the Umber Hulk was falling toward her, Vinera moved to the side barely escaping two thousand

pounds of rock-hard carapace. With a tremendous crash, the beast fell on the floor, with Roman on it,

trying to pull his hand out of its head.

With the sudden jerk, Roman managed to pull his hand free, but the momentum sent him

rolling backwards to finish right in front of one of the Umber Hulks. He saw cowardly Moriel assault

the beast, levitating on a safe distance.

As the monster brought both of its arms up for a devastating blow, Roman rolled forward

between the creature.s legs, to end up behind it. Umber Hulk hit only solid ground, and before it could

realize what happened, Roman was on top of its back. The aberration trashed wildly, trying to drop

the drow from its back. Than another sickening crack could be heard, and Roman had his right hand

in creature.s head, squashing its brain.

Roman pulled his hand out of this one.s head more carefully now and looked around the

battlefield. His companions had the situation under control. Only one of the things remained, and it

was severely wounded, bleeding from many wounds. The remaining dark elves were dancing around

it, stinging the wounded giant whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He watched the gracious movements of his kin with astonishment. He watched their

movements hundreds of times, and still could watch the swordplay for hours. So beautiful beings, us

dark elves, he thought. So beautiful and so mean.

When the last of the Umber Hulks was down, Quiron regarded the scene, nodding with

admiration. He ordered for his patrol to gather the fallen, and to return to the city.

So, seventeen dark elves moved through the darkness, carrying their dead comrades, happy

for not being in their place. Even grumbling Moriel was silent, feeling sorrow, for he had lost two

brothers on that cursed day.

..

Hathra couldn.t understand why did he see the bottom. The quantity of drug he took should

have been able to secure at least three hours of relaxing fall. And now he saw the bottom, and what

kind of bottom it was. It was littered with sharp bones, and with skulking red eyes beneath, ready to

eat him as soon he got impaled on the bones. Suddenly all of the lightheadedness he felt turned into

the indescribable horror. Hathra.s body curved in fetal position, awaiting the horrid death.

And it was horrid indeed. He got impaled through the chest, feeling his lungs torn. He jerked

violently, trying to get himself off the sharp bone.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and realized that he was not dead, but lay on the balcony of

Vlos. House of Pleasure. Hathra tried to bring himself in sitting position, but his whole body ached

when he tried to move even a little bit.

"Little Hathra is awake, how sweet," he heard a purring, soft but unusual female voice behind

him.

Despite the pain, he managed to turn his head to see who that was. Drow in the city had to

think hard to even remember the name of his house, and this one called him by his first name.

A striking, longhaired female was sitting with her legs seductively crossed on a chair behind

him. She wore a tight leather dress that emphasized her generous curves even more. An old fighter

accompanied her; scars of many battles could be seen on his face, hidden by the hood of his crimson

cloak. Both had a strange shine in their eyes, and unnatural, stern expressions on their faces, as if they

were not drawing breath. Hathra ignored the pain and shook his head, sure that he was hallucinating

from the narcotics.

"Hathra Ivril," she begun. "A poet left by his family to rot in the claws of the disease… poor

Hathra," she purred and kneeled beside him.

Hathra wanted her to come nearer, wanted to make love to her, but still searched with his eyes

for a hidden blade. But, he wandered, what would she have to gain by killing him when he would die

by himself in next couple of weeks. She put her face to his, and stroked his hair and face with her

hands, unusually cold, but gentle and appealing.

"What do you want from a dead man?" he asked. "And how do you now my name at all? I

don.t believe that everybody is talking about Hathra Ivril in the City of Shimmering Webs today." He

stated with obvious sarcasm.

She only smiled and continued with her gentle touches. Hathra didn.t feel this kind of

relaxation even when he was in full health.

"There is a cure for you, dear Hathra," she said. Noticing the suspicious expression on his

face, she brought her lips even closer to his and issued a purring sound.

"There is no need to be suspicious, dear Hathra, and I wouldn.t have come to fill your

tortured mind with empty promises," she went on, certainly getting Hathra.s attention.

"What kind of cure?" Hathra demanded impatiently. "I would serve you until the end of my

life for the cure, I swear."

He tried to stand up, but her incredibly strong hand held him pinned to the bed. Only then did

he realize that the whole balcony was empty, what was most unusual for this time of day. And only

then did he realize why she had that strange intonation of her voice.

She wasn.t breathing.

Before he could scream out, Hathra felt sharp pain in his neck, and then he felt nothing at all.

The undead drow wiped the blood from her face smiling confidently.

"Yes Hathra, you will serve me until the end of your life," she said to the broken corpse.

"And even further."

..

The day of the Council meeting finally came. Processions of matrons accompanied by high

priestesses and personal bodyguard moved from lower levels to the highest where huge, decorated

Council Hall was situated.

Many important matters will be resolved today, Nedylene thought while she walked between

Akordia and Indarae. Kalannar was somewhere behind, ready to act upon a smallest sign of threat on

Matron Nedylene.

Giant spiders guarded the stairways that connected the levels, and watched the constant

stream of dark elves with their many eyes. It was a long way to the Council Hall from the lowest

level, noted Nedylene. And it was even longer way for the low ranking families for their opinion to

get heard on the meeting.

The was dressed well for the occasion in her favorite red color, with black motives on her

dress concerning spiders and everything else that had any relationship with Lloth. She looked far

more beautiful than her daughters that dressed for the occasion, as well. Only Kalannar, forced by

Nedylene to dress nicely, jumped out with his habits that resembled an Orc more than a Dark Elf.

Watching him bob down the street, Nedylene realized the mistake she made in bringing him with

them. She should brought Roman or somebody else with more splendid looks. She winced as

Kalannar spat on the ground, loudly.

Just in front of them the matrons of other houses situated on the lowest level of the city

walked with their escorts, looking at each other with obvious disgust. Nedylene desperately wanted

them to strike out at each other, to grab at each other.s throats. But these angry looks were only empty

threats, she knew, because nobody would dare to make a move against other house on the council day.

They reminded her of two dogs endlessly barking at each other, but with their leashes not allowing

them to bite.

When they finally arrived, Nedylene shot an angry glare Kalannar.s way, reminding him that

he should behave himself, and turned again to scan the Hall and the thousand drow surrounding it.

"The Council Hall," Akordia grasped with admiration, "it.s full, mother." The noise from the

hall told them that most of the Matrons already arrived.

But, they needed not to worry about catching the place, because on the meeting day nobody

dared to take other.s place. Once inside the building, every family had to show maximal respect to the

other, disregarding the place in the hierarchy or the rivalry.

As they approached the entrance the number of patrols and guardian spiders grew rapidly.

Nothing was to be left to the risk. The city was closed to the visitors and guests. Many important

matters would be resolved, from the city.s internal matters to the external matters that usually finished

with wars.

Matron Nedylene climbed up the black, stone stairs to the very entrance, which was decorated

by silver triumphal arch. Spiders of all kinds and sizes crawled on the walls of the Hall, and two

gargantuan specimen of their kind stood on the inner side of the entrance. Nedylene viewed them with

admiration, and Kalannar eyed them suspiciously, aware that one of them would cut him in half

before he could even react.

The House Ivril representatives seated themselves in the last row of the round amphitheater, a

place given to them according to their place in the city hierarchy. Akordia noted that the seats were

very comfortable, but her eyes flashed with envy when she saw that Nedylene.s seat was much more

stuffed and comfortable than hers. That reaction didn.t escape Nedylene and she remembered the

same situation she was in when she came in here with her mother, long time ago.

Half-covered structure had ebony black walls on the inside, with glowing carving that told the

story of city.s founding. The whole history of Ched Nasad reflected on the faces of the gathered drow

in form of light greenish hue, giving them an eerie contrast. The ceiling of the building was, in fact,

the large symbol of Lloth, and her shadow covered the whole Hall.

The murmuring suddenly stopped, and twelve leading Matrons stepped in the Hall trough the

silver arch, led by Matron mother Aunrae Nasadra, the founder and present leader of Ched Nasad. On

her right, a tall humanoid figure walked along her side, totally covered by a dark green cloak. It

walked with gracious large steps, often stopping to wait for shorter-legged Matron Nasadra to catch

up.

The mysterious figure raised brows of almost all of the gathered Matrons, which started

protesting about secrecy and breaking one of the first laws of the council – no outsiders allowed. Not

paying heed to the protests, the leading Matrons positioned the figure in the center of the Hall, and

levitated up to their seats on the top of the amphitheater that faced the other Matrons.

The middle seat was reserved for Matron Aunrae Nasadra, who stopped the murmuring with a

single flick of her thin hand. She wore the too-long black dress, that tried to emphasize what she

maybe had before Nedylene was even born. Three inches long nails were deliberately sharpened, and

she wore at least one ring on each of her fingers. Her face was deeply wrinkled, and her hair reached

almost to her heels, and was decorated by few spiders the switched places on their own accord.

The Iron Matron, as she was called, was old as the city itself. Leading the city for the last six

centuries, Matron Aunrae elevated the once small settlement to the great heights, welcoming all the

traders except Beholders. The gathered Matrons stopped talking because of a single hand motion, a

motion that could also order eradication of any house in Ched Nasad.

"I don.t like complaints," she said bluntly, "especially the complaints coming from Matrons

hidden in the mass, not brave enough to stand up an state their opinions openly," she laughed,

showing her sharp teeth, work of foul magic, for each dripped with deadly poison.

"I would really appreciate if one of you stood up and brought out the reason for your

dissatisfaction," Iron Matron said, acting naive, "I would appreciate it, indeed."

Not a single sound could be heard in the hall. All of the Matrons were petrified with fear. To

speak now would be to bring doom upon oneself, a slow and painful death. None of them wanted to

risk because of Iron Matron.s whim, but again, remaining silent gave her a direct encouragement for

such whims in the future.

"I thought so," Matron Aunrae said confidently.

"But let.s talk about more important matters," she stated, suddenly appearing much older – if

it was possible at all.

"I brought him because of the city, and not myself," she said, pointing her skinny finger at the

cloaked figure and appearing somewhat insulted. " Unveil yourself, Sceptered One!"

The humanoid creature straightened to full seven feet, and the cloak slipped to the ground. It.s

muscled body had a strange pale-olive color, and he clenched a big scepter in his black-nailed fingers.

The scepter radiated with strong evil magic, and those Matrons that enacted their magic-sensing spells

could see that the same magic rolled over the creature.s body.

Elegant and attractive, he looked superior over the small and fragile matron mothers. The wild

silver hair fell wildly over his elf-like ears, one of which had an obsidian earring. His muscled chest

was adorned with a strange, taloned hand hanging from a silver chain.

His bloody eyes looked at Matron Aunrae, waiting to be introduced. Understanding his glare,

Aunrae turned to the Gathered Matrons.

"I present to you unholy Kaanyr Vhok, better known as the Sceptered One, a cambion

marquis and the leader of the remaining Tannaruks from the Hellgate Keep, once a fierce enemy of

the City of Shimmering Webs, now a devoted ally," she took a deep breath, her old lungs not used to

such long titles.

"A cambion," Nedylene said to her daughters, "a demonspawn, and one of-"

She – as well as other Matrons making comments about the cambion – was cut short by the

strong voice of Iron Matron.

"Never has the city had a stronger ally that now," she explained, "an ally for mutual benefit in

the future, near future."

Kaanyr watched the frightened faces of the Matrons nearest to him, deriving great pleasure

from their horror. He looked up to the Matron Aunrae, and smiled cynically.

"The days of glory are near, dear Matrons," she continued before the Matrons could start

whispering again, " the wars with the Beholders, dwarves and other filth has weakened us greatly, and

brought us a long way from our paths of glory. But it is going to change." She said and motioned

toward Kaanyr.

"Kaanyr, here, has twelve hundred of fierce Tannaruks at his disposal, and now at our

disposal," she stated, and laughed wildly.

One of the Matrons raised her opened palm to her shoulder, and although Nedylene didn.t

attend a Council meeting for over two hundred years, she knew it was a silent code asking for

permission to talk. It was Illda , the Matron of city.s eighteenth house. She must be mad,

thought Nedylene, for having the guts to ask for word on this matter.

"Respected Matron Aunrae," Illda said, dipping into a low bow, "I would like you to know

that you have full support from my - "

"May the light take me if I fight aside the demons that killed my brother Veronik!" Matron of

the fourteenth house, Ganarae Velkyn, screamed from the other side of the Hall. "Damn you all!" she

yelled at Kaanyr who just stared at her, not seeming impressed at all.

"If your brother deserved to live he wouldn.t be killed," Kaanyr stated with horrifying

calmness. "Actually, it is possible that I killed him myself." He added, narrowing his eyes as if he

tried to remember something.

Ganarae trembled with fury looking at the cambion, promising a long and painful death with

her glare.

"We are united Ganarae," Matron Aunrae reminded her, "and there is nothing you can do

about it. The old wounds will be forgotten in the mirth of our allied victories."

"The first intention of our Lloth-blessed alliance," Iron Matron continued as she saw Ganarae

calm herself, "is the enclave of the Eye Tyrants on the north. They withstood all of our attacks, and

now it is the time to gat rid of them, once and for all."

Her statement was rewarded by a long and loud applause, which gave her even more

confidence.

"After that," she continued in pitching tones, "the dwarven bastards will pay for all of our

children they killed!" she finished in a crescendo.

"I will be honored to lead that assault myself," Kaanyr said, looking at Aunrae with his

bloody eyes.

She then talked about eradicating the Kuo-toas, Aboleths, Illithids and all of the other races

inhabiting the Underdark. She cursed and swore in the ways some of the younger Matrons didn.t even

think possible. To ally with the demons was a great advantage that had to be used before untrusting

Kaanyr changed his mind. It was to be used in ending the conflicts that were in the history of the city.

"… Until we exit to the surface, my sisters."

All of the gathered froze at the last remark.

Sisters! Matron Aunrae never called them like that.

Surface! There were occasional raids on the surface, but all of them were clever enough to see

that she was talking about an outright invasion.

"The surface elves should be punished for their actions," Iron Matron continued the tirade.

"Let me remind you that it was they that expelled us in the darkness. But we will slaughter so many of

them, that their blood will reach the very ceiling of our city, and forever drip on our faces to remind

us of their deaths!"

All of the attendants were more then surprised. Even the remaining eleven Matrons showed

their obvious surprise on their faces. It seemed that only Matron Aunrae Nasadra and Kaanyr Vhok

were prepared for those stunning statements.

"Olot dos!" Kaanyr Vhok heard the curse behind his back. He turned around to see Matron

Ganarae in the middle of spell casting. All of the Matrons surrounding her scrambled away, not

wanting to get hurt in the unavoidable conflict.

Kaanyr didn.t even gat to react, when he saw Matron Ganarae melt down under a ray of black

light coming from Matron Aunrae.s fingertip. A deadly silence surrounded the meeting, and Kaanyr

was the firs to break it after a few moments that seemed as long as the eternity itself.

"Thank you Matron." Kaanyr stated with sincere gratitude in his voice.

Matron Aunrae looked around searching for the new victim to unleash her fury. She touched a

ruby brooch on her dress, and started growing, until she reached a height of full twenty feet, touching

the ceiling with her head.

"Is there anybody else who wants to say something against this alliance?" she asked with a

deep booming voice. "Is there anybody else who wants to end up like that bitch Ganarae?"

Talabrina Claddath, Matron of the city.s seventh House and the member of the Council of the

Twelve stood up and looked at Iron Matron with respect. A wondrous green gown made her even

more beautiful, to the opposite of Matron Nasadra, who looked as an old hag.

" No mother!" her sensual lips spoke each word clearly, "We were only surprised by the

decision to invade the Night Above. The bitch Ganarae deserved to die because of her ignorance. Now

I, now we see that this alliance will bring the city much needed self esteem and the victories we are

longing for. I feel that rest of the sisters will be pleased by the alliance, and that they will aid our

cause with all the forces they can muster," she finished, turning to the Matrons of the lower Houses

with a intimidating glare, that looked even more terrifying on her delicate features.

All of the gathered Matrons felt a sweet taste in their mouths. Despite it seemed impossible

each of them saw self in the role of the leader of the invasion. Slowly the Matrons started raising their

hands, one by one, confirming their places in the alliance.

They had no choice.

..

After full five hours of the Meeting, the Matrons –escorted by their daughters and bodyguards

- started toward their homes, moving silently deep in their fantasies. Fantasies of the upcoming wars,

fantasies of the slaughter.

Each of them wanted to be a good representative of their House, wanted to be a hero that will

be celebrated in the centuries to come. Only one drow had fantasies that aimed lower, focused on

becoming the Matron of her house.

Akordia didn.t think of the Elves, Beholders, Dwarfs or other enemies; she thought of House

Ivril elevating in the city hierarchy; she thought of leading House Ivril to the place in the Council of

Twelve.

"You are thinking about what Aunrae said?" Kalannar broke her sweet fantasies.

Unnerved Akordia slapped him hard, his cheek becoming bright red in her heat sensing

vision.

"Matron Aunrae!" she screamed, "Show respect you stupid male. Another slip and I will cut

your tongue out."

"And no, I wasn.t thinking about what Matron Aunrae said," she calmed as suddenly as she

burst, and looked at him seductively.

Kalannar couldn.t understand why the Matrons deserve uttermost respect from their

daughters, even when they plan how to kill them.

..

Vinera stretched lazily and moved closer to Roman. She rested her head against his muscled

chest, listening to his heartbeat. She loved him more than she ever loved anybody before. It was real

love, not physical attraction that she felt for her previous lovers. And she loved him because he was a

gentle type, just like Hathra - her last lover -, not a merciless killer like most of the dark elves. She

was very wrong.

Roman watched her naked body shine in the bluish hue from the outside, and a

thousand feelings assaulted him. He loved her, he loved her very much, but he couldn.t let himself

fully to her. What should he say to her? That he despised the Spider Queen, and that he offered his

prayers to her worst enemy, her son Vhaeraun. She deserved to know the truth, and that pained him

the most.

But if he told her the truth, of his beliefs and his dark past he would lose her for sure.

And he didn.t want to lose her, for she was the only reason – beside Vhaeraun - for him to live. But

she deserved to know the truth. Before he could change his mind, he drew his hand gently through her

thick mane and whispered.

"Vinera," he whispered in her ear, "I have something to tell you."

Her relaxed expression hardened suddenly when she realized the seriousness of his tone. She

turned around and became all ears.

In the next five hours, Vinera heard more astonishing stories then she did in her whole life.

Roman Valbrinar was born in House Valbrinar, the third house of small city of Derrgolive, a

little less than a century ago. Valbrinars were gifted by a rare gift of psionics, and incredible power of

the mind, similar to that of the dreaded Illithids. He was born as a weakling, with yellow eyes and a

thin frame, and most important without psionic powers.

He was left to live with the house slaves, kobolds mostly, for the house had no need of him.

He never knew his parents, but some of the slaves that worked as servants in the house whispered that

he was a son of a male noble and a female soldier. Nobody expected him to live through his first ten

years of life, but Roman grew stronger and stronger by each passing year. He made friends with with

the slaves, but most of all with a human warrior called Dari.

Dari was a monk of the Old Order, and he was enslaved when his monastery was raided by

the drow of Menzoberranzan. He saw an incredible power of will in young Roman, and started

tutoring him in monastic ways of wisdom, discipline and unarmed combat. Roman, blessed by his

heritage, soon surpassed Dari.s abilities and started defending old Dari from the common assaults

from goblinoid.

The Valbrinars soon saw their mistake with Roman, and offered the young warrior a place in

their army. Roman rejected that position, wanting to spend more time with his tutor and best friend,

Dari. Insulted by his decision, Valbrinars ordered one of the priestesses to kill Dari, in front of

Roman.s eyes, as a punishment.

She did so, but Roman killed her with one well-placed blow of his fist. Realizing that he

would be sacrificed to Lloth for his actions, Roman took all of her possessions – including a strange

black and white mask he kept for himself - and offered them to an independent wizard for a magical

trip to Ched Nasad, Sshamath or any other drow city. Was it because of the wizard.s ill sense of

humor or because of an unintentional mistake – he never got to find out - Roman finished up in

Automata, in the Outer Planes.

Automata, a city of strict laws and regulations was not a place for a drow used to chaos of the

Underdark, and of course there was light, the burning light. Roman soon found himself forced to

retreat to the Underground of Automata, a place of violence, slavery and other illegal activities. Fast-

learning Roman soon learned the basics of a language, and through petty larceny gathered enough

wealth to rent a proper room in an inn, and to find a sage that would tell him more of the mask he

brought with himself.

The sage could tell him nothing of the mask.s origin, but he explained him that the mask

would protect him from the spells used to dispel illusions, and from other divinations. Disappointed,

Roman could not see of what use would that item be to him.

But, a few days after a man approached him with an irresistible proposal. Roman was asked to

kill the wealthy weaponsmith, for a sum grater than all of his wealth at that time. He accepted the

proposal, and with the use of his mask killed the man with no trouble. Soon, he was getting more and

more proposals for assassinations and he carved his place as a most prominent assassin in Automata.

He started training himself in the ways of stealth, as well as in the ways of illusion magic,

irreplaceable in the ways of assassination. With his skills, as well as with generous help from his

mask, he killed merchants, politicians and soldiers alike, but never appeared in front of his victims or

his employers without his mask, and so he kept his real identity in secret. He killed his first employer,

the only one than knew his identity, as soon as he realized the threat of being exposed. Many street

thugs were executed for the murders he committed, and law enforcers never approached him, not even

for questionings.

Roman murdered over three hundred people in his thirty years in Automata, and piled up

great material wealth. But he lost his soul, a far greater wealth.

He heard rumors that over two hundred of his kin reside somewhere deeper in the caverns

beneath Automata, and he soon found the residing place of the Ivrils. He literally bought his place in

the family, presenting himself as a merchant from Automata wishing to see the home of his ancestors,

the Underdark.

Roman put away his mask and his spellbook, making oath never to use them again, for any

reasons. He planned to live with the Ivrils for the rest of his life, serving as an ordinary soldier,

serving to Lloth. But, he knew that Lloth had made him the way he was, for without her dogma, he

would have never come to Automata, and would have never become what he became – a ruthless

assassin. So, as soon as they returned to Ched Nasad he started offering his prayers to Vhaeraun, and

that – beside Vinera – returned the point to his existence. He was no more Roman the Assassin, but

Roman the Nobody, just another pawn in the game of chess that Lloth played.

"I have something important to tell you, too," Vinera said to him as soon as he finished his

story.

Roman was happy for he didn.t expect her to even talk to him ever again.

"Yes?" he grasped.

"I love you, Roman Valbrinar, even more now when you have found the bravery to tell me

that," Vinera admitted sincerely, to his obvious pleasure.

They embraced each other, and held that position for a long time, and Roman felt the tears

rolling down his cheek, the first real ones in his life.

Roman looked as she exited the room to attend her duties, feeling happier then ever before in

his life.

"Thank you Lloth. For without you I would have never met this beautiful lady of mine," he

noted with a relieved smile.

-The Conspiracy-

"Follow each of his moves!" Matron Nedylene ordered sharply.

An evil-looking, shorthaired drow nodded in silent agreement. Olin was his name, and he was

a snitch working for all of the families in Ched Nasad that offered enough money. His weak small

build was perfect for spying, and his quickness gave him always a way to escape the battle, if

discovered. His slick black clothes were emphasizing his weak frame, giving him a harmless look.

But, those that thought him harmless erred greatly.

Expressionless red eyes looked straight into Nedylene.s showing no signs of fear. Olin knew

too many of city.s secrets for some Matron to kill him because of his disrespect. He was a kind of

person that everybody hated, but couldn.t go without. He loved the way he angered Matrons with his

manners, he enjoyed the signs of helpless fury in their eyes, he liked to be hated.

" been on his back for a long time, now," his thin lips spoke slowly, irritating Nedylene.s

ears. "We know where is he going and you send me after him over and over again," Olin said showing

no signs of emotions on his zombie-like face. "I found out who are the members of the Church of

Vhaeraun he is meeting with, as well as the exact times of their meetings, and with re-"

"Don.t you mention the name of the masked dog in my house again," Nedylene hissed in

assassin.s face, "or you will suffer the consequences."

What actually bothered her wasn.t the simple mentioning of Masked Lord, but the blunt truth

Olin spat in her face. She knew the names and residences of all of the members of the Church of

Vhaeraun led by , a priest who arrived from Sshamath, a city far to the south. In that

blasphemous city a Church of Lloth was minor to the churches of Vhaeraun and Ghaunadaur.

And what was she waiting for? What stopped her from killing Roman and the rest of the

heretics?

Nothing. She was fighting hard not to send a group of assassins to get rid of Roman,

and the rest of the dogs. She would only gain by destroying that lair of blasphemers, and her

position would greatly rise in the eyes of other Matrons.

But, something was holding her back. Her plans were turned toward the wars with other

houses, and by losing Roman she would lose her best soldier, a soldier that could be a drop needed to

win over a rival house.

"Do as I told you," Nedylene finally addressed Olin, "and make sure you are not discovered."

Olin responded to the last remark with a confident, yet cynical smile and headed for the

door."And something else," she halted him when he was heading out of the room, "if he blows your

cover kill him. Kill him and all of his fellow infidels."

A lack of expression in Olin.s eyes was replaced by a bloodthirsty spark as he imagined

Roman choke on his own heart.

..

.

..

Hathra opened his eyes felling a slight dizziness. He heard silent tones of a harp that made

him go back to his dreams with its gentle accords. He fought the urge and forced himself into sitting

position. He lay on some kind of an oval stone altar. He winced as he remembered the cold touches,

gentle voice and sharp fangs of the maiden he was dreaming about.

Hathra pinched himself to see if he was dreaming. But, no he felt no pain but somehow he

knew that he was fully awake. And then it struck him how the maiden wasn.t breathing at all. He tried

to calm, listening for his heartbeat but he heard none.

Hathra Ivril.s heart wasn.t beating.

"How is the poet feeling?" he hard a male voice that made him jump off the altar.

"You don.t have to worry about the illness," the male continued, "it is gone forever."

When Hathra recognized the drow as the one he saw with the maiden earlier, all of the pieces

of the puzzle in his mind came together to lead him to an astonishing conclusion.

"I became a vampire, right?" Hathra asked, too shocked to appear nervous.

The old drow ignored his question as if it was excessive and went for the small table that

stood in the corner of the big room. The big chamber was empty except for the altar and the table, and

to Hathra.s dismay it had only one exit, guarded by two armed drow.

The drow tossed a dark bottle toward Hathra.s face and the bard caught it with lightning

reflex reaction that made him shake his head in disbelief.

"Yes, you did," the old drow answered Hathra.s question from a moment ago.

"Drink it, it will make the dizziness go away, it may taste a bit odd but you will get used to

it," he said as he watched Hathra drown the bottle.

Hathra didn.t look disgusted as he drank the hot liquid. He was smiling.

A thin red stream of blood was flowing from a corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away

with his sleeve. As he drank the blood he felt the joy in his heart, the heart that didn.t beat. A new

strength lay in him, strength he had not felt before, strength that gave him eternal life.

With barely hearable steps, a hooded figure entered the cold room. Hathra recognized the

feminine movements, and he also recognized the hands that caressed him on the day of the

Reckoning, when his heart still thumped and his chest was ill. Hathra saw that beautiful face again as

the maiden lowered his hood and smiled to him.

"What did I do to deserve such honor, lady?" Hathra asked politely, bowing low as if she was

a Matron. "I don.t believe there weren.t more suitable choices…"

She laughed aloud and came closer to him. Hathra closed his eyes and waited for her lips to

embrace his. There were no fangs this time, only a gentle kiss of the cold lips. The moment was brief,

and Hathra went for her lustfully as she moved away from him.

"We have to talk Hathra," she stopped him with a gentle but firm hand motion. "You don.t

even know my name."

Hathra stopped in spite that her name didn.t matter to him in this moment of lust. But there

was something in her eyes, something he couldn.t resist.

"I.m Abora Auvryndar," the vampiress introduced herself with a seductive voice, "daughter

of high priestess Nolen Auvryndar."

Hathra was truly surprised. House Auvryndar was the fourth house of the city and he couldn.t

understand why Abora was interested in him, a member of the cities last house – a dying member of

cities last house. But the way she looked at him could mean only one; she loved him as he loved her.

It was a kind of a bond they got the first time they saw each other in Vlos. House of Pleasure.

Abora held two glasses filled with blood, which gave away a strong heat in Hathra.s

darkvision specter.

"For the cure and eternal life!" she raised one glass and handed the other one to

drank the liquid enjoying it much more than first time he tried it out. He felt a tingling sensation in his

stomach, and felt his muscles pump with strength.

"How may I be at your service, lady Abora?"

..

Wode was trying to cheer him self up. The little goblin in the courtyard couldn.t see him, and

if he did he couldn.t possibly realize that Wode was moving the rat he chased with his simple

telekinesis spell. The goblin was probably ordered to clean the courtyard, but a delicious snack

distracted him from his duty. He probably had a good explanation for his actions if the priestesses

caught him chasing the rat. It wouldn.t help him much, though.

Bilkur - if Wode recalled his name right – cursed in his guttural language for picking a flying

rat – with no wings, by the way, - for his meal. The rat watched him from just beyond goblin.s reach -

looking more confused than Bilkur. A few moments of relaxation came good to him after months of

suppressing the urge to kill the priestesses that trashed his lab. Although desperate because of his

position, Wode couldn.t hold back laughing at Bilkur who tried to jump for the rodent for a hundredth

time.

His eyes suddenly wandered away to see Roman leave the compound through the mithrall

gate. In the shadows behind the warrior Wode saw a small skulking figure follow him. It was Olin the

Snitch, Wode knew unmistakably, for he employed him to spy on other city wizards often. Olin was a

bit of a spy, informer and assassin and Wode wandered who sent him after Roman.

Wode realized that he fell out of the House conflict, being to occupied with his research. His

hand felt as if he was born with it. It had the strength of a troll, and his wound regenerated so rapidly

that it could be followed with simple eyes.

Olin slipped through the gate, immediately mending with the street crowd.

Wode didn.t like him at all. He was irritated by his expressionless look and stone face. No

muscle on that drow.s face moved as he spoke, and he never showed any signs of emotions. Only the

fact that he could speak made Wode sure that he wasn.t a zombie or some other kind of undead.

But, Olin was obviously following Roman, and Wode didn.t like it at all. The only person in

the House that could – that would – help him was seriously threatened. Wode couldn.t let it go.

With his monstrous hand he waved in circles over a piece of copper wire, witch immediately

started glowing with bluish hue. He then uttered a few quick syllables and clenched the wire in his

hand. It was all that he could do.

"Thank you, wizard." Wode heard Roman.s voice in his head. Although it sounded sincere he

could not miss the sarcasm in the last word. They were getting along good for the last two months, but

Roman never called him other then "wizard". That unnerved Wode pretty much but he didn.t push it

much, since he needed Roman. He needed him terribly.

Nor Nedylene neither someone else could know of the break through he made in his

researches, since they would be used in the dark ways conjured only in the dark minds of Lloth.s

followers. But Wode had to tell it to someone. He couldn.t let his research die with him. Wode had to

tell it to Roman – who wasn.t Lloth.s follower Wode knew – who would keep the notes with himself

if Wode died.

But what if Roman decided to use the notes in his own dark ways? Wode could only hope that

Roman was not as perverted as the rest of the drow. If he was, then Wode.s breakthrough was

doomed to serve in the ways of evil and suffering. He had to escape.

But where could he go? Surface? No, life on the surface is not possible for a drow, and he

would soon be found by the surface dwellers and executed. He could not go to the Duergar or the

Svinfnerbli, not to mention Illithids and other races. He was a prisoner of the drow society, the society

that had more internal conflicts than any other race in the Underdark. You either lived by killing your

brethren, or you died by the hand of your brethren. So simple.

If Wode never saw member of other races he might have fit in that philosophy. But he saw

slaves die for each other, die for even friends that belonged to other races.

Wode leaned back in his leather chair wishing that he was on the place of the little goblin he

was fooling around with earlier that day.

..

Roman moved by the already memorized routes of the cities second lowest layer. He wasn.t

looking back although he received the warning from Wode that he had a spy on his back. He felt in

dept to the wizard for the support he received a couple of times since he met him. Wode helped him

whenever he could, risking his life if found.

Roman wandered how much Nedylene and her daughters already knew of his secret life. If

she knew of the Church of Vhaeraun she would surely destroy him as well as other followers of the

Masked Lord. In his paranoia he tried to figure out Wode.s part it all of that. Was it possible that

Wode was pulling him deeper into Nedylene.s clutches? But, he felt that he could trust the wizard. He

hoped that he could trust the wizard.

Roman recognized the simple building among the merchant.s houses. The pointing towers of

the building were covered by the shimmering webs as all of the other structures of the city. Although

he couldn.t see it, Roman knew that a guard on the tower was in position, and ready to shoot with

poisoned quarrels on any sign of trouble.

The curious-haircut drow stepped closer to the gate decorated with two large gargoyles with

rings in their noses used to summon the guard from the inside. After a loud knocking of the brass ring

on the door, a little spy hole opened and Roman could only see a red eye fixing him from the inside.

"It.s you. Come in," the said the silent voice. It was Zalak a young warrior only recently

introduced in the Church.

While he entered the building, Roman saw that only a puny looking dagger armed the young

drow. Was it because of lack of caution or over-confidence, he couldn.t tell but he did not like to

imagine what would happen if Nedylene decided to pay them a visit and they were armed only with

daggers. Zalak wore three earrings in each ear and each was different from each other. His short-

cropped hair added even more to his unimposing presence.

Following the youngster to the chapel, Roman noticed that Zalak was nervously glancing over

his shoulder to check on him.

"What?" Roman asked rather harshly.

"I.m so sorry master Valbrinar," Zalak apologized, trembling.

" Yo-," Roman started to argue but then he decided to let it go. It wasn.t boy.s fault. He was

only another paranoid outcome of Lloth.s society.

The ritual started in the chapel, Roman concluded when he heard the monotonous chanting

from the side chamber. Coming to the entrance of the chapel, the monk scanned the room and ordered

still shaken Zalak to return to his watch.

Dome chamber was large enough to house thirty worshippers but now there were only four

inside, including Roman. Magical lights lit the room, moving in the circles around the walls. On the

far side there was a seven-foot statue of a masked drow with two daggers pointing up, caught in the

moment of his greatest victory.

It was Vhaeraun the Masked Lord, a god of surface expansion and gender equality. Roman

always felt a strange energy building in him when he was looking at the statue, and sometimes he

even could see a red eye looking at him from under the mask.

Roman fell on his knees in front of the statue, and offered silent prayed to the Masked Lord.

He begged for Vhaeraun to give him strength to withstand the tortures of the priestesses and to grant

him swift death if inevitable. Then he offered his soul to his god and made an oath never to let him

down.

He stood up quickly. He was never comfortable with prayers, probably because he never

asked form much. Rather, he offered his power and skills to his god in the battle against Lloth and her

followers.

Soon after, all of the others finished with their prayers and stood up following the example of

tall, lean drow in the center of the room. He swiftly turned around and showed his masked face, a

copy of Vhaeraun.s. He was , the high priest of the Masked Lord whose name translated in

common tongue of the surface meant venom. He was a bit taller than Roman but not as nearly

muscular and wore a long black cape that together with his short, sharp hair gave him the looks of a

mad wizard rather then those of the leader of the Church of Vhaeraun in Ched Nasad.

Two Blackguards of Vhaeraun flanked him, their polished black armors shining in the

magical light. Roman couldn.t see their faces because they wore closed helmets with the symbol of

Vhaeraun painted on them. Roman knew they would give their lives in protecting the Church.

"You were late for the ritual, Roman," said harshly, "maybe Vinera is taking too

much time from the Marked One."

"Don.t make me kill you, brother," Roman stated so coldly that he could see the terrified

expression on priest.s face even beneath the mask he wore.

was complaining on his time spent with Vinera, and in his opinion, Roman had to

give every moment of his time in service to Vhaeraun.

The Marked One, as called him, was the name connected to the copper ring Roman

found while fighting the Illithids in the Cavern of the Cloven Heads. Actually, the priest insisted that

the ring found Roman, and not vice versa.

On the inner side of the ring it read written in the language of the surface elves.

Death to the drow that Lloth for the god hold, Vhaeraun coils in the veins of those that hold

him dear.

Maybe was even telling the truth about the power of the ring, since it almost

blinded him when he tried to study it with the spell for detecting magic. But it.s powers, and the way

to enact them was unknown to all of the Church members, including .

"It was not Vinera who was responsible for my delay," Roman said when he saw

and his bodyguards compose themselves. " It was the spy that followed me all the way here, sent by

Nedylene."

"The situation is serious, brother," replied with obvious trembling in his voice.

"You are very incautious. You jeopardized not only your, but the lives of all of us."

Roman didn.t like the tone, but he had to agree that the priest was right. closed in

his face and whispered, "Do it fast and clean!"

A few moments later Roman left the building, with the expression on his face that promised

death.

..

Roman moved with ease, searching the suitable spot to get rid of the spy that followed him.

He never looked back, not wanting to give Olin a clue that he knew he was followed. Roman took the

stairway down, toward the layers that were less inhabited, and where a corpse would not raise too

many questions. Olin followed him in his death.

Finally reaching the lowest layer Roman knew that his time was running out, and he had to

set his ambush quickly.

Moving around the House of Pleasure owned by Duergar merchant, Dagar of Cracklstugh,

Roman spotted the cages with the beasts the owner used for pit fighting. All of the cages were small

or medium sized, except the farthest one that could house a smaller giant. The metal table on the cage

read clearly in several languages: Umber Hulk. Approach at your own risk.

Roman ripped the table of the cage and evaded the swipe of the creature.s massive paw. The

Umber Hulk was an enormous specimen. It was twice as big as those he fought while patrolling a

couple of weeks ago. Roman knew the bars were magically reinforced to keep the huge beast at bay.

But the claws could still go through the bars.

The Marked One jumped to the roof of the cage – witch was ten feet high – and lay down

covering himself with his piwafwi. He even closed his eyes to focus on the footsteps he knew would

be silent as death.

Olin though he saw a shadow jump on the roof of the massive cage, but he lat the notion go,

for no man could jump ten feet from place, and stay unheard. He went among the other cages,

drawing his stiletto in case he had to defend himself from that stupid Roman.

Moments as long as the eternity spent in waiting paid off for Roman when he heard the barely

hearable footsteps approach the cage he was concealed upon. He waited a second or two more,

waiting for the spy to be directly beneath him, and exploded into motion.

Roman conjured a globe of magical darkness around the unsuspecting Olin, and leaped

horizontally toward the adjacent cage. While in mid-air, he used the innate ability every drow had,

and outlined Olin with blue fires. Olin realized what was happening when he saw the thousand little

flames dancing around him, but it was too late for him, because Roman literally bounced from the

other cage, and launched himself toward the unsuspecting Olin his elbow leading the way. A

sickening crack disturbed the harmony of animal snores and whistles and Olin went flying to the cage

the Umber Hulk was held in.

If Roman.s blow didn.t kill him, Olin was certainly dead when the beast, feeling the

movement beside him, got hold on him with both of it.s claws and tore him apart as a child would tear

a piece of paper.

Roman didn.t bother to dispel the darkness he conjured to see the face of the man he killed.

"And so ends every dog that puts his tail between his legs in front of the priestesses of Lloth,"

he added and mended with the shadows.

..

"Why in the Nine Hells did I go after him?" Wode wandered aloud rushing toward the

stairway for the higher layers. He didn.t leave his room for months, and now he is risking his life for

the sake of that egocentric bastard. Hoping that Roman evaded the snitch, Wode tried to compose

himself.

While he walked between the windowed stalactites that served as home for House ,

Wode noticed two dark figures appear from the darkness. One of them was heading straight to

intercept his course, and since it was unarmed Wode thought it to be a beggar hiding from the

merciless priestesses. When the figure moved harmlessly beside him Wode cursed himself for being

paranoid, but then he realized that the skulking figure moved soundlessly, the way an assassin would.

Wode spun around on instinct, but it was too late.

The assailant pierced Wode with his concealed punching dagger, in the same time rotating the

blade and Wode screamed in agony. It was a blow that would kill any drow for sure – well placed and

strong – but Wode was no ordinary drow.

Wode turned around trying to cast a spell that would blow the attacker to pieces, but her heard

the loosening of a crossbow sting and a quarrel hit him right between his eyes, sending him in Lloth.s

clutches.

"And they said this one would be dangerous," the drow with the crossbow said to his fellow

assassin.

"Piece of cake," the other replied while wiping blood off his dagger on Wode.s clothes.

"Gold, gold, lots of gold," their third friend appeared from around the corner where he was

positioned to cut off any escape routes for the wizard.

The marksman bent to retrieve his enchanted quarrel from Wode.s head, when – to his

uttermost horror – wizard.s eyes popped open. He never got to shout in warning, when the monstrous

hand crushed his head like a ripe melon.

Seeing the grim fate that had befell their comrade, two others were desperately trying to

reload their crossbows, while looking at their enemy they weren.t even sure was a drow.

Wode spilled white dust from his right and black from his left hand, and uttered an arcane

phrase that made the dusts merge into a projectile that went fro one of the assassins. When the

magical projectile touched him, the drow turned into a stone statue with an expression of horror on his

face that no sculptor in Faerun would carve better.

The other one dropped his crossbow and went running for his life. Wode managed to cast a

simple evocation spell that sent five small projectiles toward the runaway before he went around the

corner. The wizard rushed to the place he expected to see the corpse on, but he saw none.

His head was throbbing, but his strength was slowly returning as he felt his wounds

regenerate.

Passing by the petrified drow, he swiped with his claw indifferently blowing the statue to a

thousand little pieces that crackled on the smooth floor of the street.

It was a sweet music in Wode.s drow ears, and sweet nectar in Wode.s troll blood.

Solen stood beside the store that dealt with riding lizards, and the expression on her face told

enough about the scents that surrounded her. Her dark hood was low, and only her small nose and thin

lips were visible beneath it. She held her hands tucked under her cloak, and it was clearly visible that

she was holding a small item.

Running footsteps forced her to lean on the wall. The person that was running couldn.t see

her, but Solen knew perfectly the person would pass this way. The sound of the boots on the stone

floor got louder, and Solen prepared herself. When she saw the runner come from around the corner,

she nonchalantly extended her lag and tripped the unsuspecting victim.

The person turned around, and despite the bleeding nose and scorched face Solen recognized

him as one of the mercenaries that were sent after Wode. His forehead was covered by sweat and

blood that poured from a wound hidden by his dirty hair. The skinny face held a pitiful expression.

"I.m sorry Solen…" he started to apologize, but a heavy kick from her boot sent him back on

the floor.

"Priestess Solen, you worm," she corrected him with a snarl. "You will die if you show such

disrespect once more."

"We couldn.t pull it off, the wizard was too powerful," he yelped trying to gain her favor.

"I.m the only one that survived," he whispered with trembling voice. "Give me another shot at it,

mistress. do it this time, I swear."

Solen gently wiped the blood of his face, and offered him a hand to stand up. He accepted it,

happy that he would be given another chance. While he was standing up, a dagger shone in Solen.s

left hand and she quickly stabbed him in his belly. The surprised expression on assassins face turned

into a mask of pain when Solen pulled the enchanted blade all the way up to his heart.

Solen gently laid him on the floor, mimicked an exaggerated kiss, and moved away down the

street.

..

Matron Nedylene sat thoughtfully on her spider-shaped throne, made from then black wood

imported from the surface. The wood was invaluable, as well as the two large topazes planted into the

throne, that looked as the eyes of the guardian. On Nedylene.s command, the throne could turn into a

giant monstrous spider that would defend her by all means.

Her thoughts were on the celebration ceremony that should take place in ten days, and where

all of the family plans would be spoken aloud, plans of the family that was more than eager to start

ascending on the city hierarchy ladder.

Although the lowest ranking house, Ivrils had more soldiers and laves then any of five house

ranked directly above them, and they number of clerics and wizards – one among which was an

archwizard - exceeded the capacities of other houses.

Despite barely hearable, Nedylene heard the approaching footsteps. It was Akordia,

provokingly dressed in a tight red dress, complemented by black leather boots.

"You are disturbing my thoughts," she stood up and moved to the window that showed

millions of flickers emanating from the calcified web that covered the city, "I hope you have a good

reason to do so."

Akordia.s grim expression told Nedylene that something was out of place.

"Olin is dead, mother," Akordia ended her dilemma, "He was killed by an Umber Hulk on the

higher layers of the city."

Akordia.s nails drew bloody lines on her shaped thighs, fearing the reaction from Nedylene.

An unlucky goblin in a funny suit entered the room, dragging a barrel of oil with him, used to refill

the oil lamps on the walls. Nedylene rushed by Akordia, and grabbed the poor creature by its skinny

neck.

The patrol that circled around the house heard the shattering of glass, and then saw a goblin

flying down from the room of Matron Nedylene. They raised their crossbows, expecting an intruder in

the compound, but lowered them immediately when they saw furious Nedylene on the balcony.

"Keep moving!" the patrol leader ordered, with lack of determination in his voice.

Nedylene watched as one of the soldiers dragged the body to the building used for housing

the slaves, which would probably jump for the unexpected meal while it was still warm.

"Roman killed him?" Nedylene stated more than asked.

"There are no clues pointing that way mother," Akordia tried to explain, "Though I think he

had his deal in it. Olin is not stupid enough to die that way."

"Investigate the matter personally," Nedylene ordered. "Have the house Roman was visiting

surveyed constantly, and report to me anything you find out."

Nedylene laughed wickedly, showing her pearly teeth.

"I want to strike at Vhaeraun.s temple as soon as possible," she said, dead serious again. "I

want the heads of those dogs to serve as decorations around the shrine of Lloth," the smile returned on

her face.

"Now leave! I have to pray to Lloth to offer us assistance in the battle against the heretics."

Akordia bowed and quickly left through the oval passage that was covered by violet watery

substance.

Nedylene looked through the window to the Houses that shared the layer with them. "One of

you will fall, and will never be mentioned again," she promised with a malicious look in her eyes.

..

"Orcs are never this dexterous usually," remarked Vinera observing the poised motions of a

powerful orcish slave as his double axe blocked his attackers. weapons with ease.

His weapon was a wooden replica, as opposed to his three attackers who wielded real great-

axes, the traditional weapon of their race. In comparison with the three of them, the large warrior

dominated the battlefield.

His long, raven hair was thick and braided into hundreds of braids that fell across his mighty

back and shoulders. The orc.s face was feral, covered in dozens of scars and decorated by two bestial

red eyes that radiated experience in battle.

Not a single portion of his body remained free of tattoos. They had all been etched into his

greenish skin by scalding-hot needles, Roman noticed as he stood next to Vinera and Wode and

watching the training. Precise work, he thought, orcish p rimitive artwork, perhaps. The creation of

the countless motifs of death and terror of a battle between orcs who were obliterating elven and

dwarven armies, who in turn fought amongst themselves paying no attention to their attackers, had

undoubtedly taken an enormous amount of time.

"Molron is the most powerful of all slaves," concluded Wode. "Even more powerful than

Nymm.s troll, I would say. I wonder, how did they ever manage to capture him?"

"The magic of the priestesses…" Roman replied. "They can freeze even the strongest warriors

in motion. You should know this better than any of us, Wode…"

The mage frowned. Roman.s assumption was correct, and he was angry at himself for not

coming up with it sooner. A warrior like this would have fought to the end, the thought of surrender

not once crossing his mind.

Mulron Darkfiend swung his heavy axe and its wooden edge met the neck of one of his

opponents. He dropped to the ground, choking horrendously. The orc dodged the remaining two axe-

blows with ease, tumbling across the rough floor that had soaked gallons and gallons of blood over

the years. He could hear the curses of his attackers, as the metal blades struck the stone slabs in the

floor, sending a shower of sparks and small pieces of stone flying.

Judging the situation well, Mulron knew that the other orcs would require several seconds to

raise their axes for the following strike. Within an eye-blink he was at their side, his mighty legs

crashing against theirs as he tripped the weaker opponents to the floor.

He let go of his wooden weapon, grasping the two necks with his strong hands in a grip of

steel. He raised them both above the ground, as their hands clawed against his own in a pointless

attempt to free themselves from the grasp that cut off the precious air supply into their lungs.

The large hands of Mulron came together as the orcs. heads collided with a dull sound,

rendering them both unconscious. The warrior turned toward the small audience with proud defiance

in his every move. One could see the unbroken pride in his eyes, the last thing that remained, the thing

that the drow who enslaved him could never take away from him.

Roman scrutinized the orc, venturing closer. He wishes to impress Vinera, Wode realised,

smiling at the childish impulse. The large orc towered an entire foot above Roman.s frame, but

Wode.s bet would be on Roman. Only too often had he witnessed the quick drow take the advantage

in battle aginst his larger, slower opponents.

Nearing the powerful orc, Roman circled around him a few times, watching him closely. The

muscular creature watched him suspiciously, frowning and bearing a disgusted expression across his

ugly features. Mulron.s hands clenched, prepared to end his career as a slave if the small drow should

attempt to bully him around… along with his life.

"You are strong, Mulron," spoke Roman, his words breaking the oppressive tension. "Not

strong enough for a drow, though," he continued mockingly, turning his back to the giant as if daring

him to attack. What Mulron did not know was that Roman was in fact concentrating intently in order

to hear any sudden motion and then react.

"Would you bet on that, sagrtlin?" came the reply in perfect drow, taking Roman by surprise.

"We are not the ones who kill small children in their cribs, as your Matrons do… The orc sees his

opponents in other warriors, not his own children."

Roman.s jaw almost hung in surprise at this profound knowledge of the drow culture. This

savage is far from stupid, he thought. As if he were not an orc at all. Unlike his brethren, he does not

turn down a challenge. Fool… It is about time someone taught him when to hold his tail between his

legs!

"If I defeated you in battle, would you grant me my liberty?" inquired the orc. "Anything else

is less than worthy of my effort…"

Roman laughed aloud.

"Very well, warrior," he replied, managing to give the last word a twinge of irony. Let him

only hope, he shall be surprised once he knows what he has ventured into. What do orcs know about

fighting anyway? A wild horde like that…

The bald mage wished he could hear the warriors. conversation. The pride was evident in

Vinera.s eyes; her lover was one of the most powerful fighters of the house, and she knew it. His

triumph over the filthy orc would be a symbolic victory of the drow over that inferior, porcine race.

A few moments later, the two fighters stood guard against each other. Roman was far more

relaxed and moved around Mulron in circles, while the orc followed him with his feral stare keeping

his guard up.

The orc attacked first, swinging his mighty fist in a wide arc toward Roman.s head, following

up with a kick. Roman dodged both strikes effortlessly. His guard was down, toying with his

opponent more than actually fighting.

The barrage of blows that followed on Roman.s behalf forced Mulron to retreat a couple of

steps, without giving him the opportunity to strike back. Several bruises and a bleeding lip were

evident on his face as a result of the fury of fists from the slighter drow.

Mulron.s fist sought the chest of his opponent but he missed, Roman.s knee smashing into his

face. The orc cursed horribly, holding his broken nose that seeped crimson down his chin.

Without giving him time to recover, the dexterous drow flew into the air, his joined feet

thumping against his opponent.s chest, sending him to the floor several feet backwards. Mulron

attempted to rise, but the dizziness he felt drove him back to his knees.

Laughing out loud, Roman turned to Vinera who clapped joyfully. The warrior watched the

girl.s happy face, a seductive grin suffusing her features, directed to the winner…

Suddenly her expression changed.

"Roman, watch out…" she started to say, attempting to alert her lover of the danger from

behind. He reacted swiftly, but it was too late: Mulron.s enormous fist struck his chest, and a knee

blow that shattered bones struck his chin.

Thrown out of balance, Roman was tossed several yards before he collided with the hard

ground. He attempted standing up, but Mulron.s mighty blows had rendered him motionless. The orc

had fooled him, that over-sized member of an inferior, dull race.

It was he who had been played for a fool now, though, not the stupid orc.

This, however, was the least of his concerns at the moment. The orc.s heavy footsteps

sounded somewhere above his head, finally coming to a stop beside his head. Roman.s eyes were

fixed on the bulging calf muscles, heavy and firm as iron itself, that ended in a pair of well-worn

boots.

A single stomp by the orc could have crushed his head without much effort, but Mulron did

not utilize the advantage he had over his prone opponent. Instead, a thick green-skinned hand

extended itself toward the surprised drow, who accepted it readily.

The orc pulled him up effortlessly and they stood next to each other now, bruised and panting

with exhaustion.

"I have defeated you, drow," spoke Mulron, "but I doubt it shall be a gainful experience for

me. You do not hold the power to take or release prisoners at all, do you?"

A strange grimace appeared on the orc.s face, something that resembled a smile… something

that no one had probably ever witnessed upon the face of an orc.

"So certain were you of your triumph, that you wagered something that was not in your

possession?" asked the large beast incredulously. Then his gaze turned on the girl and his harsh

laughter permeated the air above the training grounds.

"All this to impress a woman?" he squinted at Roman. "Mulron is no fool… I can see that

there is not that much difference between orc and drow after all!"

Roman observed him carefully. Although his gigantic opponent was of orcish origin, he had

the brains of a drow, which, in combination with his muscles of steel, made him a worthy adversary.

He felt something like affection for the giant. And then, there was also the unavoidable fact that the

drow was in debt to the slave…

"I shall help you escape, Mulron," Roman vowed, "if that be the last thing I ever do. This is a

promise, and I shall die before I fail to keep it."

The orc.s gaze rested somewhere in the distance. Without saying a word he turned his back to

Roman and started toward the slave pits that were his home now. Roman.s gaze followed the orc.s,

and spotted Akordia standing on a balcony several dozens of feet above the ground. She stared back at

him, her piercing gaze fixed on the young warrior.

He felt the tender arms of Vinera around his back and turned to face his love. He touched her

cheek gently and smiled. Although he had lost the fight with Mulron, his heart was full for some

reason. Over the girl.s shoulder he could see Wode in an animated conversation with Scagnia.

..

Mulron shifted and turned across the cold, mud-streaked floor he laid on, attempting to attain

a position that would let him catch some sleep. The stench of excrement was heavy in his nostrils. He

was cold, just like the other slaves who slept beside him in the dark, the ones who had no trouble

adapting to their new surroundings. Perhaps they had never known better life, but Mulron Darkfiend

had, that much was certain.

A long while ago, before he became a slave of the dark elves, he had been a chieftain in the

North, in the higher regions of the Underdark. His clan, the Goreclaws, had been wiped out by

duergar in a great battle and the surviving warriors sold into slavery. Soon he became the sole

survivor, sold in the market-place of Ched Nasad to the Ivril family.

He expected to meet his end soon; slaves are worn down quickly when serving the drow. He

considered himself lucky that he had not been purchased by the Mind Flayers, or something even

worse. His situation was hardly a cause for envy as it was.

His glance skipped across the other forms in the darkness around him. Among the gnolls, orc

and goblins, he could see the immense outline of a large troll, the property of a drow magician whose

name he could not remember. He could barely prevent himself from smashing the dumb creature.s

head in using the big stone he used for a pillow. A few days ago it had snatched food from the

goblins, and the little rats had dared do nothing to stop it.

He never saw any trouble from the gnolls. On the first day he arrived, he had cracked the

snout of , their leader, which effectively prevented any potential conflict later on. The small

goblins feared him even more than did, and the other orcs had accepted him as their leader.

The sole annoyance in Mulron.s life was the stupid giant who could regenerate its own

wounds, giving it an immense advantage. The mage whom it served knew this only too well, and had

chosen the beast as his bodyguard.

Oh, if he could only be free… He had never known defeat in his entire life, never tasted its

bitter sensation in his mouth. From battle to battle he went undefeated. Then, when he first

encountered defeat, he became a slave of the gray dwarves.

His keen ear, almost as sensitive as that of an animal, picked a rhythm of motion behind his

back. He stared at the wall without turning, preparing to react as soon as the intruder came within

reach. His massive hand formed a fist as he waited.

When the steps were close enough, he sprang from the stone floor and swung at the figure

standing before him, stopping his fist with some difficulty as he recognized the slender figure of the

intruder.

"By Grumsh, drow!" he hissed at Roman. "I could have killed you. What is your business

here?"

"I am fulfilling a promise… unless you have forgotten," replied Roman in a whisper. "Or do

you desire to remain here?"

"What, trade this wonderful life for something else?" retorted Mulron ironically, his hand

pointing round the pit in order to demonstrate the awful living conditions of the slaves. Then he

became serious. "Of course I wish to flee."

"Then follow me," whispered Roman, moving toward the exit with feathery moves. Mulron

followed him to the exit from the pit area where the slaves were stationed. The drow turned toward

the large orc and passed him a round bottle, signaling him to drink its contents.

The orc pulled the stopper and poured the content of the bottle down his throat. A moment

later his form faded and became invisible. Had he not been able to hear the deep breathing, Roman

could have sworn that the orc was not there anymore.

"Just a precaution," he explained. "Follow me to the gate that leads out of the house. Once we

have passed it, you shall be safe."

Mulron said nothing. He attempted to move silently, although his heavy boots made a lot of

noise. He followed Roman, who whistled a merry tune as they passed the guards in order to conceal

the invisible orc.s footsteps.

They encountered a patrol in the yard, and Roman exchanged salutations with the captain.

Proceeding to the outer gate, manned by fur guards, Roman never looked back toward Mulron; if

anyone discovered their attempt, they would find out soon enough. Besides, he did not want to attract

unwanted attention. He attempted to appear relaxed as they neared the gate.

One of the guards scrutinized Roman at the gate.

"Where to, warrior?" he inquired respectfully. "Is Matron aware of your absence at this late

hour, and the reason for it?"

"You could lose your rank and position, soldier, if not your life," hissed Roman, bluffing the

young warrior. "Should Mother Nedylene ever find out that you are keeping me from my

assignment…"

"I never meant to…" started the guard, his voice softened by fear from the Matron.s wrath,

but Roman interrupted him quickly.

"Open the gate!" he whispered to the guard icily, his face hovering near the drow.s. "Quickly,

before I change my mind!"

The warrior issued the order obligingly and the guards opened the massive doors, allowing

Roman through. He waited for a split second, giving the orc time to pass first, then followed. His

merciless stare fell upon the insolent guard and he spat before his feet, turning away and passing

through the gate without looking back.

"Whoa! That was close!" he could hear he voice of Mulron as they walked the deserted

streets. "Where to now?"

"Toward the nearest exit from town," replied Roman, checking if anyone was following them.

"I have concealed some weapons for you there…"

"Good. That means I shall not have to break the neck of everyone who gets in my way," joked

the orc. "Is the weapon an axe, by any chance?"

Roman smiled. The orc mumbled something under his breath and proceeded after his

liberator.

Less than half an hour later they neared the exit. One of several hundreds of tunnels lay before

them, like a part of a monstrous maze created by forces beyond humanoid comprehension. Each of

these tunnels intersected with the others, hiding lethal traps or, in some cases, ending in safe passages.

A small puddle of dirty water lay in a corner of one of the tunnel walls and Roman looked

behind his back once again. Far in the distance he could see the lights in the stalactite windows of

merchant houses, as well as the houses of entertainment. Their balconies were crowded with guests

who, lying comfortably upon soft cushions, enjoyed a variety of food, drink and orgies.

Roman.s nimble hand was already in the puddle, searching the bottom by touch. A moment

later his search produced a richly decorated war-axe, crafted out of the finest adamantite. Another

scrape along the bottom of the puddle and he retrieved an identical weapon.

He took both axes in his hands, joining them at the tips of the handles to form a double axe,

the favored weapon of Mulron.s race. Although the orc remained invisible, Roman could hear his

long whistle of satisfaction.

"Take this tunnel and follow it as far as it goes," spoke Roman, handing the axe toward where

he guessed Mulron to be standing. "Then take the left turn at the intersection, and right on the next

one. That should see you far from here safely," he added as the axe was taken from his hands and

became invisible.

"May the eye of Gruumsh remain upon you, drow," came the fading voice, already, far down

the tunnel. "And thank you…"

"You reply to my assistance with curses," joked Roman, shouting after the orc: "Good

chance!"

As he walked back toward the house gates, Roman wondered how far the orc would manage

to get in the perilous pathways of the Underdark. What tormented him even more, though, was

whether Mother Nedylene would link him to the orc.s disappearance or not…

..

The door to his chambers was unlocked as Roman pushed them open. Vinera was not in.

Roman remembered that the fighter was on her guard duty at the moment. He removed his leather

boots and sat on the bed wearily. His head ached with the effort and stress of the previous day.

All had gone well, mind. Mulron should be far enough for safety by the time his

disappearance is discovered; with some good fortune, the orc would succeed in fleeing. To him, after

all, the Underdark was home.

He lay across the bed closing his eyes. In the eyes of Matron he would remain spotless. He

had been spotted going into the slave pits, but also seen departing them on his own. No one could

accuse him of anything.

Suddenly there was the sound of a door opening and Roman was spurred from his semi-

slumber in an eyeblink. He leapt off the bed at the sight of a hooded figure entering his chamber, a

figure that was taller than him by at least half a foot, broad-shouldered and compact.

Quickly and stealthily like a great cat, Roman sprang toward the intruder with his right leg

stretched to strike. He struck the target with enormous force, sending it flying across the room and

into the rough stone wall. There was a heavy thud as the body and stone collided, but the intruder did

not make a sound.

Prepared to carry on with dealing punishment to the intruder, Roman swung his left fist

toward the figure. Attempting to trip him with a sweep of his left foot at the same time, but the

intruder was quicker. His left hand rose stealthily, and Roman could see the ring around one of its

fingers, an iron ring engraved with the motif of a hammer. That, in fact, was all he saw before the

blow of an unseen force sent him several yards backwards and now it was his turn to meet the

opposite wall at bone-breaking velocity.

Using the fact that Roman was rising from the floor, the hooded attacker began casting a

spell. Roman felt no magical effect upon himself, and realized that the spell had been cast on the

intruder instead.

He could not give him the opportunity to cast another one.

Springing forth again like a boomerang, the assassin leapt onto the hooded figure, who was in

the midst of another invocation. Roman.s two-footed blow would have dropped an ogre to the floor,

but the figure did not budge a single inch. Instead, the warrior felt pain shoot through his calf sinew

and tendons, as if he had struck a stout wall. He managed to use the reactive force to send himself in a

graceful arc and out of the attacker.s reach.

Without proceeding any further, the intruder removed the hood with his left hand. Roman

breathed his relief.

He recognized Wode, the archmage of House Ivril.

His face was dark with anger. The icy stare transfixed the warrior to the spot, and Roman

attempted to shrug it off by flexing his back muscles, still sore from his recent collision with the wall.

"I saw your doing a few minutes ago," spoke the mage, his gaze still on Roman. "Very stupid

for a drow. Very, very stupid…"

Roman lowered his head, speechless. He had been discovered after all…

The only good thing about the entire occasion was that none of the priestesses accompanied

the mage. He gazed at Wode.s face, still under the spell that had turned his entire body into a figure of

iron. His appearance reminded Roman of the statues in the hallways of the main city houses, depicting

ancient heroes of those houses.

"I wonder what keeps me from reporting the… incident to Matron," continued Wode sternly.

"Madman! Do you not realize that what you have done directly opposes the interests of your House?"

"My business, Wode," Roman replied coldly. "Go, if you wish, and lick at Matron.s feet like

a feeble child, to get into her good graces…"

Wode stepped closer, his troll arm protruding from its long sleeve now. The long, green

fingers ended in black claw-like nails and Roman knew that the arm could choke a rothe when

constricted, and that the nails could open the sternum easily, going through skin, muscle and bone

without much effort.

The fire in the mage.s eyes disappeared as quickly as it was lit, and Wode stopped, clenching

his massive fist.

"It is your own fault," concluded he. "Releasing a slave because it pleases you is something

that could be termed unpredictable even for the most chaotic drow. Mulron asked for his liberty as a

reward for his victory some days ago, I presume?"

Roman.s silence was a confirmation of the mage.s inquiry. Wode was largely correct. He had

placed his life on the line in order to save the life of an orc, an orc who would probably had killed him

had the situation been reversed. He had failed to think about his course of action, and now he

regretted it.

And he would regret even more if Wode disclosed what he knew to Matron Mother. Oh, he

would regret even having been born! The torture of the priestesses could not be endured by anyone;

many male drow had been whipped to death for no other purpose but their amusement. Those who

had fallen out of their grace, or broken the codex of Lolth had a much heavier cross to bear…

Roman could already see himself moving through the dark tunnels of the Underdark in the

form of a drider, hunting for food like an animal, storing his prey into numerous webs where it would

wait to be consumed, paralyzed. Becoming a drider was the worst punishment of all.

Worse even than death itself.

What other horrors could the priestesses conjure? What to expect from servants of Lolth who

lie in embrace with demons in order to create the foulest offspring imaginable? There is too much evil

in the blood of the drow for them to think otherwise.

Roman raised his head and looked at Wode.

"Well, wizard," spoke he, staring with disdain, "what are you waiting for? Nedylene awaits

downstairs with your reward…"

"Matron Nedylene for you," corrected Wode, frowning at the cynic words of the warrior.

"And, by the way, I am going to see her," he continued, turning his back.

For a split second Roman contemplated jumping the mage and slaying him before he got the

chance to speak to Matron. However, the very thought of the end being so near paralyzed him, and he

missed the moment. As Wode departed, Roman fixed a spot in the wall with his gaze, thinking

intensely.

Closing the door behind him, Wode moved swiftly toward the stairs at the exit from the

warriors. lodging, passing the warriors who moved aside respectfully. He had saved their lives in

battle countless times with his magical assistance from the back.

Wode did not even notice the warriors. His mind raced over at the decision he had made. He

was going to betray Roman to Matron Nedylene. How Roman, with his derision and disrespect, had

survived so far amazed the mage. Offending him, the archmage of the House, with his mocking words

was beyond all redemption.

It was time he learned a lesson!

..

The journey from the warriors. quarters to the gates of the main building, where Nedylene

and her daughters resided, was brief. Wode passed through the ornamented gates, manned by a guard

on either side. He ignored the salutes of the guardsmen, the gaze under his frowning brow focused

straight ahead. Nedylene.s throaty laughter rang maliciously from a spacious stone hall before him,

and Akordia.s voice could be heard alongside her mother.s. The mage slowed down as he neared the

half-open door carefully. Akordia.s voice became more audible and clearer.

"… an insult to our Holy Lady. We should do away with him right away!" The bald mage

shuddered involuntarily, a suspicion of what they might be speaking about ringing somewhere in his

sub-consciousness. He took immediate interest in their conversation. "Once we were expelled into the

Planes for him, Mother. Are you about to allow it to happen again?"

Matron.s laughter had ceased. Wode knew that it was his sin they were conversing about, the

old, unforgivable sin he had committed long ago, over two hundred years in the past…

"The Council of the Houses shall never judge us so placidly again," continued the younger

daughter.s hisses. "This time, what do you think the judgment shall be? Our destruction, of this you

can be certain! Should we fall out of the good graces of Lolth…"

"You speak rationally, daughter," replied Nedylene gravely. "He shall be removed as soon as

circumstances permit it."

Ceasing his breathing, Wode heard Matron rising from her throne. He feared moving after

having found out his fate in such a terrifying manner. His heart beat wildly against his chest and, in a

fit of paranoia, he wondered if the priestesses could hear the thumping sound. His hands pressed to his

chest in a manic attempt to silence the dull sound only he could hear

Yet he was not taken by surprise. Far from it, in fact.

Too many malicious looks from Matron and the priestesses had been directed his way for him

to be unaware of what was being planned. Only a fool would believe otherwise; and Wode was no

fool.

"We shall bide our time for a while," he could hear Matron.s voice booming through the

silence, "until our attack on House . Then, he shall die!"

Wode forced himself off the wall he supported himself against and moved towards the exit as

silently as possible. Thousands of irrational thoughts swarmed in his mind in panic, and he could not

help thinking about Naurr and how helpless he had been as Wode turned him over to the demon.

Roman was as far from his thoughts as he could possibly be. Other matters occupied his mind

now, far more important to the mage than betraying the young warrior to Nedylene.s mercilessness.

Far more important…

..

No creature in the whole Underdark was happier than Bodo the dwarf in the last month in

which he enjoyed the hospitality of a small colony of Gold Dwarfs known as the Stand in the

kingdom of Ammarindar. That kingdom, once mighty and wealthy, was now reduced to a few clans

that constantly wandered through the Underdark to avoid detection from more powerful enemies.

Three hundred dwarves that served as army of the colony were mostly veterans from the wars

with the Black Legion of Kaanyr Vhok or the drow of Ched Nasad. Grudar, Dogur and Tadran readily

accepted to defend the colony with their lives, and the current colony leader Dogrilor was more than

happy to have such warriors in his army.

Bodo was more interested in the kitchen, doing small helping jobs, and filling his endless

stomach with various delicates from the heavy dwarven kitchen that was based on Deep Rothe meat

and ale that they brewed from fungi and rare plants they could find.

"Filthy Tannaruks," Dogur painfully squeezed through his teeth. His shoulder was wrapped in

bloody cloth, while a young dwarf maiden worked on the wound with various herbs that should

contain infection. "They are not as close swift as the drow, but when they hit ye – they really hit ye,"

he explained to her, although she appeared totally uninterested in his complains.

Bodo made a grimace of disgust when he saw Dogur.s wound. The small cavern they were in

served as an improvised kitchen, a favorite place for Bodo to be in, and he used to say that he was the

last line of defense, and that he would defend the kitchen with his life should the enemy come in.

Dogur grumbled and cursed everybody and everything he could think of that had any

connection to orcs or demons. They were trying to break the defenses of Tannaruks to the south for

days, now. But the filthy half-orcs half-demons fought with bloodlust far greater than their orc

cousins, and any attempt to break through would finish in a retreat.

"Tell me Dogur," Bodo interrupted his grumbling lazily, "Is the pass going to fall soon?"

Switching his glare from the girl that aided him to Bodo, his expression turned from thankful

– almost gentle – to one of sheer anger.

"If some of us didn.t hide beneath skirts," he screamed so loud that the girl fell of her chair,

"it would have fallen a long time ago."

"Dogur, yer words are insulting me," Bodo said, acting insulted. "And after all, I.m sick. I

suffer severe depression," he continued his mockery, pointing his stubby finger toward Dogur

accusingly. "And a friend should support me, and not criticize."

Bodo.s blue eyes widened as he watched Dogur.s cheeks flush with blood, and his eyes

deepen with anger. In panic he started running as if he had the legs of a swiftest elf of all, and Dogur

sat back down when he saw that he chased the annoyer away.

Occupied by measuring the girl.s stubby curves, Dogur never noticed that Bodo had come

back, nervously clutching his leather hat in his hands. Dogur shot him a wicked glare when Bodo

coughed aloud to get his attention.

"What? Ye really want me to beat you up" Dogur threatened him barely containing the burst

of laughter.

"No Dogur," Bodo said, more serious then ever, "I came to tell ye that Tadran and Grudar

have been captured by the Black Legion."

Dogur relaxed a bit, shaking his head in disbelief. "It ain.t good. It ain.t good at all."

..

Roman was twisting the ring on his finger nervously. He futilely tried to convince himself

that the words of were true, that the Masked Lord had picked him to carry his blessing. It

was illogical for the pries to lie to him, because he could find dozen of less stubborn drow to fill their

heads with his preaching.

But why him, he wandered. He believed in Vhaeraun, but mostly out of rebellion against

Lloth and her servants – the priestesses he watched kill males out of pure pleasure, and Matrons he

watched sacrifice their third male offspring to the Queen of the Demonweb Pits.

His heart was filled with fury mixed with sorrow, when he thought of Vhaeraun allowing the

priestesses bath in power, while the innocent children rot in their prematurely dug graves.

"Vhaeraun! Save them, I beg you!" he screamed in himself, "Give them a chance you gave

me. Stab your dagger in the heart of Lloth and let her rot as those children do."

But, Vhaeraun did not give him a sign that would show him that there was still hope in the

world he lived in, the world ruled by Lloth. Gritting his teeth, Roman threw his ring away in the stone

wall, hoping it would break apart. The ring hit the wall, and rolled back between Roman.s legs with a

ringing sound.

Roman felt a great, unseen force push him to the floor. He felt the bones in his nose break and

a light dizziness overcame him. The force released its grip in him, and he opened his eyes to see a

setting entirely different from his room.

He was floating in the black void, and as far as he could see there was only blackness. He was

shivering from cold that was slowly creeping in his bones and was paralyzing him. He was afraid of

the unknown, and that feeling together with the unbearable chill shook his body in an unnatural way.

As in a trance, he rotated unable to discover anything that would tell him what was happening

and where was it happening. As a blind man, he waved his hand in front of him while he was floating

in that place with no gravitation. He never felt so desperate. He never felt so afraid…

Roman.s eyes widened suddenly, and he tried to move back. The expression on his face

silently screamed out all of his feelings. It was the expression of sheer horror.

The thing that he saw was as large as the mountain, and it slowly moved closer and closer to

him, showing fangs as large as Roman on it.s beautiful feminine face. The spider-shaped body was

covered by thousands of spiders that moved in total chaos. She looked like he always imagined her,

but larger then in his wildest nightmares.

Lloth was closer to him now, and he curled up in fetal position waiting for her to take him.

Her jaws gaped wide, ready to swallow him whole. He knew then that there was no Vhaeraun, no

other god; there was only the Spider Queen.

As soon as the upper pat of his body entered the mouth, Roman felt the sharp teeth come

together, tearing through his flesh and bones in the process and sending waves of ultimate agony

through his torn body. The only thing he could do was to scream Vhaeraun.s name, until it turned into

a bloody gurgle that died away soon after.

He woke up covered in sweat. He was lying on the floor of his room in a pool of sweat and

with his hands on his stomach. Roman dared to look down to the place were Lloth.s teeth just came

through, but saw only scars he earned in long-ago battles. He relaxed back, realizing it was all only a

bad dream.

As his head rested back, he saw that the ring was pulsing with blue light, and that it was on

his hand. He saw it as just another proof that nothing of the previous ever really happened. He felt a

tingling in his nose, and he wiped it with his hand.

His hand was red, red with blood.

..

Numerous short, squat bodies waited patiently in ambush. In their metal armor, pudgy hands

clenching around the hilts of their axes, they awaited the command of their leader who had concealed

the shine of his mithral armor with a long, dark cloak. Dogrilor.s stare was fixed in the distance; his

brow clouded over as he kept muttering something into his long, gray-flecked beard.

Somewhere at the end of the line, Bodo did not frown like weathered Dogrilor did; he

shivered with fear instead, watching the group of tannarukks guarding their prisoners. Among the

latter were the dwarves. friends, Grudar and Tadran. The gleam of sweat upon their faces revealed the

agonies they were going through, the anguished state they were in.

They were frightened to death.

Tadran.s chest was almost ripped apart, yet he remained alive, feverish eyes staring before

him in an expression that could have been disbelief just as much as a silent prayer to Clangeddin to

end his misery. He barely remained conscious. Grudar was in no better state; horrendous wounds

stretched across his broad chest and extremities, and he was an inch within parting with his life from

the massive loss of blood.

The tannarukks were feeding ravenously, tearing flesh off several already inanimate carcasses

with blood-curdling howls and sounds and it did not take Bodo long to realize what sort of flesh this

was. Several other captured dwarves stood beside them, shaking with fright, expecting to meet the

same fate as their devoured comrades in a matter of minutes.

Bodo felt something touch his shoulder and nearly leapt up with a shriek. It was the familiar

gauntleted hand and friendly bearded face underneath the wrought-iron helmet; yet the face of Dogur

was creased by worry and darkened by the graveness of the hour. Pearly droplets of sweat ran freely

down his face, vanishing into the thick, long beard. His left hand held a hefty axe, squeezing the

handle so hard that the knuckles turned white as the warrior awaited the command of his chieftain,

Dogrilor. It was not forthcoming. Dogrilor worried over other matters.

His experience guided him to wait.

The six tannarukks could never have defeated the patrol that they now held in captivity, that

much was obvious. Ten dwarves had left the keep, and now only five remained, including Tadran and

Grudar. The two of them would have been sufficient to finish off six tannarukks. Besides, he was

certain that the warriors would have fought to their death before falling into the hands of the demon-

servants.

Dogrilor gazed upon his warriors once again. Twenty armored dwarves, armed with heavy

axes and one cleric of Moradin; more than enough to obliterate the tannarukks in an eyeblink. The

warriors could hardly control themselves, already glancing at their leader with expectance.

Dogrilor breathed in deeply and rose, raising his weapon.

"Attack!" came the yell, surprising the humanoid beasts in the midst of their gory feast. The

armored dwarves charged out of their concealment, axes rising in the still, malodorous air in order to

deal lethal blows. Dogur seemed to move in front of everyone else, his short, powerful legs making

unexpectedly long strides toward the foul fiend-servants. One of the tannarukks got in his way first,

bending over to retrieve his weapon. Dogur never gave him the opportunity: a precise strike across the

demonspawn.s neck sent his head several yards back, spurting black blood in its trajectory.

The clank of armor against tannarukk hide, accompanied with war cries from both sides, filled

the spacious cave with a cacophony of sound. This gave wings even to fearful Bodo as he charged

forward, sinking the blade of his short sword into the back of one of the demons who gave a frenzied

cry and collapsed to the ground.

Steel met steel with a shower of sparks; the dwarves were charged with holy rage, and the

wild tannarukk warriors seemed to never have known fear. One of them was literally split into two as

the wide blade of a war-axe slashed through his compact body like a hot knife through butter, ending

its fearful arc on the stone ground where it crumbled a stone to dust.

Dogrilor felled one of the beasts in his charge, a powerful blow opening the tannrukk.s chest

before he hit the floor. The fiendish warrior shook forcefully in his final throes as his still living eyes

perceived his own beating heart through the grievous wound in a moment of excruciating agony. The

dwarven chieftain sought another target and then realised that everything was still.

The tannarukks were dead.

Their massacred bodies lay on the floor, an occasional twitch or spasm of dying muscle the

only move they made. Broad puddles of dark crimson spread from underneath them, the warm

effluvium filling the small crevices in the uneven stone floor of the cave.

Dogrilor knew better than to lose time; a few brief commands later, his warriors began

untying their captured comrades. The cleric was quick to offer the assistance of his magical healing.

Dogur and Bodo released their friends and embraced them, filled with joy at the outcome of their

mission. The prisoners struggled to retain consciousness, attempting to say something, but their

excited liberators could not hear their whispers as laughter and victorious cheers drowned all other

sounds in the cave.

"Ibzoul, Duldarr, move forward with the wounded," shouted Dogrilor above the noise, and

the two weathered veterans obliged. "Five warriors are to go ahead of them as a scouting party!"

His words were obeyed immediately, as five warriors separated from the group and overtook

the group of injured ones, which included Tadran and Grudar.

Dogrilor was contented. They had succeeded in liberating their brethren and killed six

tannarukks without any losses among their own ranks. The Stand shall celebrate tonight, he decided

with a satisfied smile.

"Let us go now," he ordered sternly. "The Stand awaits the victorious…"

As he moved toward the front of the group, he rested his axe over one of his broad shoulders,

giving his aching arms an opportunity to relax. His thoughts flitted from scene to scene as he

imagined the glorious welcome at the village, the heroic tales to be told to children over the course of

the following few days, and their amazed appearance and wide-open eyes.

Suddenly there was the sound of bones snapping behind him. No howl accompanied it, nor

did any other sound; just the all-too-familiar noise he had heard so many times when striking a foe

down with his enormous axe.

He turned to behold the last thing in the world that he desired to see.

Several times he had caught glimpses of tannarukk leaders, winged alu-fiends with

widespread wings and demonic traits; this, however, was something completely different.

The creature was nearly ten feet tall, and it had just finished tearing apart the warrior at the

end of the file, going through his metal armor as if it were nothing but paper the clerics and mages use

for their magical scrolls.

The alu-fiend stood on its hind legs, leaning slightly on the front claws of iron with elongated

fingers. The thick muscle of his body was intersected with countless pulsating veins and blood

vessels. Its raw-red hide had the hue of fresh blood, decorated with a detailed calligraphy of horror

that had been etched into it with the scalding blades of blunt knives.

Yet the face was its worst part. The head was disproportionately small and rested upon a

massive, thick neck; the skin was almost transparent, and the evil anatomy of the demon.s skull

clearly discernible through it. Teeth protruded through the bloodstained lips, sharp teeth that had

recently fed, noted Dogrilor, removing the axe from his back. The demon was perfectly still for a

moment, scrutinizing its opponents with a bloody, mocking stare.

Shocked by what they had just witnessed, the dwarven warriors sweated under their heavy

armor, moving round the demon in order to form a circle. Bodo stood at Dogur.s side, his short sword

in hand as he awaited the development of the situation. Both dwarves were as white as the rare metal

dlarun.

"In the name of Moradin…" roared Dogrilor and charged the beast first, his axe rising to

strike. A tremendous blow shook the demon.s side, and it let out a horrific shriek.

Grabbing the leader.s armor plating, the infernal giant flicked him like a rag doll to the other

corner of the cave, where he collided with the wall with a clang. But Dogrilor could not be stopped

that easily; he was on his feet like lightning, running fearlessly at the demon as the other dwarves

joined the attack, dealing frenzied blows to their target.

As Dogrilor neared the battle-site, he saw one warrior fall after the other under the evil

creature.s terrifying claws. With each dwarf it gutted, disemboweled or crushed, the creature seemed

to heal some of its wounds before the eyes of desperate Dogrilor, who parried a claw strike that would

have destroyed a prone young warrior with his axe. He felt the force behind the blow and barely

managed to remain standing.

Swinging further, turning in a full circle, Dogrilor struck with both hands on the axe. He

scored a blow against the demon.s rib cage, sending a shower of bone armor, flesh and blood to the

side, the demon.s blood splashing onto the warriors. armor and weaponry.

The creature clenched both its claw-like hands, crossing their fingers together into a lump of

bone and sinew and swung them sideways toward the dwarven leader, attempting to maul him, but

Dogrilor dodged the attempt. The heavy hands struck another warrior in the head, cracking it open

like an egg-shell even though it was shielded by a stout iron helmet. Without stopping, the demon

followed up with its claw and slashed at the abdomen of another of its opponents, and the warrior

could only clutch at the wound and stare in disbelief as his intestines rushed out of the abdominal

cavity.

Bodo swallowed the lump of utter fear in his throat and stuck his blade into the demon.s back,

holding onto one of the wings for support with his other hand that was already slick with sweat. The

demon jerked its ugly head to discern who had attacked it from the rear in such a humiliating manner

and spotted Dogur, who was swinging his axe wildly in a futile attempt to smash through the giant.s

bone armor. Ignoring the searing pain in its back, as well as Dogrilor and his warriors who still

remained standing, the demon grasped unfortunate Dogur.s head with both hands and squeezed.

Underneath several thousand pounds of pressure, the head broke in the evil outsider.s claws,

splattering its contents everywhere.

At the sight of Dogur.s final throes, Bodo screamed with pain and sorrow for his old friend

and comrade. Through his tears, holding onto the giant form by the wing, he began striking the

frenzied demon across the head with his short blade. Dogrilor was literally cutting the demon.s legs

with his axe, his arms almost numb with the effort of the countless blows he had inflicted. Paying no

attention to the chieftain, the demon reached across its back and grabbed little Bodo, who was beyond

all fear now, his fury getting the better of him.

The last thing Bodo ever saw was the malicious grin of the demon, which revealed its long,

sharp, blood-stained teeth. His last scream was lost in the alu-fiend.s throat as those teeth ate his face

off, all skin and bone and facial muscles. (i masetere!)

The demon did not allow Bodo.s corpse enough time for a spasmodic jerk, as his nerves

became numb and paralyzed with pain. It flung the body at three attackers who dropped to the floor

with the force of the strike.

The demon leapt upon them, crumbling their heads, chests and extremities under its gigantic

weight. As the sounds of cracking bones and unearthly screams of anguish filled Dogrilor.s ears, tears

welled up in his eyes upon seeing that the wounds in the creature.s sides regenerated immediately.

Realization hit him in an instant; in fact, he had known it from the very beginning.

With every murder, every strike that the demon dealt it became stronger, healing its own

wounds with the life essence it had taken from others. He knew all was lost now, lost beyond all hope.

The price he had paid to rescue his comrades had turned out to be too high.

Now he faced the beast that had toyed with his last warriors, slaying them without effort as

Dogrilor attempted to deal it grievous damage and failed. He faced it on his own and knew it, and so

did the beast.

The demon had left him alive so that he could finish the fight off with him, he realized that

much; another game of flesh and blood like the entire battle had been.

Dogrilor swore silently at his own naivety. He should have known that the tannarukk warriors

would never be there on their own. He had paid a dear price for his own stupidity. The lives of

thirteen warriors. And, of course, his own.

He picked up another axe off the floor, so that now he held two, one in each hand. The heavy

axes were designed for use with both hands, he knew that, but that was something that bothered him

not the least bit right now. He was prepared to face the monster.

The fiend charged, its arms stretching forward and a terrifying howl issuing from its throat,

the likes of which Dogrilor had never heard, not even his nightmares. The thump of the heavy legs

made the floor of the cave tremble like a rothe stampede; when the Underdark rothes would stampede,

Dogrilor remembered, it was best if one moved out of their way.

And he would have, that was certain, except that these were no rothes charging at him. This

was the evil malformation that had slain his comrades. Swinging both axes simultaneously, the old

dwarf focused the right claw and aimed the muscular forearm.

The strike was so forceful and accurate that the severed hand flew off its stump and landed

somewhere at the side of the cavern. The demon howled its pain, clutching the stump with its

remaining hand. Dogrilor laughed victoriously before him, his own doom forgotten in the adrenaline

surge that coursed through his veins. The demon.s face contorted into a horrendous grimace, worse

even than its present features.

The alu-fiend raised its left paw high above Dogrilor.s head, as the dwarf took his final

defensive stance. Then the claw dropped downward with immense force, passing through the heavy

axe and smashing it to bits, then the shoulder, ribs and lungs of the dwarven leader, who crumpled

under the blow.

Dogrilor was dead.

Seven of his remaining warriors stood on a high cliff overlooking the scene, separated from it

by a narrow pathway passing through a maze of caves. They were currently busy with holding Tadran

and Grudar back from returning to the battlefield. They had all witnessed the horrible outcome of the

battle from the cliff top.

Tadran was frothing at the mouth as he strained against the arms of his friends. His eyes were

clouded by tears but he could still see the demon licking its bloody stump.

The strong warriors held both him and Grudar back, attempting to convince them that nothing

could be done for their fallen comrades now. It had all happened so fast. Had they attempted to come

to their assistance, they would be just in time for another bloodshed – their own, this time round.

Grudar would not hear about it. He begged for an axe to be given to him, so he could go down

there and deal with the beast that was now feeding on the remains of Bodo, Dogur, Dogrilor and other

brave warriors.

They finally gave in to the pleas of their friends, who persuaded them that the Stand needs

every axe-arm, every man they have right now. Bitterness and anguish weighed heavily in their hearts

as they returned to their improvised village where, Tadran and Grudar both knew, nothing would ever

be the same without the presence of their friends.

..

Growing nervous from the wait, Roman spun the sharp-edged metal star with his fingers as he

stared at the round, dark walls of the temple. An eerie blue light surrounded the statue of the masked

lord. His two daggers, pointing upwards, reminded Roman of two snake teeth striving for the flesh of

its victim.

The priest scrutinized the small object in his palm, his thoughts racing over its

purpose. Turning it with his long, slender fingers, he attempted to find out something that could serve

as a key for deciphering the ancient inscription on the ring. Soon the worried look upon his features

was replaced by anger.

"I fail to understand this," spoke he, squinting at Roman through the hole of the ring.

"Even if you look through it, everything appears exactly the same," he joked in an attempt to

erase the gloomy look on Roman.s face, who was also staring at the ring. "Yet it is magical, there is

no doubt about it."

"What use do I have for that information?" spoke Roman, more to himself. "I wonder what

the mage in the marketplace was hiding from me…"

did not respond. He had focused on his scrutiny of the ring. Of all the languages he

was familiar with, and that included many, neither bore any similarity to the one in which the brief

note, engraved around the ring, was written.

"I shall give it a better look," said. "Leave it with me for some time, and I shall

attempt to decipher it with magic, or physically. Perhaps something comes of it…"

Roman eyed him doubtfully.

grimaced slyly, pocketing the ring with his right hand. It disappeared in one of the

pockets of his flowing robe. He looked at Roman through one of his eyes and turned his back to the

warrior.

"It is all mine now, heh heh…" he whispered to himself mockingly.

Roman could not help laughing aloud. After all, he trusted this priest; his sense of humor, so

unusual in a drow, was refreshing in a world where plot and intrigue were the sole source of

amusement.

"Until tomorrow, then," saluted Roman almost cheerfully. "Be careful not to spoil anything."

"No worries," retorted . "I am only going to melt it, to see if there is anything

underneath all this cheap metal."

Unused to this sort of joke, Roman turned with a surprised frown and saw the priest.s smiling

face. He shook his head at this inappropriate behavior from a priest of Vhaeraun.

As he was exiting the temple, young Zalak saluted him with a brief nod of the head. Roman

returned the salute, idly wondering whether would manage to discover anything. His gaze

rested absent-mindedly on the spot on his finger where the ring had stood just a few moments ago.

Meanwhile, Elg'Cahal was studying the ring intently in the privacy of his own chambers.

With each moment that elapsed the priest of the Masked Lord grew more and more annoyed at his

incompetence; his nervous fingers spun the crude ring faster and faster, attempting in vain to identify

the magical enchantment upon it.

His gaze sought the small knife that rested on an oval shelf behind his desk. The sharp point

was made of pure silver, decorated by religious motifs dedicated to the worship of Vhaerun. Hundreds

of minute masks ornamented the handle, which was covered in blue leather.

Elg'Cahal took the knife in his hand, holding the ring with the other, and sat behind the stone

desk. The point of the knife edged closer to the engraved inscription in the side of the ring, as the

cleric decided to scrape off some of the cheap copper in order to discern whether there was some other

metal underneath.

A precise motion of the knifepoint scratched the inscription. For a split second, the priest

thought that the ring had given off a faint gleam, but he put it down to the faerie fires in the streets and

their reflection upon the cheap material of the ring.

As he observed a part of the inscription, he realized that something was happening. Behind

his back, someone, something, moved swiftly.

Far too swiftly.

An unseen force grabbed the priest by the neck and turned him round before the thought of

turning even flashed through his mind. The icy, powerful hand wrapped its fingers easily around his

neck, prepared to snap it like a twig with the unearthly strength that Elg'Cahal could detect from the

might of its grasp.

The tips of his outstretched toes dangling several feet above the stone floor, the priest

grasped at the icy fingers helplessly in a futile attempt to break the hold. His mind was already

clouding over from the pressure and lack of oxygen, and he failed to see his opponent clearly. Yet he

was well aware of one fact: had the other desired to take his life, he would have done so with only the

smallest effort and broken the vertebra of his neck without Elg'Cahal even feeling the pain.

All efforts to free himself stopped as he realized whom he was facing.

The tall, slender figure was over ten feet tall and stood before the awed cleric in its turquoise

and black leather armor, swathed in a flowing robe black as magical darkness itself. The gaunt face

was half covered by a mask that stuck tightly to the skin, revealing only two bright eyes of the purest

amethyst hue.

The lower portion of the face was not covered by the mask but with the satisfied smile of a

dark elf that was only too familiar to . Two sharp daggers hung from the drow.s belt and

realized that the statue in the prayer room of the temple was but a crude copy of the

attacker who held him by the neck like a mere toy.

The utter perfection of the features and figure of the being that stood before him could never

be replicated by a simple statue. The mask could not disguise the divine comeliness of the drow, noted

the priest, his heart almost ceasing to beat with excitement and fear.

The long-haired god spoke nothing, but knew how he had brought himself in this

hopeless position. The ring was He, or a pool of His potency at least. Did the ring hold power beyond

all perceivable limits? Possible, knowing that Vhaerun himself materialized to prevent it from

becoming desecrated…

Anything was possible now.

The priest lowered his gaze in despair, wondering what was about to become of

him. Icy rivulets of sweat ran down face, the face that was pale with pain and terror.

A thin scarlet stream from his nostrils reminded him of his childhood days, almost ninety

years ago, and the fights he got into so often. Back then there was always the assistance of his older

brother to rely upon. There was no chance for that now, though; had departed, having laid

his life in defense of one of the temples of the masked lord who now stood in the chamber, holding

by the throat, squeezing his life away slowly yet certainly. Even if he were here, thought

the priest in a rush of lethargy, he would be kneeling in awe.

Without any warning sign, without even moving a facial muscle, the deity opened his

enormous hand and the priest slumped to the stone floor. The weakened arms could not break the

force of the fall; his face struck the stone, and he remained prostrate for a few moments. A sharp pain

shot through his head, the old, well-known pain of broken bone as his left eye was blinded by a trickle

of warm blood from his smashed temple. It continued to run down his chin, flowing freely into his

gasping mouth while his lungs fought for precious air.

He gathered his remaining strength and leaned on his knee, keeping his head bowed so that

the beautifully crafted boot-tips were all that entered his zone of view. Their tips ended in long, sharp

points as black as the night itself. realized that the tips could pound his face into a pulp of

brains and blood with a single stomp. Idly, he wondered whether he would even feel the pain before

his soul departed its mortal husk. Then again, he sincerely hoped that he would never learn the answer

to that.

His body shook forcefully, as in a trance. He desired fervently that Vhaerun would speak, not

just stand there in silent expectation. He longed for something to happen, to break this tension of

terror and anguish…

The silent lord must have heard his pleas, although had not spoken a word. The

enormous boots moved one step closer toward the priest. The heavy, yet slender arm touched the back

of the priest.s head and the latter sensed a flow of warm, divine energy through his sinews, numb with

fear and pain. All pain disappeared magically, and he could feel a comforting feeling overwhelming

his senses, forcing the fear out of his body. The divine giant turned away stealthily and gracefully, and

could gather enough courage to raise his eyes a little. He could only see the dark cloak

draped across the broad shoulders, and the wild tangle of crimson hair falling across the cloak as his

Lord disappeared in a dusky portal created out of shadows. It was the last thing he remembered later,

after the darkness of utter exhaustion had relinquished its grasp on his mind and soul, the grasp that

had tossed him down a chasm of troubled sleep in which he found no comfort; in which he kept

seeing, over and over again, the face of the Masked Lord who had almost taken his life.

..

The shadows on the walls of the temple of the Goddess of Spiders were infamous even among

the surface-dwellers, and even more so among the drow whose culture was based upon the worship of

the eight-legged creatures. Four of these shadows circled a stone statue that depicted the torso of a

drow female of exquisite beauty on the body of a monstrous spider, not once venturing near the statue

itself. The room was wreathed in malicious darkness, illuminated only by the pale-green luminescent

liquid that condensed across some of its black walls.

A continuous whisper of litany and prayer interrupted the grave silence. The repetitive

circling of the spiders could not disturb the concentration of the hooded figure that kneeled before the

statue of stone in fervent worship. A spider-web cloak, specially treated and strengthened for

everyday use and decorated with silver, was draped over the frail, slender shape. The hood came over

the figure.s head, revealing only the lower portion of the face of a strikingly beautiful female drow.

Her lips chanted prayers to the Queen of the Demonweb Pits as if in trance, without pausing or

turning her eyes away from the statue for a single moment.

Akordia could never keep track of the time she spent inside the temple. Her hours seemed to

flow like mere eye-blinks when engaged in prayer, as images of her dark desires and passions flashed

through her mind.s eye graphically. There was no doubt about it: Akordia was a devoted follower, a

prime example to her own sisters and perhaps even Nedylene, who lacked many of the requirements

that determine a good Matron Mother. Akordia.s ruthlessness, aggression and charisma were to be the

keys to Lolth.s mercy on the day she was to take her mother.s position in House Ivril. She would

never repeat the failures and mistakes of Nedylene; that was what she had promised to the Spider

Queen long ago, in endless prayers that often went on for hours.

Her trained ear picked up a rhythm of footsteps behind her back, right at the entrance.

That stupid, stupid Kalanaar.

Only he could march into the temple in such a militaristic, self-confident manner, secure in

his thoughts of being the best, most powerful Ivril warrior!

House Ivril perhaps, yet not many fighters are likely to concede an advantage to their rivals,

within the families or amongst them. They entered their duels perfectly aware that only one can

emerge victorious, with his confidence in his own strength and skill raised to a new level. This

confidence changes possession rapidly, going from the defeated to the triumphant like a powerful

magical artifact. It alters the force, power, honor and ranking of its owner in a matter of moments, and

the warrior who was unaware of this fact was indeed dull-witted.

Yet, are all men not dull-witted? thought the priestess.

She did not grant Kalanaar even a simple glance; she had mixed feelings for her lover, her

passionate love turning into hatred of equal magnitude and back depending on the moment. He

jumped around her like a rothe during the mating season, but he was quite useful for lustful nights

when the fancy took her. The idiot was grateful for her attention, thinking that he had advanced in

rank so far that one day he could hope to become her spouse, perhaps a patron of the house even.

Akordia would have sacrificed him for her personal goals without a second thought, if she only saw it

necessary.

Kalanaar.s eyes reflected his anguish and worry clearly. He was far from being as naive as the

young priestess thought him to be.

Far from it. Dozens of years of life experience are sufficient to teach even the stupidest

warriors a thing or two about life. Yet Kalanaar was not stupid, certainly not as stupid as the priestess

deemed him. He knew that in her eyes he was always to remain nothing more than a male, the

extended arm of the female clergy of Lolth, a blind, animated heap of bone and muscle that could do

little but wield a sword in battle. Yet he waited for Akordia patiently and calmly. He even retreated a

few steps in order to prevent the wrath of the priestess, which could be forthcoming regardless

whether he was at fault or not.

The prayer was over soon and Akordia raised herself humbly from her kneeling position, her

head bowed in respect. She moved toward the exit without even looking at the mighty warrior,

motioning him to follow her. She was frowning and Kalanaar did not like it. He knew better than to

provide her with a reason for using her whip, so he followed her obediently down the warped hallway,

glancing at the guardian spiders on the ceiling without interest. The large arachnids marched across

the tapestries that glorified the goddess Lolth. His fists clenched involuntarily as he imagined himself

in battle with five, ten or more of them. A professional trait, this scrutiny of everything and everyone

that crossed his path as potential threats. It had kept Kalanaar alive over the many years and battles.

He always regarded everyone around him as possible enemies, studying their moves, motions and

fighting habits. After some time had passed he had become so familiar with the persons around him

that he could predict what and when each of them would do. He knew Akordia to be cold and

calculating, accurate and unpredictable, as opposed to her younger sibling Solen. The younger

priestess would never stand a chance; she was too wild and self-assured. Those are never the traits of

a true fighter, Kalanaar concluded smiling out of the corner of his mouth. Battle is an art that requires

calm, tranquility and respect for one.s opponent, regardless of how inferior he was. Luck was a

treacherous maiden, easily turning against the better fighter in the heat of combat. He had only

observed it happen too often.

Akordia had stopped while he was still in his thoughts, and he almost slammed into her from

behind. They had already reached the metal doors to her chambers, decorated with silvery carvings of

a battle between drow and gray dwarves. Kalanaar wondered idly whether the chambers. previous

occupant had had an opportunity to pit his strength and skill against those hardy, short warriors and

what had been the outcome of that battle. He had encountered gray dwarves before, but never as

opponents in combat. He wished that he had.

Akordia chanted a magical phrase and placed her slender hand into an indentation crafted to

fit it; there was a low click and the door opened. Kalanaar could see the familiar setting of the young

priestess. residence. Her two adjoining chambers were linked by an oval opening, which was covered

by a magical curtain of a dark shade of blue coloration. A surface artifact, thought the warrior,

remembering Akordia.s story of several months ago. She had obtained the curtain from a mage of

Mulhorand, she told him as they lay in bed, weary after a sleepless night.

Akordia led him into the first chamber, and Kalanaar immediately knew that he had not been

summoned for entertainment purposes. She sat on her stone chair, padded with the white fur of an

animal unfamiliar to Kal. Her pose was more than provocative, as her gaze taunted the warrior who

was caressing her body with his own. She did not offer him a seat, leaving him standing and leaning

on his sword instead, and allowed him to stare at the deep cut in the front of her dress, a weapon that

had proved itself just as powerful as her magical artifacts.

Kal would certainly have been affected by the striking appearance of the seductive drow, even

had he tried to help it. His gaze rested upon the figure of the woman he had spent countless nights

with in conversation or lovemaking. With the passage of time, there was les and less conversation as

Akordia.s ambition and malice grew to unperceivable limits, always plotting and scheming for power,

even in her dreams.

"Do you see something that pleases you, Kal?" inquired the priestess finally in a low tone.

Her nimble fingers toyed with a lock of her white hair. She sized her lover, her plaything, up with a

glance, puckering her lips in a seductive manner. Kalanaar was jostled back into reality, but remained

silent. His only reaction was to frown and mumble a curse under his breath as he realized that the

priestess was only toying with him. Kalanaar always attempted to present himself as a fool before the

priestesses, far more dense than he actually was. It had given him a relative advantage, for he had

managed to cheat them into thinking that he could never pose a serious threat to their domination.

Akordia gave a throaty laugh. Kal grimaced, attempting to stretch his thin lips into an idiot.s

smile and faring rather well. His hand squeezed the grip of his sword until his knuckles turned white.

The well-known knot of anger tightened in his stomach, threatening to spread to his limbs and

overwhelm his reasoning.

"I need you…" spoke Akordia, her laughter ceasing and her perfect features growing serious.

Kalanaar willed the frown off his brow and leaned even more heavily upon the hilt of the

enormous sword, breathing in deeply. Another small errand for the beautiful priestess in exchange for

a night of passion in her bed. It was not a favorable deal for him; for all her beauty and passion, the

priestess did not even rank close to some of the females available in the places he frequented in his

free time. But, then again, what else was he to do?

Refuse the offer? That he could never do. He would endure the perils of battle and then return

to her for his reward. He remembered how Akordia enjoyed it when he came to her covered in blood

or bleeding from his own wounds, and a fearful shiver ran down his spine as he contemplated the

fetishes of the Matron.s daughter.

"The duty is perhaps perilous," spoke Akordia, viewing her lover.s muscular arms, "but it

should not present much of a task to you."

Blood is to be shed, thought Kal. Akordia.s errands for me never require subtlety. Raw power

is what she requires…

"You are to go to the House of Entertainment in the higher levels of the city," continued the

priestess. "It is the one owned by the gray dwarf, Kalgesh, and also the one where a lot of shady

business takes place."

"I have visited Kalgesh on several occasions," blurted Kal unwittingly, making Akordia

frown with anger. She hated being interrupted, especially by an unworthy male, and would have had

him whipped for his insolence had the warrior not been so necessary at the moment.

"Even better, then," she spoke, swallowing hard at the anger she felt creeping up her throat.

"You shall find your way more easily… once there, you are to meet a pair of tradesmen I had

contacted some time ago. They trade in a variety of potent poisons that we shall require soon."

The end of Nedylene.s reign as Matron Mother draws near, realised the mighty warrior,

changing his body position to an upright respectful pose, as if he was standing before the Matron

herself, holding his sword at ready.

"They go by the names of Adlon and Elioss," continued Akordia. "You shall recognize them

by the small golden earrings with turquoise precious stones inset into them. Give them the diamond

dust, and take the small bottle as agreed. Remain at the House until the end of the day cycle."

Kalanaar bowed and turned without saying a word, his stance an exemplar of obedience and

humility. His enormous form soon disappeared through the chamber doorway. The sudden departure

made Akordia frown in slight amazement. He had not stayed to spend some time drooling at her feet,

uttering stupid compliments and empty phrases that annoyed her so, as was his usual habit. He was

probably beginning to perceive something; even a dumb animal like him must possess some sort of

sixth sense.

Kal was busy wondering what the future held in store for him. He did not mind Nedylene, but

Akordia he loved. He would have preferred it if things remained the way they were now. The chances

for that are minor indeed, concluded he while making his way down the stairs, all other warriors

standing aside and allowing him pass. He did not deem them worthy of a single glance. Akordia.s

coup in house Ivril was a blade with two edges for Kalanaar. On one hand, he was to ascend in house

hierarchy, probably to the position of house patron, as the eldest and most skilled warrior. On the

other, he would live the rest of his days in permanent fear of Akordia.s whims and fits of fury. She

could grow bored of him anytime, and then he would become an obstacle in the new Matron.s way,

something to be removed. That had been the fate of most male drow who had managed to rank so

high in the past. Kalanaar knew it only too well, having listened to warrior campfire stories since he

had been little.

Why would it be any different now?

Lost in his contemplations, he only became aware that he was coming out of house grounds

when the two guards at the gate saluted him respectfully. He could see the admiration and envy in

their eyes and suddenly remembered the worn look in the eyes of a senior officer when he himself had

been just a mere guardsman. He could understand it now; it was a gaze of weariness and worry, and

he knew now that the officer had envied him far more than the feeling was reciprocated, back in those

days when his sole concerns were females and glory.

..

The route toward the upper webs of the city was always amusing for the tall, powerful fighter.

If nothing, he enjoyed the manner in which other drow stepped aside to allow him to pass, and the

malicious, threatening glances he received from warriors of the higher-ranking houses. It was all just a

game of nerves, he had long realised that. Nothing ever came of those glances, but the tension was

welcome for it raised Kal.s adrenalin; he loved to sense it rage in his veins, even when he could not

employ it in a fight for none was forthcoming.

His huge weapon, a great sword for two-handed use, rested upon his shoulder although he

could have carried it comfortably in its sheath across his back. Kalanaar towered almost a foot above

average drow height. The sword had a name, , which translated from drow into common tongue

as The Arm. Anyone wielding the sword felt it like an extension of his own arm, not like a clumsy,

enormous weapon. The beautiful blade had been passed on over the centuries from father to son, and

Kal was the last in his line who had received it. The exquisite silvery blade was decorated with dozens

of minute demon claws and continued into a hilt of pure adamantite, crafted to resemble a fist.

was almost alive; it could feel the blood in Kal.s mighty veins and then the fist would open, bathing in

the blood that ran down the blade and the hands of its wielder.

A pair of tradesmen passed the warrior, allowing him to pass and lowering their gazes. One of

them carried a bag, which he pressed to his chest in fear that Kal might decide to claim it for himself,

which brought out a self-satisfied smile in the corner of Kal.s lips.

It did not take Kalanaar long to reach his destination. He knew all the shortcuts and passages

to the House of Entertainment and Pleasure and he could now hear the laughter and shouts coming

from it, the sound of glasses being banged against the table and curses from countless mouths.

Kalgesh could be extremely irritating, allowing everyone to drink at his inn. One could find dark

dwarves, mind flayers, surface merchants and dark-skinned tattooed mages from the Night Above.

Breathing in deeply, he switched the sword into his other fist and neared the large circular

entrance that had no door. Icy dull light came from the inside of the inn, throwing a flurry shadows

onto the stone ground before the entrance.

Having stepped across the threshold, Kalanaar ran his stare across the hall assessing the

situation. The blade of the sword rested upon his left shoulder, prepared to hack the head off the first

one to attack him. The inn was nearly deserted, and Kal nodded his greeting to the squat, ugly dwarf

behind the stone counter who was in the middle of wiping a clay mug. There was no one in the inn

besides him and three drunken drow.

Good, thought Kal. He would be the one who has to wait, which shall provide him with an

opportunity to choose the best position in case things turned out for the worse. He was looking

forward to a fight; the sword had shaken on its own accord several times over the past few days. It

was driven by a desire. A desire for blood.

He ordered a clear, light liquid that contained little alcohol. He needed his head clear for the

task ahead. There would be plenty of time for drink later on.

A long gulp sent almost half of the mug.s contents down his thirsty mouth. He could feel the

light beer, brewed from Gilu fungi in a process only gray dwarves were familiar with, clear the insides

of his throat. The mug came down onto the table with a thud, and his other muscular, veined hand

wiped the traces of the liquid off his lips. He glanced round. The drow visitors had ceased their

conversation, scrutinizing the newcomer. Kal could expected no peril to come from them; their bodies

were too frail, and they carried no weapons as far as he could perceive. If this situation persists, he

thought, I can concentrate on Akordia.s tradesmen and ignore everyone else in this cursed place.

He did not have to wait long.

A couple of minutes later he easily recognized the two drow, as the pale illumination of the

inn reflected off their turquoise earrings. Adlon and Elioss, if Kal remembered their names correctly,

were accompanied by a huge ogre who served as their guard. The two of them were obviously more

adept at spying and assassination from the shadows, for their only weapons were long black knives

stuck in their boots.

The ogre was a different story. Weighing over six hundred pounds, the giant was several

times Kal.s own size and his enormous weapon, a heavy club, was seemed even heavier than he was.

Yet Kalanaar was not impressed.

The drow, shrouded in black cloaks, neared his table and stood in front of the warrior

expectantly, clearly awaiting an offer to sit down and join him. It was not forthcoming.

"The representative of House Ivril?" inquired one of them; his voice resembled that of a dying

goblin. His short white hair glistened with some sort of oil, and Kal assessed his age at no more than

forty. A child! They had sent a child to conduct adult business! It irritated him so much that he

mumbled a nasty curse aimed at Akordia. He contemplated snatching the poison off them, keeping

their reward and sending them home humiliated and without the ogre.

"No, a beholder from the Gray Peaks," replied he cynically, glaring at the dumb beast that

looked down on him. He would rip his heart out if he makes as much as a single wrong move.

The two drow looked at each other in confusion. The other drow was slightly older than his

companion, but visibly ill. His eyes glowed a dull yellow almost as powerfully as Hathra.s own, and

Kalanaar remembered the ailing poet who had served him often as a source of amusement. Drow are

created for long lives, Hathra, he used to taunt him.

"But we were told..." they began confusedly, seeking an explanation, but the weathered

warrior stopped them in their tracks quickly.

"Yes, I am the representative of House Ivril."

Relief across the stupid faces. Their initial reaction was a dumb smile, and then they

remembered the graveness of their task and frowned, drawing chairs to sit at Kal.s table. Kalanaar

allowed them to do so, fixing the motionless giant with a stare. He yearned to lop the huge head off

the massive shoulders so much that he could barely restrain himself. So many combat combinations

ran through his mind that he practically wished to be attacked.

"Our superior sends his finest fighters," spoke the sickly one, full of self-confidence, "for he

deems the transaction a serious one."

Oh, Lolth, thought the exasperated Kalanaar, grabbing his head with his left hand. Here we

have a veteran of the Houses of Entertainment and a failed patient of Lolth.s temples playing at being

tough.

He could barely prevent himself from laughing. His hand reached inside his garments for the

bag of diamond dust and tossed it onto the tabletop. The small pouch landed between the youths with

a dull sound, and their angered stares rose toward Kalanaar who was draining his large mug of beer.

The short-haired one reached for the pouch with his slim fingers and opened it nervously. Kal could

notice the false security of the youth, who thought that the big ogre entitled him to doing things he

normally would never have dreamed of.

"This is insufficient," spoke the skinny one after appraising the weight and contents of the

pouch. "The merchandise was extremely difficult to procure. We had to undergo all sorts of trouble to

gain it. Now it is obvious that the arranged price is far too low."

What were they thinking? thought Kal, that they can play me for a fool? Me?!

His pockets contained more than enough to sate even their ogre-inflated ego, but that was the

furthest thing from his mind right now. One ogre did not alter matters. Ten ogres would not alter

matters.

Kal rose from his metal chair slowly, but reached for the empty beer mug too quickly for the

drows. reflexes, and far too quickly for the ogre to realize what was happening. The mug flew in a

wide arc, smashing to pieces against the skinny drow.s face and he roared in agony and tumbled

backwards allowing the huge ogre to step in front of him. Kalanaar.s only reaction was springing atop

the table as the blade of rose menacingly above his head. The sickly drow pulled out a sharp

dagger and faced the warrior hesitantly. His comrade laid on the cold stone floor, attempting to rise as

bloody white liquid poured down his face, the sole remnant of one of his eyes.

The ogre wasted no time, though: his enormous club sought Kalanaar but never reached its

destination, for the Ivril was already high above the giant in a graceful leap. The club struck the stone

table, smashing it into two with a thundering sound. gleamed in the dull inn illumination as its

keen edge landed upon a massive shoulder, slashing the ogre.s arm off in a swift, uninterrupted

motion. Kalgesh.s inn rang with the ogre.s anguished scream, deafening the shorthaired drow who

once again attempted to rise. Kalanaar.s heavy boots nailed him back to the floor as the warrior

landed behind the wounded giant, easily dodging a clumsy dagger strike from the sickly drow whose

yellow eyes now burned with the flames of battle. Not for long; for , guided by the unerring arm

of Kalanaar, slashed across his abdomen and the drow hands clutched at the wound in a vain attempt

to prevent his innards from splattering across the floor, his fingers already black with his own blood.

Kalanaar ignored the two tradesmen and focused on his final strike at the ogre who was still

screaming in agony, clutching at the severed stump that spurted blood. The blade ran through his skull

with a sickening crackle of smashed bone thick in the air, ending his agony. The enormous carcass

dropped to the floor, a pool of blood forming beneath it at astounding speed.

The Ivril lost no time waiting for the skinny drow to rise from his kneeling position. A

mixture of disgust and compassion rose in his breast, and he decided to end the young attacker.s

suffering. A powerful blow of Kal.s massive fist landed on the back of his neck, smashing it

instantaneously. The lifeless form dropped next to the ogre.s, falling face first into the pool of blood

that had already spread across half of the inn floor.

Kalanaar approached the other attacker, who was already entangled in his own intestines with

an expression of utter terror written across his face. The youth was struggling for breath, coughing up

gouts of black blood over his leather armoring, cloak and innards.

"Where is the bottle?" he inquired from above. "If you choose to tell me, death shall come

quickly and painlessly. If not, I shall leave you as you are and pay Kalgesh to keep you alive, making

you die for hours and hours until all your sinews spasm with agony."

No further intimidation was necessary for the young drow who reached for a small box

concealed in a hidden pocket of his robe. Offering it to Kalanaar, he knelt over his cooling insides and

closed his eyes in expectance of a swift lethal strike. The warrior appraised the greenish contents of

the bottle until he was certain that he now possessed what he had been sent for, and then, bending

quickly, he picked the dagger off the floor. The dagger.s owner was shivering with agony, awaiting

the final strike that would take the pain away. A brief, accurate stab to the youth.s heart passed

through his light armor. As soon as the blade had completed its bloody trajectory, the drow.s body

went limp.

Kalanaar rose and pocketed the bottle and the small pouch filled with diamond dust that had

been intended for payment. Then his glare swept across the amazed audience at the inn. The drow

were still in the exact same position as they had been when the fight had started, their glasses in hand

and their lower jaws hanging in utter amazement. Kalgesh was far from excited. Similar happenings

had long become an everyday event at his House, usually ending in bloodletting and murder.

Ripping a money-pouch off his belt, the large warrior tossed it to the dwarven bartender who

caught it dexterously with his hands, still wet from the washing of dishes.

"This is sufficient reward for the ruined table and crockery, duergar," he spoke to the black-

bearded dwarf, wiping his sword clean on the cloak of one of the dead drow. "Also for the disposal of

the bodies."

The dwarf weighed the bag in his pudgy hand and concluded that the deal was fair. Not that it

would have made any difference had it been unfair; he would still be obliged to do what Kal had

commanded him to. The ranking of a duergar in the City of Glowing Webs was barely one step above

that of the house slaves. Unlike them, he had his freedom and the inn that brought a handsome

income, but those small liberties could easily disappear at any time.

..

"You are back!" remarked Akordia, turning away from the balcony from which she had been

observing the panorama of the city. The magical blue curtain swept over the small round window,

immediately shutting out the noise of the orc slaves below. Simultaneously the entire room became

bathed in soft blue light, and Kalanaar felt his eyes relax as the waves swept over them. His body

went limp and he could barely retain the grasp on his sword.

"A successful mission, I sincerely hope," she spoke huskily, tossing her scarlet robe aside and

standing before the warrior in nothing but transparent white underclothes that revealed more of her

astounding curves than it concealed. Kal reached for the small wooden box in his pocket, a couple of

inches in length at most and decorated with indecipherable writing. His weary gaze rested on it for a

brief moment and then he handed it over to the priestess in his open right hand. Agitated by the

waiting, Akordia snatched the box and opened it quickly. Her beautiful dark fingers with red talons

extracted the bottle and removed the metal cap off it. She closed her eyes and waved her other hand

above the opening of the bottle, forcing the fumes to drift below her nose where they would be so

diluted as to not cause her any harm. A couple of brief inhalations later she smiled, confident that the

poison was just as potent as she had thought it to be.

"Excellent, Kal," she murmured, nearing him. "But, then again, I never doubted that you

would take care of it. You have never failed me…" she spoke, drawing her slender arms around his

muscular neck. The warrior could feel the scent of her hair as she pressed her body against his own.

He knew that, had she been able to, she would have sent Roman instead. This outpour of affection

was just a result of her momentary contentment, not of tender emotions toward him.

Nevertheless, he did not intend to miss the opportunity.

The diamond dust in the blood-stained bag might have meant more to him many years ago,

but there were other pleasures to seek now. The wealth he had amassed over the decades of service

would last him for a long, long while.

Akordia.s gentle hands were removing his old robe, licking at the traces of blood on his neck,

the marks of the fight; Akordia.s loathsome fetish. Yet Kalanaar did not mind. He had seen and

experienced worse. He knew of cases of cannibalism amongst the drow; his own father Malrek had

been living evidence back in those days when Kalanaar had been terrified of him. When he had cut

through that abomination.s neck, he had cut the thread of terror inside his own soul. It had

disappeared never to return again.

..

Not a soul ever noticed him. His brief absence had worried no one. Just as if he had never

existed, nor been a member of the family.

He was not harmed by the absence of concern for him, though.

Perhaps some time ago he would have been, back in the days when he had been lonely. The

days when there had been no beautiful maiden to heal him. The days when he had been nothing but

sickly Hathra, the poet and object of pity, the drow who was expected to die any time.

His cough was still there; he was coughing at this very moment, bending over with the force

of the spasm in his lungs ad grimacing with pain. Yet the malignant cough was false now, just a

precaution against some of the family members doubting the effect of the dying state that he had been

in for years. Now, more powerful than ever, dependent only on the crimson nectar that he fed on, he

had gained powers that he could only have dreamt of before. The beautiful Abora had made it

possible for him, that same drow who had fallen in love with the ailing poet and granted him eternal

life.

In House Ivril, and the meeting he was now present at, he was on assignment. Abora

Auvryndar, his mistress, now had her own spy in the House, and the spy was an Ivril.

Curse the Ivrils! thought Hathra, his angered glare crossing the room and its occupants. For

years they had kept me on the brink of death without attempting to heal me, maintaining the pitiful

state I was in until my work was completed. Abora.s features appeared in his mind.s eye as he

observed the gathering of sibling priestesses. Kyor and Solen stood next to each other in scarlet robes,

their tight dresses cut deep in the front visible underneath the robes. Akordia wore clerical garments

with a small dagger in her belt, its handle decorated by blue gems.

Matron Nedylene was making her boredom apparent, toying with the spider on her shoulder.

The hairy animal ran up and down her throne, even across her body, which disgusted Roman and

Kalanaar to no end. The two warriors faced each other in the spacious meeting hall of the main

building, exchanging looks of pure hatred that added tension to the entire atmosphere.

Nym, Scagnia, Andalae and Dhaunae were also present, whispering quietly amongst

themselves. Only Wode remained isolated, watching Nedylene.s spider absent-mindedly.

Suddenly the spider game was over and the Matron rose, straightening her back on the small

platform that held her throne, the wooden spider the Matron could animate to come to her aid in

battle.

"My daughters, and the rest of you gathered here, the days of return are long gone now. The

time we are in marks the beginning of a new era, one in which the Ivril are to grow in power and

prepare for their forthcoming ascension in the house ranking of Ched Nasad."

All heads turned toward Matron, their attention suddenly switching to her speech. A gleam of

fury appeared in Nedylene.s eyes as she saw Radul make a late appearance through the door. The

gathered crowd held their breath awaiting her response to this show of disrespect, but Nedylene only

ground her teeth and only shot the mage a baleful look. Akordia.s thoughts idly drifted toward the

torture chamber where she would gladly send Radul for his insolence. Nedylene.s meekness annoyed

her so much that she could barely prevent herself from venting her anger at her mother there and then.

Incompetent Matron! she thought.

"More time shall pass," continued the Matron, calming herself down after the little incident,

"before we venture to attack one of the houses ranked above us…"

Akordia frowned her disagreement, which did not escape the Nedylene.s keen eye.

"I sense dissent on your behalf, daughter," she addressed the priestess, laying her hand on the

wooden throne. "Perhaps you have better plans for this House, even better than those of your

Matron?"

Akordia calmed down immediately, remembering that she was not Matron… yet.

"I would never dare think of that, Mother," she replied, attempting to make the tone of her

voice as timid as possible. "Yet, I cannot help thinking that the Ivril are powerful enough to destroy

the Houses , Valhoon and together, in one fell swoop."

The Matron.s clear laughter rang across the room. "Each of these three Houses has fifty or

more warriors at its disposal, not counting the slaves. Only a green priestess like yourself could ever

dream that we are able to handle all three!"

"It is not so," started Akordia, feeling the rush of blood to her head. "I just thought it

sufficient…"

"I am the one here who is entitled to think, daughter," retorted Matron Nedylene, piercing

Akordia with a glare. "You, on the other hand, obey me and do as you are told. Understood?"

Akordia flushed with resentment at yet another humiliation coming from her mother. She

imagined a poisoned dagger sinking into the Matron.s chest as a stream of blood gushed out of her

mouth, and the image calmed her down a little.

"Aye, Matron, it is understood," she replied through gritted teeth, like a beast of the

wilderness that can be beaten into obedience but never tamed. Only Wode could spot the gleam of

lunacy in the young priestess. eyes as she bowed respectfully.

"House shall be the first to taste our might, then the others," continued Nedylene. "A

higher jump in the ranks could attract the attention of more powerful opponents who would then strive

to destroy us while we are still comparatively weak. Besides, House is under the patronage

of House Auvryndar, a member of the Council."

"We are the only one of these houses that has High Priestesses and an archmage at its

disposal," the Matron raised her voice, clearly agitated. "Even some of the Council Houses lack the

nobility structure that we can boast."

"The shall be the last to fall," said Nedylene, smiling with contentment at her own

plan. "This must be done so due to House Auvryndar, which has gotten its fingers entangled in every

matter in the city."

Oh, how right you are, Nedylene, thought Hathra. It even has a spy in your own back yard. He

coughed once and grimaced painfully, remembering to keep his disguise up. No one paid any

attention, just as he expected. His mission was to memorize everything, paying attention to minor

detail, and then retreat to his hideout and relay his knowledge to the beautiful Abora.

None of the attendees dared interrupt the Matron.s speech. Her word was final, and there

remained only minor particularities to be discussed. Upon attacking a rival house, the attackers had to

make certain that all of their opponents. nobles were slain, so that the bloodline of the defeated would

be cut for eternity. All surviving warriors and slaves would become captives of the victors,

replenishing their depleted ranks.

"Wode, carry on with the training of our mages, Nym, Scagnia and Radul…" ordered the

Mother to the bald-headed mage, who only nodded his agreement. His mind, on the other hand,

screamed with the desire to put the fight off for as long as possible. He knew that, once the Ivril have

defeated House , his fate would be sealed.

"Kalanaar, prepare the warriors ruthlessly, so that they are ready for battle every moment of

the day," she pointed to the huge warrior. "As your preparations are conducted, I and my daughters

shall spend our time in prayer to Lolth, pleading her favor in the forthcoming battle."

You shall never live to see the battle, thought Akordia, for your heart shall cease its beating

much earlier, mother. You shall pay for the insult you brought upon me; it shall be washed off with

your blood.

"That is all," finished Nedylene. "You are at liberty to leave."

Leaning back into her comfortable throne, Nedylene contemplated how dangerous her

daughter Akordia had become, and whether it would be wise to end the threat immediately. With

every day she grew more and more insolent and determined to negate her decisions. It angered

Nedylene; yet, the motherly instinct hidden deep inside every drow female.s breast blinded her from

perceiving the true scale of the threat her daughter had become. Besides, her thoughts were now

focused on the mage, Wode, who was to die on the day of their first victory. It was a double-edged

sword, for the house would lose their greatest asset, the archmage. A loss that would indeed be

considerable in any other situation but his one; for Nedylene was far more apprehensive of his

hideous experiments and the retribution of the Council in case Wode, in his ambition, repeated his

former error.

Had Nedylene known where the actual threat was coming from, the bald mage would have

been her least concern. Yet, how was she to know when plot and scheme are the most potent weapons

of the drow, honed to perfection over the centuries in the perilous reaches of the Underdark?

..

The trail leading to the catacombs on the third level of the City of Glowing Webs was all but

impossible to follow. A smattering of houses, inhabited by citizens who were independent of the

ruling houses, lay dark, secretive and nearly desolate there. Merchant, mercenary and free-agent

guilds were situated below the building complexes, linked by gloomy, misty alleys that sometimes

ended in dead-ends of the walls of the great chasm, or even took the unwary traveler onward to the

tunnel complexes of the Underdark that led outside of Ched Nasad. Cases of vile creatures escaping

the attention of the ever-ready guards and entering the city, where they would massacre anything that

crossed their path or lay in waiting for their prey or even assuming their appearance, were not unheard

of. Many of them were discovered and slain immediately, some captured, and others discovered after

some time or never at all.

Hathra walked the narrow, nearly flooded street alone. Water ran down the surrounding walls

of the cave, forming a small stream of filthy liquid that wet Hathra.s boots. He took no notice of it,

striding forth with satisfaction. He took a few turns around the intersecting webs from which rose

crude houses of stone. He could barely wait to see the pleased look on Abora.s face when she

discovers what had taken place at the Ivril meeting. He had learned all their plans for the future, as

well as their next target, House .

He cared not the least bit for his family; had it been up to him, he would leave them all in

eternal suffering that would match his own pain, depression and ailment. The destruction of House

Ivril by a more powerful one would be the least punishment they deserved.

Entering the old, desolate house, flooded by streams of dirty fluid that flowed inside it, Hathra

sprang upon the circular stone stairs that led to the second level and walked up them stealthily, like a

great feline. He was on the upper floor in an eyeblink, removing the white tooth-shaped crystal from

his pocket and placing it inside a small groove on the wall of the long-abandoned chamber. A black

portal appeared before him and the vampire stepped into it without hesitation. The black energy

swallowed him immediately and disappeared in a trail of thick smoke. Hathra.s vision clouded over

for a moment and then he could discern the familiar chamber and two forms inside it. Abora and her

guardian sat at the stone table, the same one upon which Hathra had woken on the day he grasped

eternity. Two goblets were all that rested upon the surface of the table now, filled with scarlet liquid

that still emitted warmth.

"You are here, love," Abora addressed him tenderly, her lips spreading in a smile that

revealed two fearsome fangs. Hathra approached her and she greeted him with a kiss.

"Indeed I am," he spoke, "and I return with the important information that you sought, my

loved Abora…" he smiled, touching her face with his open palm. She returned him a joyful smile.

How stunning she is! thought the vampire who was once an ailing poet. He could barely resist

the desire he felt for her.

"The Ivril shall attack the house that ranks directly above them, the ," Hathra started

reporting. "Matron Nedylene has decided so. The attack shall not come soon…"

"Soon or not," interrupted Abora, "I shall see that House receives the assistance it

requires. Our brethren shall be sent to aid them. Many, many of them…"

Hathra knew that other vampires were also in Abora.s dark service, but he was surprised to

learn that there were so many. He wondered how many other drow had been introduced to the Dark

Side.

"So the Ivril shall be destroyed?" he inquired absent-mindedly, staring at the stone table,

daydreaming of the deaths of all those who had given up on him: Kalanaar, Nedylene, Akordia,

Wode… they had all left him to die. All of them.

"That troubles you?" Abora asked, although she already knew the reply.

"No," retorted Hathra quickly. "My desire is to see them all dead. I wish I could take part in

their destruction myself. They should have died two hundred years ago, when Wode conducted the

spider experiments."

Abora was pleased by his answer. She turned round, holding Hathra.s hand in her own, and

drew him closer to the stone table. The vampire guardian who sat at its side remained almost

motionless. She poured a goblet of the scarlet liquid from a bottle and placed it before Hathra. He

grasped it with both hands and drank from it, emptying it in a few thirsty gulps. Abora replenished the

liquid immediately.

Although Hathra was now immortal, he still had to feed. He consumed blood, which gave him

the energy he required for a while. After that, he would lose his strength and have to feed again. He

also needed rest to retain his powers. The Underdark vampires had a distinct advantage over the

surface ones, for there was no fear of sunlight exposure.

The small pocket-plane they were in now provided them with excellent shelter. They were

isolated from the rest of Ched Nasad, yet could return to the city rapidly if they required to. Abora.s

vampires were an important organization in the City of Glowing Webs, being under direct protection

of House Auvryndar, the fourth-ranking house of the city. Out of the shades they acted, aiding smaller

houses against attacks from their more powerful rivals in secret, never openly. This way the houses

managed to survive but became weaker, just like the aggressor houses. This policy on Abora.s behalf

had eventually led to a constant balance in the house ranking and ensured that the most powerful

houses would never come under threat from their rising rivals. It was a vital precaution in a city filled

with chaotic, power-hungry Matron Mothers. Abora.s spies were in virtually every house, informing

her of the malicious plans of the Matrons.

And so it was now.

Nedylene.s plan to attack House would be foiled, and the Ivrils would lose the force

they required to maintain their own defenses in the attempt, eventually becoming the prey of House

Valhoon or .

"Issue the orders immediately," spoke Abora to her guardian. "Prepare thirty vampire

warriors to be sent to House as assistance. Go to them yourself, and relay them that the Ivril

are about to mount an attack against them."

The gray-haired drow rose, bowing to his mistress and silently approaching the wall through

which Hathra had entered. He used the crystal hanging from his neck in the same manner as the Ivril

had, and disappeared in the black mass of the portal that opened immediately. Hathra could not help

wondering whether Abora.s guardian was one of the Mindless, the vampire breed that was created

only to obey, gaining eternal life but losing everything else.

With a sudden pain he realized that he too could become one of those.

The only difference being that he had not; Abora had noticed the potential he held within and

that rested unused, and had attracted him to herself. He was eternally grateful for the granted mercy.

Had it not been for her, the dreaded illness would still be coursing through his veins instead of the

strength he sensed now. His only comfort would be the Houses of Entertainment and the mind-

affecting opiates inside them, tearing his mind to shreds and tossing him into an eternal pitfall of

mindlessness, robbing him of thought. Now every day he felt like under the influence of drugs:

stronger than ever, better than old Hathra in every aspect, fused with the potent mistress Abora who

was not the egoistical, spiteful bitch Matron Nedylene was. Although she was in fact dead, her heart

held more warmth and love than either Nedylene.s, Akordia.s or that of any of the Matron.s

daughters. She had not gained his service like Wode had, blackmailing him with minute doses of the

medicine that maintained his life without removing the cause of his pitiful state. Now that the

parasites in his lungs were long dead, he had no need for Wode.s treacherous cures. The pulmonary

infestation that had spread through his body fro years had been coughed out on the first night of the

Becoming, nothing but gouts of bloody mass. The temperature of his new body and the negative

energy channeling through it had been too much for them to endure.

Filled with joy, he approached Abora and took her in his arms.

The two cold bodies wrapped around each other, removing their vestments. Long, passionate

kisses never stopped for a moment as their hands worked on the bonds on their dressing garments and

armor. Vampiric desire equaled that for the blood that kept them alive, or rather alive in the unholy

state of their existence.

Abora.s white hair swooped across Hathra.s back as he carried her toward the stone table,

black with encrusted blood. The icy surface accepted the vampire bodies as Hathra.s goblet, still half

full, spilled its contents across the table, the blood filling every crevice and carving, wetting their ice-

cold bodies. A sensation of uncontrolled power filled the sinews of the former poet and Abora smiled,

seeing his bloody cat-like eyes glow in dark desire as he sank his sharp teeth into her flesh, to drink

the golden fluid that valued high above blood itself.

..

Last two days in the Ivril family were spent in silent preparations for something that only

Matron Nedylene and her eldest daughter Akordia knew about. The priestesses went to Lloth.s

Temple more then usual and were seen coming out exhausted, while the warriors and the wizards

were spending their time in sparring combat and magic studies.

On the eve of the second day, Matron Nedylene ordered a meeting in a courtyard beneath he

balcony. All of the House.s members were present, excluding the twenty warriors and Solen, which

were securing the House perimeter.

Nedylene didn.t leave the gathered to wait for long. She came out to her balcony, looking

gorgeous in a teal dress decorated with silver ornaments that rose to her generous décolleté. A deep

cut on her dress lined her shapely leg, and her tempting lips were painted in white, the same white that

was her hair, which was styled in a single thick braid that fell over her shoulder to rest between her

breasts.

"We have gathered here," she begun in a ceremonial voice, "after two days of preparations for

an important task."

All of her inferiors waited for the revelation to come, and only Akordia smiled dignifiedly

standing in the front row between her sisters Indarae and Kirrana.

"Right after my speech," Nedylene continued, "those of you that I choose will had for the

cavern complex south of the city on a first raid of Ivril family since the glorious day of the Return."

Many shouts of acknowledgment broke the silence of the meeting. The raid was an almost

holy act for every drow family, the act in which fame was earned and battle skills improved. It was

the act in which many of city.s heroes earned their glory, but also the act in which even more of them

lost their lives.

Raiding was expansive, in material wealth as well as in manpower, and it was reserved only

for those families that were ready to gamble. It was either glory or death. The successful raids brought

fame to the House, and the fame improved their position in the city.

"You will make sure that we have no casualties," she ordered, as if it was a matter of choice,

"we can.t afford casualties in these times when our rivals dream of destroying us. The raid should

show them our strength, it should show then that the Ivrils are those to be afraid of," she said,

suddenly changing her mood to a brighter one.

"I will leave you now with Akordia, who will pick those of you that will bring the glory to

our family," she added, and went back in her room.

..

Why all the secrecy, Wode wandered after Akordia finished drafting the raiders. After all, it

was only a raid, a thing that should be announced early so all of the other Houses get to know of it,

unless it had some hidden motives, which were – knowing Nedylene – very possible.

"You heard her master, she picked me," Scagnia complained, with a facial expression of a

person on the death row. He was looking for Wode to give him words of comfort, but instead of that

he heard Nym.s mocking laughter.

"You Scagnia, are a worthless worm and I hope a Hook Horrors will feast on your mutilated

body," Nym sneered, standing beside his troll slave. "Too bad I will not be there to watch it."

Scagnia.s lips thinned with anger, and his fragile frame was shaking out of helplessness. Nym

was terrorizing him even since they met each other under Wode.s patronage.

"What is it, coward?" Nym went on with his vocal assault; "You want to tell me something?"

he screamed and slapped Scagnia so loud that more than half of the gathered turned around in

anticipation of combat.

Unfortunately for Nym, the wrinkled eyes of Wode Ivril were among them.

It was too much for the archwizard to digest. Before Nym could react, he drew his troll hand

out of his long sleeve, and grabbed his apprentice by the neck. Nym.s troll went to aid his master, but

he was no match for Wode.

Uttering a single phrase, Wode.s free hand extended toward the troll and an unseen force hit

the monster in its chest with the force of a battering ram. With a sickening sound that brought mother

Nedylene back to her balcony, the troll flew away crushing through the fence of the compound to end

up lying on the street like some king of a broken wooden doll.

Nym was desperately fighting to draw his breath. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were

opened so wide that they looked like popping out any moment. He was trying to release himself from

the iron grip of long fingers, but with no success. And Wode wasn.t even looking at him.

The wizard was more interested in the troll, which was slowly coming back while black liquid

poured from his nose and mouth to his chest that had a big gaping hole in the middle.

The stupid beast didn.t even understand what hit him, when the missile that was his master hit

him and brought him back on the floor. Breaking of Nym.s bones broke through the silence, and he

opened his mouth wide in a futile attempt of a scream.

As if someone brought magical silence upon him, Scagnia thought. As much as he was glad

for having Wode on his side, he was worried for he knew than Nym would not let it end like this, and

that he would probably seek his revenge on Scagnia.

Humiliated and barely alive, Nym was carried by his slave, which was followed by the

priestess that would attempt to magically heal him. Wode stood looking powerful and invincible – an

imposing stature spoiled only by the tortured look in his red eyes.

"Wode, another similar outburst and I will deal with you personally," he heard Nedylene.s

voice. She was standing on her balcony, and threateningly waved her fist his way.

"Everybody is important to us," she continued, "and especially the wizards we have so few of.

You should be punished."

Wode didn.t even flinch at her remarks. He was fixing Scagnia with his glare, Scagnia who

would rather go on the raid alone than invoke the fury of his teacher upon himself. Wode felt a

strange feeling in his body, a uncomfortable warmth which emanated from his stomach to spread on

his entire body. He felt his heart pump too much adrenaline, which gave inhuman strength to his

muscles, but blurred hi vision.

He kneeled down on the floor and started trembling with excitement. He was desperately

trying to fight off the urge to kill everybody that was near to him. He saw himself retrieving a piece of

sponge from his pocket, a simple material component for one of the most horrible spells of all; Abu

Dhalzimm.s Horrid Wilting. He saw once beautiful Nedylene as a dried corpse, and all of the others

wilt in his magic vapor.

Matron understood Wode.s kneeling as a sign of regret, and ordered the raiders to fetch their

weapons and set out at once.

One hour later, thirty warriors led by Roman, Scagnia, Solen and Kirrana, passed through the

compound gate, some of them never to return again. Wode viewed them as their cloaks flew wildly on

the sudden underground air current, and he could feel envying looks of the warriors that would give

anything in the world for the opportunity to do to Nym what he just did.

He also felt the look of Matron Nedylene, for whom he knew would seek explanations for his

newest weapon he unexpectedly unsheathed. She would force him to give her the writings that

described the process, and then she would make an army of warriors similar to him to destroy

anybody and anything that stood in her way.

The crowd slowly started going to their daily duties, and Wode started to retreat to his room,

and was cautiously monitored by Akordia and Kalannar, which went for Matron.s quarters to discuss

some very urgent matters.

Nedylene sat on her throne, nervously tipping her long fingernails on the wooden table. As

soon as Kalannar and Akordia entered the room she raised her angry glare and motioned for them to

be silent.

"Wode is allowing to much to himself," she said with iron resolution, while standing up. "As

soon as you return we will deal with him once and for all."

She was watching Kalannar in particular, who was leaned on his large sword. He never kept

the enchanted weapon in its sheath, telling everybody that the warrior had to spend as much time as

possible with his weapon to turn it into a deadly extension of his hands.

Akordia barely held back her ironical laughter. Nedylene didn.t have any idea how right she

was. Wode will die after they return from their crusade against the Church of Vhaeraun; but she will

die too. It is the time for more competent Matron to take control of the family, Akordia thought. She

couldn.t wait for tomorrow, the day she would execute her mother, Wode, Roman and his slut Vinera,

the day on which she would become Matron Akordia Ivril.

"Kalannar!" Nedylene.s order brought her back from her sweet thoughts. "Gather twenty

warriors and that idiot Radul and go and slaughter those heretics"

"What are you staring at?" she demanded when she saw Akordia lost in her thoughts. "You

heard my orders."

A little while later, twenty warriors led by Akordia Ivril left through the gate the other party

did more then an hour ago.

..

.

Roman didn.t like what he saw. Ten Hooked Horrors were standing in front of them, finishing

their latest meal. From the bearded head he saw in front of his feet, Roman concluded that a group of

unlucky dwarves fell as pray to the vicious beasts of the Underdark.

The creatures were nine feet tall and weighted four hundred pounds, looking similar to the

Umber Hulks. Only their hand extended to long and sharp hooks that could tear any drow apart if he

wasn.t careful enough.

The "hooks of deadly embrace" as the drow used to say when they talked about Hook

Horrors, or more poetically "hooks that never forgive". Rarely a warrior survived to talk about the

death of his companions, who were shredded to pieces by those fearful natural weapons.

Roman had to think fast. Those creatures couldn.t be fought with sheer strength. Ten killing

machines against thirty lightly armored warriors wasn.t. a promising ratio and Roman whished he had

at least ten more soldiers. But he had not.

He had to improvise. He saw Solen and Kirrana engaged in a dynamic conversation in the

hand language, and he understood they are consider to use the frontal attack option, with magical

support from behind.

Roman didn.t agree with the idea. He silently crawled to the priestesses and started motioning

with his hands so fast that they could barely understand what was he proposing. But Kyone Veldrin,

the last two words he mentioned were enough for them to understand his plan. Kyone Veldrin was the

combat tactic that should – if executed properly – allow them to surprise the monsters and gain a

relatively easy victory.

Solen ordered the start of the maneuver, and every drow nodded his or her head, showing he

understood the plan. Together with Kirrana an Scagnia, she started to cast spells, while the others used

their innate abilities to conjure darkness and faerie fire to gain the upper hand in this fight. The point

was that the enemies could not see them, while they could see their enemies outlined in flames of

magical fires.

The monsters didn.t even get to react when the storm of fire and lightning struck them,

burning their chitin bodies and forcing them to shriek in pain. Two outlined forms fell down never to

get up again.

"Bautha Z'hin," Roman cried out while in mid-air. The command in literal translation to the

common tongue meant "dodge and walk", but to the drow warriors it meant much more. It told them

to break up in smaller groups and each group would then pick out a single enemy. The warriors would

then tire the beast with quick jabs, and when the beast was down from exhaustion or blood loss they

would finish it of viciously.

The warriors – using what Kalannar had taught them – drew their weapons and slipped in the

magical darkness trying to remain as silent as possible to avoid being detected by sound.

The warriors were under the influence of enchantment magic, giving them skill and power

beyond their natural capabilities giving them a great advantage over their confused enemies. They

were fighting cautiously, evading the swipes of large hooks, and parrying if necessary.

Roman was focused on one of the Horrors, trying to put it out of balance by numerous kicks

on the creature.s legs, and he stayed low himself, beyond the reach of deadly hooks. Noticing that he

was doing no real damage this way, he decided to use different approach.

Roman started running away from the monster, putting all his speed in the process. Sensing

his loud movement, Hooked Horror started following him with long strides. If Roman.s memory

served him well, there was a cavern wall less then ten feet from the place the creature stood.

Approaching the spot he hoped the wall was on, Roman stopped and crouched low, right in the path

of the oncoming monster.

The creature couldn.t see him, and even if it did, it could hardly stop its bulk in time. Roman

ignored the pain as monster.s hard leg kicked him and he rolled backwards planting his feet on chitin

thighs of the creature adding to its momentum. Hook Horror flew as if launched from the catapult. It

slammed the wall with its hard head, but the wall proved harder, and with a loud crack creature.s skull

cracked open. The crack was followed with a short shriek, and then that particular Hook Horror

remained very silent and still.

While two warriors were making sure the creature remains dead, Roman picked out another

outlined form for his target. He ran towards the monster, and jumped up, smashing his body against

the back of the surprised creature. Losing its balance, Hooked Horror allowed few additional strikes to

the soldiers who were fighting with it.

An incautious warrior sensed the near kill, and led by greed for fame and glory approached

close to the monster with his sword ready to strike. He approached too close. A hook with force of

over one thousand pounds behind it impaled him through his abdomen. The body reflexively jerked

once more, and then only appeared as a break in the continuous line of blue flames.

Roman saw that the two remaining warriors were more occupied by dodging the blind blows

of hooks than by launching the offensive of their own. Waiting for the beast to lower itself in another

blind swipe, Roman readied himself to jump. When the moment came, the agile drow jumped toward

the Horror, and with a somersault comfortably landed on creature.s shoulders with its head between

his legs.

Never breaking the momentum, Roman continued his flip forward drawing the surprised

monster with him. Not even getting the chance to amortize the fall with its hooks, Hook Horror

slammed its beaked face against the floor, and once more the stone turned out to be the winner.

Roman and two others quickly finished the agonized beast, showing no mercy.

The drow of House Ivril acquired yet another victory. They waited for magical darkness to

dissipate and then – following Solen.s orders – decapitated the beasts and with those gruesome

trophies went back to celebrate the victory in their home.

The trip back was a merry one, spent in continuous boasting of the soldiers. If Roman could

count the monsters that each of the warriors slew, more then thirty monsters were killed, and only ten

heads were carried back to Nedylene. That thought brought a slight smile to his face, but it couldn.t

wash away the bittersweet taste from his mouth.

The taste that told him something was wrong about this whole raid.

..

"Prepare to die, !" Akordia screamed while entering the main chamber of Temple of

Vhaeraun.

The priest didn.t appear surprised. In fact, he was surprised only by skill Akordia and her

warriors used to enter the temple undetected.

The room was silent, as if under the effects of magical silence – dangerous and irritating.

Young Zalak lay in the bloody pool in front of the Temple entrance while his hand was on his

hip, near to his dagger he never drew. Sword of the Weaponmaster of House Ivril was faster, faster

even than the warning he would scream out. He was now with his master, Vhaeraun the Masked in his

plane of eternal darkness.

"You used the incautiousness of House Ivril.s best warrior pretty well,"

congratulated them, enjoying the wrath the superlative he used on Roman invoked on Kalannar.s face.

"I.m the best, you filthy heretic!" Kalannar screamed in blind fury, "I, Kalannar Vrinn!"

"Kal-what? Could you say it again, a bit slower this time, please?" asked, as if he

didn.t hear the name right.

"You will cry my name when I rip your heart out!" was all that Kalannar managed to say

before he charged toward twice smaller .

The rest of Ivril warriors followed their commander, while Akordia and Radul prepared for

spell casting. O the other side, the followers of Vhaeraun unsheathed their weapons, ready to die with

their god.s name on their lips.

Clearing his way through the mass of desperate Vhaeraun followers, Kalannar heard

Akordia.s chant behind them. Since he spent many years fighting beside Akordia, he knew what this

particular – her favorite – spell does. Four giant spiders appeared beside and two

blackguards that protected him immediately went into skirmish with monstrous vermin.

raised his hands, and moved them in circular motions while chanting in language

unknown even to Akordia. Black rays started from his hands and slowly covered his whole body.

Flesh started falling off his bones, and bones themselves started to enlarge and bend, until

was changed into a skeleton of a dragon. The twenty-foot skeleton easily squashed the spiders, killing

his own bodyguards in the process.

The battle soon turned into the slaughter, in which prepared and armored warrior of House

Ivril easily killed unarmored and poorly armed worshipper of the Masked Lord. The only one that

gave headache to Akordia was , who butchered her warriors with his newly acquired claws

and orifice.

Akordia focused her magic on the priest, dispelling his shape-shifting magic, and turning back

him to his natural form. Confused cleric was greeted by a storm of slashes and jabs, and he tried to

escape to the security of his private quarters. But he was too late; Kalannar.s two-handed sword

pieced his back and coming out through his chest, pinned him to the floor.

Although he was dead, would not give up. He turned his head toward laughing

Kalannar and a single "El!" came out from his mouth, accompanied by a stream of blood.

But the magical command did its work, and Kalannar fell down as if struck with lightning,

drawing his sword out of .s body.

All of his fellow worshippers were dead, and stood up with unnatural strength,

ignoring the pain from his numerous wounds and magical missiles Radul was repeatedly striking him

with. He went past Kalannar, who was easily standing up and retrieving his sword. He didn.t try to

call some kind of healing or any other magic. He only kneeled in front of the statue of his god, and

lowered his head. The glittering eyes of Vhaeraun.s statue were slowly loosing their sparkle, as they

watched blades raise and lower over the body of the cleric - whose name meant venom.

"Here is the heart of their leader, mother." Akordia greeted Nedylene. A content smile

crossed Matron.s face, and she retrieved a silver bowl, motioning for Akordia to put the bloody organ

in it.

"There are only two things left for us to do," Nedylene said while looking at the heart that still

pumped less than an hour ago. "Get rid of them both. Simultaneously," she ordered. Killing Roman

and Wode will be a great accomplishment in the eyes of Lloth, in addition to the deaths of thirty

Vhaeraun.s worshippers.

Akordia realized that her moment was nearing. Scagnia already contacted her and informed

her on the time of raiding party.s return. She had to act swiftly, swiftly and efficiently. Wode and

Roman were two formidable opponents, and she knew that they would not go away without drawing

some of her people with them. But that was the risk she was ready to take.

Moving down the circular stairway to her room, she was issuing quick orders to the warriors

she met. She saw her mother enter the praying room, and smiled maliciously.

..

Roman felt his heart thump wildly as he entered the courtyard of the residence of House Ivril

where more then hundred warriors were ready to greet the raiding party and congratulate them on

their success. Solen and Kirrana hurried to meet with their eldest sister, who stood on the main

stalactite entrance. Roman though was not interested in their frantic conversation or in thousands of

congratulations he received – although he didn.t feel even one was sincere. He was interested in only

one thing.

Vinera was standing on the window of his room, smiling at him. He hurried up the stairs,

ignoring Akordia.s high-pitched orders for the warriors to return to their positions.

The door was opened and she threw herself toward Roman, who readily accepted her in a

tight hug. They kissed passionately, as if they were parted for three centuries and not three days. Their

embrace lasted for a few more moments, before Kirrana.s voice made them both look at her angrily.

"The mother ordered you to accompany me to her quarters," she said, looking at Roman

lustfully – only to make Vinera jealous.

Roman looked at her suspiciously. She didn.t change her clothes from the raid, she was still

in her chain armor and with her light mace hanging from her hip. What could be so urgent, Roman

wandered. Maybe Nedylene wanted to give him some kind of award for his fighting. But no, it

couldn.t be because probably one of the priestesses would claim his accomplishments. But, he

couldn.t find out before he met Nedylene, so he went for the door, kissing Vinera once more.

Kissing her for the last time.

He followed Kirrana not to Nedylene.s quarters – but to the temple of Lloth in the basement.

..

Wode was studying his notes for the last time before he destroyed them. Those notes

contained all of the required data for creating that what he had become. A combination of a drow and

any other creature, taking the good characteristics of both was what he simply named as The Breed.

He couldn.t allow the notes to come in Nedylene.s hands. Not even under the price of his life.

In his nightmares he saw his homeland flooded by the creatures mutated in various sick combinations,

ready to conquer the whole Underdark, as well as the untouchable Night Above.

The loud knock on the door broke his thoughts, and he tucked his notes in a secret drawer,

which was magically concealed, and with a phony greeting-smile went for the door. But the door

opened before he reached it, and a face of a house guard peeked through.

What kind of disrespect is this, Wode thought. Anger by warrior.s manners, Wode clenched

his fist tight, ready to punish the insolent drow. But, the warrior stepped out of the room, realizing

Wode.s intentions.

"Matron is liking for you. It is urgent," he said quickly. "Come with me!"

Although the warrior tried to sound sure and commanding, Wode sensed the trembling in his

voice, the well-known trembling of a frightened person. He remembered himself when speaking to the

teachers on the academy, with that stone in the throat that just wouldn.t go out.

When he came out, seven more warriors surrounded him, so that all of his possible escape

rotes were cut off. He didn.t like that feeling - the feeling of danger, which bordered with the feeling

of total hopelessness. Why did Nedylene send eight warriors to escort him, he wandered. Something

was wrong.

He soon got the answer to all of his questions in form of a sword in his lower back. He leaned

back and sensed the presence of paralyzing poison in his blood. Before he could compose himself

from the sudden attack, he realized that all of the others drew their weapons and went for him.

He was in bad position. The battle took place on the narrow circular stairs, and each hit

threatened to put him off balance and send him twenty feet lower, where unforgiving stone floor

awaited. He was thinking fast while he dodged two short swings aimed at his neck.

He sensed two more stings, one of them piercing through his kidney. Due to the narrow space,

the hits didn.t carry much energy since there was no space for some wider swings. Wode knew that

was his chance, since he was often on the receiving end of the hits that would break his ribs, and not

just nick him like these did.

Clasping his hands together, and ignoring the numerous hits he received, Wode started casting

his chain lightning spell. A tiny spark of electricity passed between his hands before he outstretched

his hands toward the nearest opponent and said the command word. The spark turned into flashing arc

of pure electricity that jumped from one opponent to the other accompanied by the characteristic

exploding noise. One by one, the warriors fell and the stench of burned flesh tingled Wode.s nostrils.

They weren.t all dead, but for sure they were out for couple of hours. It was all the time he needed.

He ran out of the stalactite that served as his home for the last few months. He tried to look

like he wasn.t running away, but his fast walk soon turned into a frantic run with only one goal in

mind – To escape out of Ivril compound. Now he knew he wasn.t in their mercy any more. He felt

stupid for not knowing that before. They didn.t need him. They needed The Breed.

The Breed he should have never created.

"Wode!" he heard female voice, and turned around slowly preparing the spell that would

blow away the female.

But, the only one he saw in the empty courtyard was Vinera. Only then did he notice that the

courtyard was empty without a single guard securing the house. Nedylene was not stupid, he knew,

she would never leave the house unguarded – even when she was preparing to kill her leading wizard.

"They will kill Roman," Vinera brought him back from his thoughts, and Wode noticed two

glittering lines under her pretty eyes. She held two short swords, which were shaking from her anger

and desperation.

"Help me wizard…please," she said with a pleading look in her eyes, but Wode only shook

his head feeling pain greater maybe even from hers. He liked Roman, but he couldn.t possibly help

him. Not in the shape he was in now. He had to retrieve his notes and go as far as possible away from

this cursed place.

Realizing that she would get no help from Wode, Vinera eyed him with disgust, and then

swiftly turned back and ran in the stalactite searching for her lover. She ran carried with her heart and

not her mind. She ran not caring for her own life.

She never saw it coming. But she felt when the blade cut deep in her stomach and the venom

started doing its work. Standing beside her was Akordia, her face sprayed with blood and a dripping

dagger in her hand. The sound of two swords hitting the floor was the only one that could be heard, in

the uttermost silence of the courtyard. Realizing that she would never see Roman.s face again, Vinera

started crying, and her tears mixed with her blood on the mosaic that celebrated the place of females

in drow society.

A few feet from her body, on that same mosaic, lay the body of Nedylene, former Matron

mother of House Ivril with her throat sliced clean open by the dagger of her eldest daughter – Matron

Akordia Ivril.

Wode heard the metal impact on the stone, and turned around to check out Vinera.s fate. He

saw Akordia standing on the door of the main stalactite with her dagger still dripping hot blood. He

moved a couple of feet back, seeing Akordia engaged in spell casting. Wode recognized that she was

casting a spell from the Symbol group – a powerful spell that could erase all spells wizard had

prepared from his mind.

He was faster.

He brought his fingers together in a tight hug, and then raised his hands above his head,

delivering magical words with all his lungs. He was shaking from excitement and exhaustion, but the

brought the spell to its end – quick and perfect.

The terrain in front of him changed, it became shadowed and wavering, filled by gusts of

thick fog that crept along the floor. Akordia was finishing her magic in slow motion and her body

looked like a moving shadow. In a few quick steps Wode found his way to the door – passing right

through Akordia – and flew up the stairs toward Roman.s room.

The room was deserted, although many clues showed that someone had been in it recently.

Only a cupboard, bed and a stone tub, filled the humble space. The wizard cancelled his etherealness

spell and returned to the material world. He searched for any clues that could tell him where the

warrior went so quickly after he returned from the raid.

His eyes fell on the drawer in the cupboard. He went for it and opened it with his monstrous

hand, but lost two fingers in the process. The trap was consisted of a blade that was positioned

horizontally on the spring in the drawer. Two fingers were a great loss for anybody, but not Wode. He

watched them grow back as he cautiously reached with his other hand in the drawer. His hand touched

a square leather object – a book, and a cold, metal, curved thing that seemed to be a mask.

Although he was in haste, Wode couldn.t help himself and he put the black-and-white mask

in his pocket – sensing strong magic emanating from it. Then he opened the book, and a sly smile

crossed his face despite the grave trouble he was in. It was a spellbook, specialized in illusion magic,

the kind that could help you steal – or kill – and remain unseen.

"We have a lot of things to talk about, master Valbrinar," he noted loudly, and put the book in

the bag, simultaneously retrieving the small, glass object. He found the pearl and set it in the palm of

his – almost fully regenerated - troll hand and brought it up to his face as if he was looking for

something inside it.

He recognized that the young warrior was inside the well-known room beneath the main

stalactite. He couldn.t see the faces of the persons that were with him, but he could see the fear and

trepidation on his face clearly enough to guess who they were. The sound of many feet in front of the

room forced him to stop his scrying and put the pearl away.

The footsteps were getting louder, and Wode knew he had to act fast. He felt lucky for having

few teleportation spells prepared for that day. The wizard moved his hands as if he was drawing an

oval on thin air and chanted slowly. A red shimmering portal appeared in front of him, and he stepped

in it, disappearing. A thousand red particles spilled all over the room was all that twenty drow

warriors found when they rushed into the room with their weapons drawn.

..

As soon as he entered the dimly lit room, Roman knew his time was at its end. The only

object in the circular room was the stone altar covered almost completely with dried blood – the blood

of those sacrificed to the Spider Queen. Almost all of the elite family members were positioned along

the wall of the room, with their weapons drawn and ready. Only weapon he had was his own body.

He noticed Solen on his left, holding the whip with five spider heads, which danced their

mesmerizing dance, ready to pump their numbing venom in his blood. She was in black leather armor,

decorated with white spiders and a spider web of rare white dlarun.

Further away to his left, Indarae laughed savagely while her generous breast threatened to

jump out of her too-tight leather armor with a big décolleté. He saw the fury in her eyes brought out

by a nearing showdown with her most hated House member, who rose higher than her in the eyes of

Nedylene by his deeds.

Roman noticed that that ugly coward Nym placed himself across the room, to the place

furthest from him. He hadn.t had the guts to fight him openly even when the most prominent family

members surrounded him. Curiously, he was without his troll servant.

Two lesser priestesses, Andalae and Dhaunae were on his right, and Roman only glanced at

them quickly, judging from the fear in their eyes that they wouldn.t cause much trouble.

There was also the person Roman knew this could not go without. Scagnia averted his glance

when Roman looked at him, wandering how many seconds did it take to talk the quasi-wizard into

doing this. Scagnia never had his self, never had the pride to die for. After all, Scagnia was a drow.

But, Kalannar worried Roman far the most. He stood in the middle of the room – next to

Kirrana, who joined him after she entered the room. Huge berserker was leaned over his sword, and

Roman could not see his eyes, covered by his thick wild hair. But he could see his smiling lips.

Although he felt respect for Roman, the fury made him clench the hilt of his sword even harder,

hoping that he would be the one to deal the killing blow. If it was for him to decide, he would

challenge Roman to a fair fight as honor obliged him to do – honor he could not follow in the society

of the drow.

Roman knew he was dead. He believed in it as he believed in Vhaeraun. The only question

was how many of them he would be able to draw with him to the Demonweb Pits.

"Finally, the tame has come, dog," Solen cursed him, "for you to learn your place. You will

die as all of your fellow heretics did."

Large drops of sweat appeared on Roman.s forehead. " !"

All of them dead? Because of him?

Because of him…

His facial expression turned into the grimace of pain, and he lowered his guard in resign. It

was his fault. Death of , young Zalak, the others…

"The bitch you blinded with your fancy powers will taste the blade as soon as we are finished

with you," Solen spoke, and the words pierced his heart like the sharpest of swords. He felt blood rush

in his head.

He was thinking fast, and reacted even faster.

With a back flip, Roman went for the door behind him, but instead of the safety of the

hallway, he hit the massive bulk of a troll – Nym.s troll.

First, second, third magical missile flew from Nym.s fingers, but the innate resistance to

magic that every drow possessed held the projectiles at bay. Realizing that he had no time to spare on

defense, Roman used troll.s body to launch himself toward Kirrana.

The living missile hit Kirrana hard in the chest, and sent her spinning to the floor breaking her

process of spell casting. She was curled on the floor, fighting desperately to force her broken chest to

draw breath. Roman jumped back to his feet quickly, but Kalannar.s sword hit him in the thigh with

its flat side and brought him back to the floor next to the altar.

He used the altar to push himself up to his feet. Projectiles of all elements were hitting him

while he was fighting like a trapped beast. For every hit he received, his opponents got three. Solen

led the attack, supported by Dhaunae and Andalae. Roman averted their attacks with his arms,

managing to slip under Dhaunae.s defenses and deal a smashing hit on her face with his elbow. She

fell to the floor, and the particles of her broken nose bone pierced her brain. One more was down.

Rolling between his opponents, Roman reached the wall that gave him at least some kind of

protection to his back, nearly evading heavy swipe of Kalannar.s sword, which chunked of a big piece

of the stone from the wall, as if it was bade from butter.

Roman managed to bring down oncoming Andalae with a side-kick, and she fell on the floor

howling and with her hands on her broken ribcage. But, the huge hands of the troll grabbed him and

easily picked him up from the ground.

The monster easily threw him across the room towards his master. Roman, realizing that the

collision with Nym was inevitable, stiffened in the air turning into a living arrow. All that Nym could

do before Roman hit him, was to widen his eyes and curse the troll. They collided, and with a crack

emanating from his chest Nym went flying to the wall. Unconscious, he slowly slid down to the floor,

leaving a red trace on the gray wall of the temple.

Roman was shook in the impact as well, and he could barely regain his footing before he felt

searing pain in his back. Kalannar removed his sword from Roman.s back when the unarmed fighter

fell to the ground. The berserker waited for Solen to finish her paralyzing spell on Roman, and then

grabbed him by his braids and dragged him towards the stone altar in the center of the room.

There was too many of them, Roman stated silently. He was totally unable to move, and he

couldn.t do anything to resist Kal.s iron grip. He saw that his head was being raised to the altar, and

he realized why when Kalannar started banging his head against the stone. Carvings of Lloth flashed

in front of his eyes whenever Kalannar smashed his head on the altar. The delicate carvings were

filled with his blood, and the red color gave them even more gruesome look.

It was the end.

..

Desperate in the horror he was going through, Roman let his last thought go to Vhaeraun,

who left him to die as and the others did.

"Masked One, please hear the last words of your faithful servant, who is begging you to look

at the torture brought upon us from Lloth and her servants," he slowly narrated, although his prayer

was interrupted by a loud bang, each time his head collided with the table.

Suddenly, gray mist appeared around Roman and slowly started to darken and break up into

smaller clouds. Startled Kalannar watched as each of those black clouds – two dozens or more of

them – enlarged and became a shadow form of a slender drow with a mask and two daggers. Before

anybody could even react, the forms started hacking at Roman.s enemies.

Nym.s troll, although a stupid beast reacted the fastest and raked with his claws at the nearest

shadow. His claws went through the apparition as if it wasn.t there at all, but when the shadow

launched its counter-attack, the beast felt every single sting of its daggers. Soon, the beast was down,

black blood pouring from hundreds of its wounds.

Kalannar retrieved his sword while the specters were occupied with the troll, and swung at the

nearest one cutting it in half. Half of the remaining shadows went for him, while the others divided

among Kirrana, Solen and still howling Andalae. He slowly retreated to the door, while keeping the

shadows at bay with his long-reaching sword.

Although his vision was blurred and his body weak, Roman forced away the paralysis spell

that was upon him, and painfully stood up, right in time to see Solen fall down completely covered in

small cuts and stings. The forms fell upon her sister Indarae before she could even scream.

Kirrana fared much better from the others, summoning a number of creatures from the lower

plains to fight of the incorporeal forms. Scagnia was behind her, desperately trying to cast a spell that

would take him out of that place – the place destined to become his tomb.

Kalannar finally reached the door, and when he saw that the specters were more interested in

defending Roman than in chasing him, he shrugged and ran out of the room.

Realizing his opportunity, Roman ignored the pain as Dari thought him, and then picked up

the dagger, which Solen was still holding in her bloody hand. The dagger was probably destined for

his heart; he realized when he saw the viscous black liquid dripping from its tip.

His head was swinging, and he closed his eyes trying to focus on his sensitive hearing.

Roman picked out a single spell-casting chant, and he threw the dagger that way. Scagnia screamed

and fell down, a dagger buried all the way to its spider-shaped hilt protruding from his forehead.

Kirrana realized that she was the only one remaining, and swiftly turned the head of her mace,

following the action with a command word. And then, she simply faded away, quickly followed by

the specters.

"Vinera!" Roman screamed and went for the door, but he fell down unable to stand back up

from the exhaustion and loss of blood. A sound, which he recognized as the melody of the opening

portal, startled him and he turned around to see the familiar form materialize in front of the violet oval

portal.

"Wizard!" he screamed, " got -,"

"Let.s get out of here," Wode cut him short. "I have a single teleportation magic left. I should

be able to take out of the city with it."

"But Vinera… I must get to her," Roman protested, "They want to kill her. We will take her

with us."

The expression on Wode.s face told him everything he needed to know. "It.s over, boy."

Wode said while helping him on his feet.

They both heard mumbling sound from the northern part of the room. Roman spun wildly,

waiting for– hoping for - a lethal blow from their newest enemy. He was a bit d9issapointed when he

saw that it was only Nym. He was desperately trying to get up, while blood pored from his nose and

moth. He looked pitiful, and more than anything – he looked scared. He had a good reason to be,

though Roman; he had his worst enemy in front of him, accompanied by his teacher he was afraid of

more than of anything else; more than death.

"Mercy," was all Nym managed to say before he fell back to the floor, unable to stand back

up.

Wode watched as expression of resignation in Roman.s pink eyes slowly turned into

expression of pure rage, as he slowly limped towards broken Nym. There was something else Wode

noticed in those eyes.

They promised no mercy.

Never again.

..

The travel through the inter-planar space was quite inspiring for Roman. On that day he lost

everything he cared about, the same as when the priestesses killed his mentor Dari. He was on the

same spot he was eighty years earlier, more experienced but bitterer, stronger but more tired, wiser

but with no hope in what future held.

He almost crumbled to the floor when his feet touched the stony, uneven ground. He looked

around in all directions, rubbing his eyes to send away the fog that obscured his vision. He stood in

the narrow tunnel, with its uneven walls parted away just enough for one person to walk through

comfortably.

He spotted Wode, standing on the nearby cliff. The flickering lights illuminated his silhouette,

giving him eerie appearance together with his uncovered troll hand. Roman dragged himself closer,

supporting on the walls and propped up on his toes to see over taller wizard.s shoulder.

The glittering lights of Ched Nasad painted Wode.s face in millions of variants of blue, and

Roman – not amazed with the city that took everything he ever wanted from him – noticed the

worried look on wizard.s face. The city was beneath them, vulnerable indeed, and Roman wished he

were a mighty dragon, which could burn the whole damned hellhole from the cliff they stood on. But

no, he wasn.t born as a dragon or any other creature; he was a drow, destined to suffer and inflict

suffering for his whole, long life. The thought alone made him sick, not to mention his broken teeth

and the wounds on his face - wounds that would never heal.

He didn.t need the good looks anyway; he had lost the only female he ever cared about, and

would ever care about. He was ready to give his own life for only another day with her; with her

charming eyes, her foxy body and her childish smile. He remembered Dari.s tales about human

goddess called Sune. Her followers prized physical beauty more than anything else, stupid things. If

her priests ever saw him, they would probably kill him for being so scarred and deformed. He smiled

bitterly.

" go south," Wode broke the uncomfortable silence, looking at Roman, but he had to

look the other way when he saw what as left of warrior.s once beautiful face. "We may even find the

portal to Sshamath, I heard there the males rule, or….

"What.s the point?" Roman cut him short with the horribly outright question. "I lost

everything I had, I lost her," he said and sat on the ground with his head in his hands, a clear signal for

Wode that he would not move from that spot willingly.

The mighty wizard looked at the warrior with pity. He didn.t know what he could possibly

tell the warrior, he couldn.t find the words that would bring Roman back from the desperation he fell

in. Wode closed his eyes, took a deep breath and went through the tunnel passing by Roman, who was

not even noticing him.

"Goodbye, warrior," he said, and put his troll claw in his leather bag, "but before I go, I have

to give something that belongs to you."

Roman showed no signs that he heard it.

"A spellbook and some kind of mask, correct me if I.m wrong," Wode went on, dropping

both items to the found between Roman.s legs.

Without another word, Wode turned around and walked away.

..

Roman watched his face in the polished marble of the black-and-white mask. He saw a

battered face and tired eyes. He saw a person that had nothing to live for. He saw only a shell of

former-self.

"Oh Vhaeraun, what have they done to me," he whispered.

What they did to you, must be done to them, he heard in his head, having a strange hunch that

it was another of the powers of his mysterious ring, which unmistakably saved his life today.

Roman picked up his mask and pulled himself back to his feet. He reluctantly set the mask on

his face, and then felt the well-known cold on his face. The mask vanished from his hands, and he felt

the wounds on his face close, and his teeth become whole once again.

He looked at the city once more, and ran down the tunnel to catch up with Wode. He felt no

pain at all, he felt no grief; he felt nothing but the primal urge for revenge upon those, which

destroyed his life. But, revenge was best served as a cold meal, and he wanted to serve it in style. A

few years meant nothing to a drow, and especially to the drow whose only point of existence was to

punish those who killed his lady.

His mithrall decorated braids flew behind him as he raced through the tunnels of the

Underdark, and his half-smiling half-crying lips constantly repeated only one phrase.

"Nindyn vel'uss kyorl nind ratha tharla elghinn dal lil alust,"

Those who expect the death from behind, meet it from the front.

-Epilogue-

Matron mother Akordia Ivril entered the Temple of Lloth, shortly followed by Kalannar and

Kirrana. Although sacrifices took place in this same room almost daily, it looked never as bloody as

on that day. Her sisters Solen and Indarae were barely recognizable from the number of wounds they

suffered, and Scagnia lay further away with a dagger protruding from his head. The corpses of

Dhaunae, Andalae and Nym.s troll were also there, but a single body dominated the whole scene.

Nym.s corpse sat on the floor, his back supported on the shrine, but with his head turned all the way

around, so it was facing the opposite direction his body was facing. Akordia.s eyes narrowed and she

turned towards Kalannar.

"He did this all by himself?" The new Matron asked shaking her head in disbelief.

"No!" Kalannar and Kirrana screamed in unison, still not even sure what had happened half

an hour earlier.

"The ghosts consisted of pure darkness came to help him, prie.. Matron," he quickly corrected

himself, "and I was forced to retreat."

Akordia turned her back to the warrior. "You should be lying with them," she said looking at

the corpse-littered room. "But I can.t afford any more losses, not now."

Akordia walked through the bodies towards the small window. "I have plans to make."

..

Only one member of House Ivril felt the complete satisfaction that day. His eyes moved

quickly over the candle-lit paper. The more he read the wider was the grin on his thin lips.

Radul finally found out what was his master working on. Thousands of days Wode spent were

turned into simple notes any person with even little knowledge in the arcane arts and suitable

components could put to work. With the whole study in his hands, Radul imagined himself as a head

wizard of House Ivril; house Ivril, which would be the ruling House of the city with these kind of

warriors.

The process of brewing the binding liquid, as well as the process of proper removal of the

body parts used for the making of The Breed was explained into a detail. Radul felt a pleasant shiver

go up his spine, a feeling of true power he never felt in his miserable life as the youngest and least

talented wizard of House Ivril.

Now, he was the only – the head sounded better – wizard of the house. He would get himself

apprentices, and teach them the ways of arcane magic. But he wouldn.t be as mild to them as Wode

was. He would be Radul the Frightful – the ultimate wizard.

The tortured soul had to find proper output for his frustrations caused by dead Nym.s constant

teasing, in the first place. And it went on and on…

The new species, he thought, The Breed. Wode was an undoubting genius. Radul thought

about the slaves Ivrils had in their possession and about various creatures that could be found on Ched

Nasad.s rich market. What species he would best implement in himself?

Maybe the lungs of a dragon, so he could breathe fire at all those that stood in his way. No

that was a cliché.

Maybe the powerful mandibles of an Umber Hulk; no, he would look too ugly with them.

Maybe…

-WHISPERS OF AMMARINDAR-

by

Stanislav Radosavljević

-The Trek-

The long, winding and seemingly endless trek through the nondescript tunnels had

definitely left its mark on the drow. Not a mark, but a deep scar on the psyche of the warrior

who had never travelled alone through the fathomless reaches of the Underdark. Almost alone,

that is, for his sole companion on this grim journey was Wode, former archmage of House Ivril

of Ched Nasad. Introverted and peculiar in behaviour, the only sounds the mage would

occasionally make were the rhythmical squishing of his waterlogged boots and the sporadic

muttering that the other drow took for the early onset of madness. Although it was hard,

practically impossible to keep track of the passing hours, it seemed to Roman that they would

exchange less than a sentence a day, sometimes not even that.

Weeks could have passed since they first set foot into the damp tunnels of the ancient

dwarven kingdom, a month or two after leaving the City of Shimmering Webs fleeing before a

common enemy: the family Wode had once belonged to and that had kept Roman as an

employee. The trip was desperate, and it was becoming more and more obvious to Roman that

it had only served to delay their deaths, a fate that would have been unavoidable had they

stayed in Ched Nassad.

So on they travelled, constantly hiding from the inhabitants of the treacherous tunnels;

had they both not been well trained in the art of arcane illusion, they would surely have ended

up as a meal for one or several of the hungry monsters they encountered every now and then.

The silent Driders, the punished drow, were the first obstacle on their way.

Hundreds of these spider-shaped aberrations had been scattered into a ring around the

city, preventing those who desired to gain access into it, and slaying those who wished to exit.

Their nimble arms still retained the skill for wielding common armaments, yet most of them

chose to rely upon rows of wicked teeth and eight blade-like legs to enhance their deadliness in

combat. Once strong, proud drow who had failed to satisfy the Goddess, they had all met this

dreadful fate: transformed into Driders through an agonizing and disgraceful ritual that took

years, they had been completely turned into mindless monsters with only one idea still clear in

the remnants of their minds: to kill those they once used to call kin.

Wode and Roman could have dealt with a number of them easily, but the Drider swarm

would have shredded them to pieces. But, to their amazement, the monstrous swarm simply

parted and allowed them to pass through their territory. Dozens of half-spider half-drow

creatures watched them with their malevolent glimmering eyes, yet they demonstrated no

hostility so the drow kept their nerve and suppressed the growing urge to fight or run. Why did

they let them go? Only the Driders knew the reply. Their spies had most likely reported on what

Roman and Wode had done, so the monsters had decided to act against the will of Matrons of

the city and let the fugitives through. For the first time in his life, Roman felt respect for the

aberrations.

It made sense; for those same Matrons who had long ago created the monstrosities,

turning them into what they are now, were the ones who had expelled the two drow from the

city. Not expelled, for the retribution for their crime would never had been that gentle, but

forced them into exile. The empty expressions of the Driders underneath the mask of fury, their

sad eyes that begged for death, their howls in agony caused by the transformation… all this

would remain imprinted into the young warrior.s memory for the rest of his days. Deep inside

Roman not only respected the things, but in a way felt like one of them: a misfit, an exile whose

destiny it would be to hide from the rest of his kin for ever.

Yet his pain was not of physical nature. A wound to the soul could cause far greater

agony, for the body could heal, yet the spirit could not. Vinera, the only person he had held

truly dear in all his life, was dead, gone beyond his reach.

Her love was, strange for a drow, true and sincere. He could still remember the

moments they had spent together and the joy they shared. Those were the only moments when

he could be himself, without having to keep up the façade of the humble servant to Lolth and

her priestesses. Akordia, the new Matron mother of House Ivril, murdered Vinera and with her

died Roman.s hope for the life he so desired. Every day he would pray to dark god Vhaerunn to

take his life in exchange for a chance to close his fingers around Akordia.s neck, and squeeze

until the bitch.s eyes popped out of their sockets. He would come back, of this he was certain,

when the power of Vhaerunn became stronger within him, and then he would avenge the death

of the drow maiden that had given her life for him in a world where the word "love" was a

distant memory, forgotten by most; a world where love had never existed in its true form.

Yet there was still a long trip before them, and only Wode knew where they were

heading: a city where the cruel Matrons had no power and where Vhaerunn was much stronger

and more revered than in City of Shimmering Webs. Sshamath, as the bald mage had told him,

was the name of that distant city, and the paths toward it were long forgotten. Roman knew

their chances were slim; yet the two drow fugitives had absolutely nothing to lose.

-The Journey-

The three towers of House Ivril radiated light from all of their numerous windows. The

music that spilled out of the central tower clearly showed that the Ivril were celebrating.

Triumphant voices, laughter and singing could be heard from all sides, celebrating the Day of

the New Matron. Over a hundred dark elves were gathered in the main chamber of the central

tower, which was adorned with tapestries celebrating the might of Lolth and with weapons of

supreme craftsmanship, each one telling its own story of life and death.

A spider-shaped throne, made of black wood imported from the surface, filled the

central part of the chamber. Once the throne, and all that went with it, had belonged to Matron

Mother Nedylene Ivril, but by the ways of Lolth, it had been transferred into the hands of

Matron Mother Akordia Ivril after her assassination of her mother. The new Matron leaned

contentedly into the throne, drinking green aromatized wine from a golden chalice as her eyes

scanned the gathering lazily, choosing a suitable male to give her pleasure once the party was

over.

The one who had embraced her most often of all stood beside her, leaning on his large

sword, the beautiful Da're, absently observing the family members and other guests. Every once

in a while Kalannar would glance at Hathra, the pale bard who always appeared to be ill, who

stood on Akordia.s left side. He was also looking at the dancing drow, but not in the same

absent manner as Kal. There was anticipation in his eyes, as if he was also picking someone out;

for a different purpose, undoubtedly, but one that Kal couldn.t comprehend.

Kalannar caught himself staring at Hathra and turned his head away. Idly he wandered

where the bard had disappeared when the turmoil in House Ivril reached its culmination.

He and a lesser priestess named Kirrana were the only survivors from the battle with

the heretic, Roman Valbrinar. The flawlessly planned ambush that had lured the warrior into

the hands of two house wizards, three priestesses, a troll slave and Kal had turned into a

catastrophic failure. Roman.s god was with the drow assassin on that day, conveying spectral

warriors to fight alongside his follower. Roman and the specters slaughtered everybody in the

room, the very same room in which the celebration was now taking place, with the exception of

Kirrana who fled when she sensed what was happening, and himself. He had been knocked

unconscious, and for a strange reason the assassin had spared his life. If they ever met again,

Kalanaar would not repeat the assassin.s mistake.

His glance fell upon Kirrana, in a tangle of limbs with her two lovers who tried their

best to satisfy her appetites. Kalannar looked away, not trying to hide his repulsion. He had

always hated Akordia.s sisters: they took him for an idiot who couldn.t see beyond the tip of his

sword, Akordia.s pawn that moved as she wanted him to move. But now he was the patron of

House Ivril, as well as the family weapon master; he had ascended to the highest position a male

could hope for in House hierarchy.

Kal straightened his back, placing the sword over his shoulder. He was enormous for a

drow; he had often seen human traders who were much smaller than he was. His wild white

hair fell across his muscular, scarred back. He never wore armor: even the lightest of elven

mails slowed down his moves and, even more important, as time passed he was beginning to

enjoy the pain that spurred him to fight with more might and fervor. Tight leather pants and

boots that decorated his powerful legs were crafted out of the hide of one of the numerous

reptiles of the Underdark. His mighty body never sought rest amidst the pillows around the

warriors. He preferred to have the whole situation at hand, waiting for the smallest sign of

trouble.

From time to time Akordia would reward him with a lustful stare.

She looked magnificent sitting on her newly acquired throne in a velvet dress she had

inherited from her dead mother, Nedylene, along with everything else. Her hair was divided into

thousands of little braids, a hairstyle she enjoyed wearing on special occasions. She wore no

make-up, and required none: Akordia Ivril was one of the most beautiful drow that had ever

been granted life by Lolth. The most beautiful, and the most malicious.

The beautiful face of the new Matron was stern and Kal noted that she was looking at

her sister Kirrana indulging in hedonistic pleasures, probably thinking of her as impending

competition. Of course, Kirrana was far less ambitious than her older sister, but Akordia left

nothing to chance.

Radul, the current archwizard of the House, hadn.t even bothered to show at the party.

The ugly, withered mage spent his days locked in the chambers that had belonged to the traitor,

Wode, and read the notes the old wizard had left behind. The notion of the idiot Radul being the

archwizard of the House made Kalannar perceive how much the House had lost in the turmoil

even more clearly. Scagnia and Nym, two of Wode.s best apprentices were killed, as well as two

of Akordia.s sisters. The only four nobles left were Akordia, Kirrana, Hathra and that imbecile,

Radul.

But Akordia knew their greatest strength lay in their fighters and slaves who Kalannar

never spared in training. The ones who couldn.t keep up with his pace would die, but those who

survived became elite. The slaves and warriors of House Ivril vastly outnumbered those who

had sworn their loyalty, or were forced into it, to the Houses in higher ranks in the city

hierarchy. They were the at lowest rung of the ladder due to their exile to another plane; yet

those two hundred years had been spent wisely, mounting their forces for the return to Ched

Nasad.

Ched Nasad was built on large calcified websthat formed the layers of the city. The

Ivril, along with three other houses, were at the bottom of the cave, excluded from all city

happenings. They also formed the first line of defense from external attacks, as the entrances to

the city were also located at the base of the cavern.

Akordia had ceased to devote her thoughts to Wode and Roman long ago; she had

become the Matron and didn.t want anything to spoil that magnificent sensation. Her family.s

ascendance to the city.s higher levels had turned into her primary obsession. She doubted the

fugitives would get far away from the city, although she was more than aware of the powers

they possessed.

Matron Mother Ivril took another look around the chamber, and closed her eyes

imagining herself in front of the High Council of Ched Nasad, where all the Matrons would

heed her guidance and accept her decisions.

..

The two weary travelers descended the colossal and nearly vertical cliff slowly and

carefully. The bald-headed one descended first, utilizing the monstrous troll claw that

substituted for his right hand. Droplets of sweat formed on his head and coursed down his neck

toward his muscled back. The gruesome claw, much larger and more powerful than his delicate

left hand, searched for the most minute bumps and cracks it could latch on with its taloned

fingers. The greenish hue of troll skin appeared gray under the diffused light of the scarlet fungi

inhabiting the rock face.

Wode hated heights almost as much as he hated travelling the Underdark. His magic

was strong, but nothing was strong enough to keep him safe in the unpredictable caverns and

narrow passages that seemed made for ambush. They had passed through a lot of them though,

Roman and him, since they left the city. They travelled for weeks, feeding only on the stumps of

tnllimac fungus, which could hardly fill their stomachs. They gathered precious water from the

muddy bogs they found along the way. Indistinguishable tunnels, filled with stalactites and

stalagmites, opened before their eyes, until they wondered whether they were advancing or

moving in circles. Sometimes those tunnels would open up into wide caverns, littered with the

remains of ancient battles, just for change.

The nimble warrior descended the cliff without demonstrating any signs of weariness.

His every move was calculated, and he easily detected and exploited imperfections in the stone,

even those Wode considered too small to latch on to, or failed to notice. His long white hair was

gathered into three thick braidswhich turned red towards their ends: red with the blood of the

Ivrils he left dead in Ched Nasad. His sharp features bore an empty expression, and he seemed

occupied by other matters than his descent. The abyss beneath him reached beyond the limits of

vision of his pink eyes. Occasionally he would check on Wode who appeared to experience

trouble in the descent, despite the enormous strength of the arm he had acquired by unnatural

means. Roman secretly feared that strength wasn.t all he had acquired with it, that other vile

traits of those monsters had come along with it.

It was fine work, he had to admit nevertheless.

The Ivril family had been expelled from Ched Nasad as a consequence of Wode.s

experiments. Those two hundred years of exile had done nothing to change the wizard at all,

though. He retained his unnatural interest for creating crossbreeds between elves and other

non-humanoid races, "The Breed" as he used to call them in his distinctive arrogant way.

It was the effort toward the creation of this new "race", one that would combine the best

traits of both of its original races, that had brought Wode under the scrutiny of his family once

more; the Ivril had become wary of a new exile, possibly even eradication. That was the point

when they turned on their former archmage.

Akordia was the only one who had profited from the conflict that was brewing. The

youngest Matron of Ched Nasad had played a trick on everybody, starting with the lenient

Nedylene, and on to Wode, who had never trusted the double-crossing slut in the first place.

Though they were several weeks. travel away from the city, Roman still wasn.t certain that

Akordia would not send her assassins after them. Eve if she had, no assassin could ever

seriously bother him: he was the best in the business, "the Art", as he used to call it.

He felt a light throbbing inside his head, a sign that the descent was beginning to tire

him. Wode.s gasping became more repetitive and he was starting to grunt with the effort. They

had been descending the cliff for hours, and the foot was nowhere to be seen. Then again, the

cliff was the only way to reach the bottom as canals filled with steaming lava blocked the other

possible paths. The cliff could be infinite, descending steeply into nothingness forever, and they

saved their innate powers of levitation for use if his turned out to be true and their tired fingers

finally gave out. Roman hoped this would not turn out to be the case. Wode.s cry interrupted

his grim thoughts.

"I think I see the foot of this cursed rock," wizard cried out, delight filling his voice. "A

couple of dozen meters below."

Roman smiled, perhaps for the first time since they left the City of Shimmering Webs;

Wode.s words sounded like exquisite music in his ears. He had already lost his spirits, thinking

he would perish on the precipice. He saw Wode let go of the cliff over the last few meters and

land on the surface with a heavy thump. He followed suit and landed silently as only a shadow

could, bending his knees as he made contact to break the fall.

The wizard wiped the sweat of his face with a corner of his robe. His troll fingers

contracted involuntarily in a motion semblant of strangulation, a move that was becoming more

and more characteristic for the claw as time progressed. Wode was busy with the cavern floor,

inspecting the splendid work of some unknown inhabitant of Underdark with curiosity. Three

stone blocks were arranged symmetrically to form an isosceles triangle, each one depicting a

thousand faces screaming in agony. The stones were as red as blood, and Roman was certain

he.d never seen anything like it before.

"Blood Opal!" Wode exclaimed with delight. "These stones must be worth a fortune!

One could raise himself an army with one single block, you know."

Stepping cautiously forward, Wode noticed a circle carved into the stone between the

blocks. Demonic ornamental writing was clearly visible along the inner edges of the circle, and a

metal handle protruded from its very center. The entire area was covered with thick dust, yet

the writings appeared to glow sufficiently to be seen. Wode bent down and wiped the dust from

a section of the symbols and attempted to read them.

Roman identified the ancient symbols easily and shuddered as he realised what was in

question. He must have made a low sound of hesitation, as Wode turned and shot him a

questioning look. He knew the wizard couldn.t notice the horror on his face as the magical mask

that split his features into two parts never left his face. The left side was pearly white, his lips

curved upwards in a sincere smile. The other part was as black as the rest of his skin, with the

lips sloping towards the chin in an expression of the deepest sorrow. A single, tear-shaped

diamond under his right eye accentuated the eerie expression the mask conveyed.

"The script is carved in the language of the Abyss, wizard," he finally replied. "It reads „

Only the might of a demon may open what the might of another has closed., or something

similar."

"Demon.s might," Wode echoed absently, clenching and relaxing his right hand a few

times. His gaze turned toward Roman, and the crafty drow nodded, realizing the wizard.s

intention. The strength of trolls exceeded that of most demons, and the specimen Wode had

obtained his claw from was by far the largest he could find in the slave markets of Ched Nasad.

It might do the trick, Roman thought.

It was not a question of Wode.s strength, for the hand could easily slay a giant with a

single strike, but of deciphering the writings accurately. Either way it was too late for turning

back, for Wode was already stepping into the center of the magical circle, extending his arm

once again, preparing it for the task ahead. He took a deep breath, curled his monstrous fingers

around the cold handle, and pulled.

The wizard gritted his teeth and his veins surfaced under the slimy skin of his arm,

straining with the effort. A grinding sound filled the ears of the travelers as the handle rose

slowly, along with the star-shaped piece of the stone that had been fastened to the stone floor. A

blinding flash filled the area around them and Roman turned his head around instinctively, as a

sulphurous reddish mist filled the space around them. The drow heard another grinding sound,

and by the time the mist had thinned enough he spotted a round passage that had opened itself

in the middle of the demonic circle. The round stairs led into the dark depths of whatever lay

beyond.

To his surprise, Wode was nowhere to be seen. Roman spun around like lightning,

looking for the wizard. He did not have to search long: the sound of a body falling onto the stone

floor resounded behind him, and he turned rapidly. A body lay on the exact same spot where

the wizard had stood before the flash, an elven body with his face in the dust. Roman gazed

around instinctively for any sign of danger, but not a living thing was to be seen or heard.

The assassin realized that, like Wode, the elf was a drow and had the hand of a troll; yet

the once bald head was now covered in dirty strands of white hair that fell across the drow.s

back and the body was naked, bar afew tattered remains of leather around his legs. He was also

much thinner than Wode.s and emaciated, the skin wrinkled and scarred. Roman approached

the body and, using his foot, turned it on its back cautiously.

The chilling realization struck Roman like a whip, for the drow was Wode indeed; it

was obvious from the elongated, rectangular face. The face was just as wrinkled as the body,

and his once red eyes were now pale yellow, almost white. What used to be a massive bulk was

now replaced by skin stretched tight across a framework of bones, with veins criss-crossing it in

all visible places. Wode had paid an immense price for opening the demonic door, the price of

his life, drained out of his body by the negative energies of the, leaving but an empty shell

behind.

Wode.s eyes were turned upwards awkwardly, his breathing laborious and more and

more shallow. The interval between breaths became longer with each strain of his bony chest,

an unmistakable sign that his end was near. Roman closed the wizard.s eyes with his hand, and

turned away.

Wode had done him a great favour by opening the door to Ammarindar, fulfilling his

mission. He would have to find the way to Sshamath himself, though; perhaps the loss of the

wizard would turn out to be greater than he assumed at first. At least he could travel much

faster now, without the bald mage.s constant grumbling and complaints.

He took a tentative step on the first stair of the spiraling staircase and pulled the hood

of his cloak up, seemingly melding with the darkness; only the glittering of his diamond tear

revelaed his presence. He started down cautiously, watching his every step and keeping a look

out for possible traps on the stairs and the wall.

He heard scuffling noises a couple of times, attributing them to the lizards in search of

their favorite worm-meal. Not more than two windings left, he noted after spotting the dim light

of the floor beneath. He would be relieved to get off the staircase crafted by demons in the pits

of the Abyss, although he had no idea what awaited at the bottom. Multiple crashing sounds

above him brought him back into alertness.

Something large was falling down the stairs, rebounding off the walls and making a

loud noise above him. A moment or two later something flew past him, accompanied by dust

and fragments of the stairs. It finally ended its descent in a loud and blunt impact with the stone

floor below. Roman darted down the staircase to finish the thing off before it could recover

from the fall. He found himself in a circular chamber filled with dust the thing raised on impact.

He waited a few moments waiting for the dust to settle down, and prepared himself for

a decisive attack to bring down the beast. He stopped quickly as he realized it was Wode, rising

slowly to his knees and dusting himself off. His whole body was gray with dust, and some of it

filled his long hair. The wizard eyed him for a long while before he spoke.

"That.s no way to leave your friends behind, boy," he squeezed through gritted teeth,

flexing his monstrous arm in an intimidating fashion. "You wouldn.t have made it far on your

own, you know."

"I took you for dead, wizard," Roman said, his muscles loosening from the battle stance

he had assumed. "You had stopped breathing, and…"

"And?"

"My apologies, wizard," Roman said below his breath. The lack of emotions and

sympathy, so typical of his race, the race he despised, had wormed its way into his soul as well.

Feeling slightly disgusted with himself, he turned away from the archmage.

"What happened to you?" he inquired, attempting to shake off the feeling of remorse.

"I don.t know. Somehow I feel older… as if lost centuries of my life in the single

blink of an eye. I doubt I can even cast spells the way I used to, not to mention taking physical

strain."

"Excellent," Roman muttered to himself, but loud enough for Wode to hear it. "Now I

am traversing the Underdark with a senile wizard who has forgotten how to be a wizard."

"Let us go," Wode growled, far from the right mood for an argument.

Roman followed, maintaining a safe distance between himself and Wode whose eyes

gave away the pain and anger he felt. Wode turned around and satred hard at him, probably

sensing the assassin.s fear with his newly acquired monster instinct. The bloodlust of trolls still

boiled in him, but somehow he managed to keep it under control.

For the time being, at least…

..

A large and damp cavern opened in front of the two weary travelers. Sets of rough and

angular stone buildings filled the cavern in dense clusters, going on for as far as the limits of

their vision. The capital of the old dwarven kingdom, whose noise of weapons being forged and

armors of power crafted had spread around for miles long ago, now lay in dead silence. The

once crowded streets that had smelled of molten metal and the sweat of dwarven smiths now

reeked only of death.

For a moment it seemed to Wode that he could hear ancient voices in his head, but his

supernatural sense of smell told him there was only death to be found in the ruins of this once

magnificent city. The heaps of dark rubble could hardly contain anything else. Wode stepped

towards the enormous gate of stone eaten thin by the tooth of time. His bare feet picked their

way around the rusty weapons protruding from the heaps of dust-covered bones and spider

webs. Roman moved noiselessly behind him, scanning the surroundings.

Moving through the gate, Wode suddenly stopped. A long finger of his drow hand

pointed toward a set of dwarven runes emblazoned in the side of the massive entrance. The

ancient writing had nearly become obliterated by time and erosion, and black moss covered the

better part of it. Roman stepped forward and started removing the moss slowly, careful not to

damage the writings any further. The patches of moss went down easily, and soon he had the

entire script uncovered: the story stout folk left behind them, intending to shed some light on

their disappearance. Roman read the story out loud, so Wode could learn it as well. He gazed at

the wizard who was turning around in mock alert. Mock, for Wode had nothing to lose

anymore. Roman realized that what now stood before him was but a shell of the former wizard,

a companion no one would ever wish for.

He turned his attention back to the runes, moving his fingers over the delicate symbols

to aid him in his reading.

"The Kingdom is turning to dust with each day that passes," he read below his breath.

"Our forces are simply not strong enough to halt the legions of Abyss. Many of the folk are

leaving towards the Kingdom of Oghrann, hoping to find safety there. In this haste we are

forced to burn everything we cannot take with us, so it will not fall into the filthy hands of the

demons and the dark elves. The followers of Lolth have used our war with the demons to their

advantage, and stepped up their attacks. We are suffering losses on that side of the front as well,

for almost all our forces are locked in battle with the demons. They have to hold their lines until

we manage to evacuate the children and women. May the blessing of the Forge Lord be upon

their heads."

The dwarven monument stood before them, as it had stood before and would stand for

hundreds of years after both of them were dead. It had remained there for generations of

travelers moving through the ancient kingdom, a grim reminder of the dwarves who had left

this cursed land in search of a better place. Roman stood beside the monument for a couple

more seconds, contemplating the road before them. He wondered how many kingdoms akin to

this one they would pass, how many tunnels, how many surprises the Underdark and its natives

had prepared for them. To make things worse, his companion was of little help now.

It was a different situation when they had embarked upon their trip. The wizard had

been the mightiest individual Roman ever knew, almost invincible in his power; nothing could

be further from the drow who had nothing to lose, the drow he was now. He stared absently at

the darkness, not showing any signs of interest for their situation. His eyes were the eyes of an

aged drow sensing his end was around the corner.

Roman shook his head in pity and moved along. Once he.d made sure that the wizard

was following him, he resumed his scanning of the surroundings. The opportunity to admire

dwarven architecture presented itself, an achitecture that could not be more different from that

of the drow. The wide, square buildings lacked in style; it resembled the dwarves themselves,

rigid, humourless and stout. Compared to the slim, elegant drow buildings, dwarven ones

lacked imagination and finesse, yet one could not contest their extreme effectiveness.

Roman continued along the main street, attempting to deduce the function of each of

the buildings, but temples were the only ones he could identify. He had little doubt that the keep

in the center of the city was used in times of war to fend off possible attackers. Defending from a

fortified keep was far easier than skirmishing in the streets. However, not even the keep could

have helped the dwarves; the demon legions had overran them, aided by their long-established

allies, the drow. As Roman remembered, a few months ago the demon leader Kaanyr Vhok had

entered a pact with the leading Matron of the city Aunrae, Nasadra.

The alliance was formed in order to invade the Surface, a long time aspiration of both

allies. Kaanyr had once been expelled from the surface and now he sought revenge upon the

humans and the pale elves of the Realms of Sun. Matron Nasadra was also weary of sending

raiding parties that had only managed to inflict insignificant losses to the inhabitants of the

surface, bringing back nothing but trinkets and a few slaves. The head-bitch of Ched Nasad had

bitten off more that she could chew when she chose to ally with the Demon lord.

Roman kept himself busy with curses and profanities addressed at Aunrae and the

Spider Queen until they came in front of the keep. Once a mighty fortress it was but a heap of

rubble now, with tens of its towers burned by the dwarves themselves. Magic fire had melted

most of its metal parts, leaving only blackened, eroded stone behind.

A narrow hanging was all that stood between the drow and the keep. The stone was old

and crumpled, and it was a small miracle that it had survived the test of time. Roman assumed

they would have no trouble in crossing it, since it showed signs of recent usage. If it held various

monsters that squirmed around it would sure hole two of them. Wode appeared slightly better,

showing some signs of recovery, but still he appeared reclusive and depressed.

Melding with the shadows Roman glided noiselessly across the bridge, trying to avoid

the parts of it that were severely damaged. He also had to avoid the rusty remains of traps set

off ages ago. Suddenly he motioned for Wode to stop, and cautiously approached the entrance to

the keep.

The metal block that had once served as a gate to the structure now lay half-melted in

the courtyard. Roman jumped up, and prostrated himself across the door, visually becoming

one with the metal. His trained ear had picked up vibrations even as he was crossing the bridge,

but no sounds could be identified from them. Now he could clearly recognize the resonance. It

was the familiar language of the drow.

Follow me Roman flashed to Wode in the silent hand language of his kin, and crawled

toward the corner of the small house that was completely destroyed by the fall of the gate upon

it.

Less then a minute passed before Wode caught up with Roman. The assassin noted a

strange glow in Wode.s eyes – a sign the wizard was recovering. Being much taller than Roman,

Wode had no trouble peeking over assassin.s head.

About twenty dark elves rested in the courtyard while two of them were on guard,

patrolling around their compatriots. Wode instantly recognized the insignia of First House

Nasadra on the chest of the high priestess positioned in the center of the yard. Most of the

warriors bore the same symbol, while the rest belonged to lower houses. The two wizards,

though, came from House , ranked tenth in the city hierarchy.

They were a long way from the city, but it came as no surprise to Wode. The Matrons of

the city thought there was more treasure scattered throughout the mines and cities of

Ammarindar. That is why they sent their best warriors, the ones able to cope with all the

hazards a long trip like that could throw at them. He wouldn.t be worried by the patrol, were he

only still able to cast spells as he did before the misfortune with the entrance to the Abyss. Every

now and then he attempted to cast a spell, but not a single cantrip came to his mind. The

frustration was driving him insane.

The only thing they could do was to try and pass them without a fight. The war party

must have left the city before them, and so they were probably unaware of the turmoil in House

Ivril. Before he could change his mind, Wode stepped out from the darkness into the open.

The warriors spotted him as soon he left the shadows and unsheathed their weapons as

one. The wizards moved their hands in delicate motions, ready to strike at the intruder with a

barrage of their destructive spells. As he moved forward, one of the wizards recognized him.

"Archmage Wode," his voice trembled, awed by the presence of the mighty wizard.

"What are you doing here?"

Wode noticed that Roman had also moved out of the concealing darkness, and now

stood by his side. He wasn.t surprised to see that the young wizard recognized him, but he was

hurt by the expression of horror in the young drow.s red eyes. The horror caused not by his

reputation, but by his horrible appearance.

"Wode," the priestess said throatily. "I had taken you to be much younger."

"Whom do I have the honour of addressing?" Wode avoided the sting in her remark. "I

see the insignia of the First House upon you."

"My name is Issana Nasadra," she responded, somewhat shaken by Wode.s appearance

and lack of respect. "I lead the war party of my own and the lower houses. But you still haven.t

answered the question Lisscar here asked you; and who is the masked male with you?"

"We are on – " Wode was interrupted by Roman.s icy voice.

"I cannot recall granting you the permission to address me, whore," he stated calmly,

not disregarding Wode.s looks of consternation.

Two of the nearest warriors charged them, while the others tried to arrange themselves

in some kind of formation, intimidated by the mage.s reputation that preceded him by miles.

Issana began to open her mouth in an attempt at a magical invocation, but the only sound

coming out was the wet gurgling of blood. An adamantine star was buried deep in her throat,

severing the connections between her brain and the limbs that had suddenly gone numb. She

was dead before her body struck the stone ground. Three other stars flashed in Roman.s hands

as the lithe body of the assassin sprang into motion.

In a flick of the wrist three stars were flying towards the two closest attackers; two of

them struck the first attacker squarely in the face, while the third one buried itself deep into

other drow.s shoulder, forcing him to drop his shield. Roman utilized the moment of confusion,

and spun a high roundhouse kick. He felt his heel crush the assailant.s helm, then his skull in.

Without making a sound the unfortunate drow collapsed into a heap of flesh.

The first to launch a serious attack were two wizards. Green orbs flew out of their

fingertips, following a couple of quick, delicate motions of their hands aimed at Wode. All of

them were on target, exploding upon contact with the monstrous wizard.s body, but to no effect,

as his inborn resistance to harmful magic saved Wode.s life once again.

What remained of the warriors approached the travelers cautiously, trying to surround

them and muscle them against the wall of the little house behind them. One of them was careless

enough to venture too close to Roman and the nimble assassin pounced upon him, forcing the

warrior to side step his attack. Which he did, but right into Wode.s ready arms. The first rake

of the claw tore the flesh beneath the chain mail, opening a clear view to the screaming drow.s

ribs. The second one put an end to his cries once and for all.

But the war party was simply too numerous for the weary travelers to handle without

Wode.s spellcasting abilities. Slowly but surely they forced the fugitives backward, until Roman

could feel the cold, damp stone behind his back. The wizards, after launching two more futile

attempts to harm Wode and Roman with magic, shrouded themselves in magical invisibility and

disappeared out of the frame.

Pinned to the building behind, Roman evaded the quick jabs four of his assailants

launched at him, but every now and then he was forced to parry the steel swords with his bare

palms, suffering painful cuts and nicks. An older fighter, most likely in command of the group,

was executing the more dangerous attacks, and it was only matter of time before he would

bestow a more serious wound upon Roman. The masked drow knew he had to buy himself time

to cast a spell that would render him invisible.

Although Roman was in trouble of his own, he could see that Wode was faring much

worse. His wounds simply couldn.t regenerate at the rate they were opening. His lack of battle

prowess couldn.t be substituted even by the inhuman strength of his arm. He was flailing wildly

at his attackers, but they evaded his attacks nimbly and followed with quick routine strikes and

combinations of their own.

One of the young drow allowed his blood frenzy to draw him too far out, and it proved

to be fatal for him. With a single sweep of his claws, Wode tore his abdomen open and the

warrior clutched at his guts, attempting to keep them inside his abdominal cavity as they rushed

out. The next swing blew his head off cleanly. Although he was nearing death, Wode laughed

out loud. The troll inside him had posessed total control of his mind, cutting out any remnants

of sanity. Wode.s actions were now guided by bloodlust in its purest form: he smiled with every

wound he would suffer, planting fear into the hearts of his foes. Succumbing to a well-aimed

stab to his chest he finally dropped to the ground, a grotesque grimace of laughter frozen onto

his face by the onset of death.

As the wizard fell, all of the eight remaining warriors turned on Roman, stepping over

the bodies of their fallen comrades. He knew it was time to react: every nick he suffered was

making him weaker, and a wide cut on his forehead was bleeding generously, blurring his vision

with a bright scarlet stream of blood. He had no other option but to burst through the ranks of

his opponents and thus gain some space. Dodging a high swing that threatened to behead him,

he kept low and prepared his exhausted body for a desperate move.

Three of the four warriors that surrounded him thrust their blades downwards,

believing he.d finally yielded to his numerous wounds. Waiting for their blades to come as near

as possible Roman sprang up, leaping over his assailants. One of them, who had not fallen for

his bluff, tried to throw him off balance with a slash of his long sword, but Roman parried the

blade with the side of his leg. His leap took him atop one of the four warriors standing in the

second line, knocking the air out of the unsuspecting youth. Springing back on his feet Roman

sprinted away, easily outdistancing his armored opponents despite his wounds.

He stopped about fifty feet away from the quickest pursuer, and turned to face the

rushing drow. With a few quick motions of his hands and a short invocation, Roman faded out

of view under the effect of an improved version of the invisibility spell; the ultimate weapon of

every well-trained assassin, the spell would enable him to attack and remain invisible.

The panic and fear was obvious on the faces of the remaining warriors of the Ched

Nassad war party. They spread throughout the courtyard after attempting a couple of futile

strikes at the location where Roman was last seen. Their horror became even greater when they

heard muffled gurgling from behind them. Wode was crawling slowly towards them, dragging

his useless legs behind, leaving a bloody trail on the gravel floor.

Two of the warriors nearest to Wode started at the creeping wizard, all tactical training

forgotten in the face terror. Their slashes were driven by nothing but fear, and within seconds

the mage was cut into a faceless mound of gory flesh.

"I think we got him for good this time, Ryl," one of them said to his companion. Ryl.s

only reply was a sudden jerk of his head, accompanied by a loud crack. Then he fell face down

in the dust. The warrior slashed few times at the place where Ryl was standing, but there was no

trace of the assassin that had broken his companion.s neck.

The war party of Ched Nasad was in total dismay. The seven remaining fighters

grouped together, standing back to back and scanning the surrounding area for the masked

drow who brought havoc into their ranks in absolute panic. They still kept an eye on the

demonic wizard who seemed to resurrect on his own each time they brought him down. Less

than a moment passed before the next warrior fell face down, struck in the forehead by one of

the deadly stars the assassin used. All of the others looked at the direction the projectile had

come from. A graceful silhouette perched upon the roof of one of the guardhouses.

"You cannot harm me, fools, and him even less so," he spoke, pointing his finger at

Wode, who was starting to move again. "You should have been smart enough to figure that out

by yourselves."

The warriors stared at him, one or two of them probably still eager to try and kill the

wretch.

"Drop your weapons or remain here for ever, until your carcasses are devoured by

carrion eaters." He commanded slowly, adding a hint of seriousness to his voice.

"It makes no difference, demon," the oldest of the warriors broke the silence. "We are

as good as dead, things be as they may, so why make your job easier?"

"There is a difference," replied the assassin. "The followers of Vhaerunn know of

mercy, and those who tread in the footsteps of the Bitch Queen do not. You are males, proud

males who have worked hard to achieve the ranks you hold now. The ranks of slaves," he

finished ironically.

Their weapons, shields and armors were red with the blood of their opponents, but

mostly with their own. Some of them were shaking with fear, far from enchanted by the idea of

ending up like the rest of their patrol. Sensing their fear, Roman continued.

"Drop your weapons before the beast gets up," he ordered, waving his head casually

towards Wode. "If he gets back to his feet, I will not be able to contain him. No one will."

One by one, warriors dropped their swords and shields before their feet, and the area

filled with the noise of metal clanking against stone. One by one, they moved away from Wode

as the wizard regained his footing. One by one, they silently pleaded Roman when Wode started

staggering towards them.

Roman confidently stepped in the way of the slowly advancing wizard. Wode.s wounds

were still exuding black blood, but one could see them close before his very eyes. The wizard

was smiling deliriously, the red orbs of his eyes brimming with lust for carnage.

"Halt, wizard!" Roman ordered, attempting to sound determined although he was far

from that. "It is enough for today."

Roman didn.t try to conceal his sigh of relief when Wode stopped in his tracks. He

wondered for a few moments how he had achieved this, and then he felt sharp pain in his hand.

A pain he.d never experienced before. He threw a glance towards his ring: it was missing.

Vhaerunn.s ring that Roman had found – better still, that had found Roman –was being

absorbed into his finger. The same ring that radiated the strange, enormous power that had

made him fall into trance a couple of times. The same ring that had saved his life in the halls of

House Ivril a few weeks ago. Roman thought this might be the onset of another trance, yet this

one was far worse than anything he had experienced. The pain crawled up his arm toward his

chest, like a scalding knife deep inside his flesh. He fell to his knees and clutched at his bosom,

nails raking his own skin as another attack of pain surged through him. Succumbing to the

unbearable pain, he let out a cry that made the entire cavern tremble. Wode and the captured

warriors watched the spectacle in palpable fear and confusion, no one daring to approach the

assassin.

Through the tears that streamed down his masked face Roman could see whiteness on

his bloodied black-skinned chest. The pain was slowly disappearing and he could see a familiar

shape form slowly from the whiteness. Nothing but the divine hands of Vhaerunn could portrait

something that beautiful upon his chest: a white mask, the clerical symbol of the Masked Lord,

shone against the darkness of the cavern like a beacon.

He stood up with a smile on his face, a smile that could be observed even under his

mask. A newfound sensation of power filled his body and his mind seemed clearer than ever. He

simply understood things he hadn.t even tried to understand before. He felt every vibration of

air around him; he even felt he could sense the vibrations made by Wode.s heartbeat. Roman

closed his eyes, and he could clearly determine the placement and motions of each one of the

drow warriors, as well as the wizard.s. He also sensed that Wode was smiling, sensed that he

was smiling at him. The assassin.s black eyelids opened and he strolled right past Wode to face

the remaining warriors of the Ched Nasad patrol. As one, they dropped to the floor and kneeled

in front of him.

The death of priestess Issana Nasadra was the final test of Roman.s faith, the proof of

uttermost belief, the death of the daughter of the first Matron of the city. Now he stood upright,

the Chosen of Vhaerunn who had finally received the right reward for his faith. His body was

bathed in power; his moves lacked nothing in determination.

"At least our trip should be much easier now," Wode broke the grave silence with more

than a trace of envy in his voice. "It is far less treacherous when we have such a powerful ally

with us."

Roman didn.t reply, realizing that the educated and wise wizard had grasped the

situation far better that himself. Whatever Wode had lost over the last few hours, Roman had

gained, and the realization had to hurt.

"Let.s get going," he waved his hand at the kneeling warriors. "We have many miles to

cover."

..

The drow warriors moved in a line behind Roman while Wode kept further back, lost in

his own thoughts. Roman relayed to the warriors what had happened to him and Wode since

their departure from Ched Nasad. He allowed them to take their weapons, certain that they

would not attempt anything foolish with impression of the fight, which had cost priestess Issana

and most of the remaining warriors their lives, still fresh in their minds. In return, the warriors

told him that the caverns before them were their ultimate destination, in order to clear them of

monsters and take whatever valuables they could find along the way.

But looks of uncertainty where still obvious on their faces and they still couldn.t know

whether they.d made the right choice. Still, Roman gave them the choice they never could have

hoped for: he.d spared their lives in the name of Vhaerunn, the god they were taught was an

unforgiving and treacherous enemy of the Spider Queen, the cruel goddess who had never done

anything for their sake, placing them far below the priestesses that could take their lives without

fear of retribution.

Dark Vhaerunn was different, as they understood from Roman.s preaching. His

ultimate goal was the unification of all elves and conquering of both Worlds, under and above

the ground. Dark and surface elves alike would rule the world and put all of the lesser races to

work toward their good. The capital would be Malhalma, "The Throne", and a council of united

elven races would operate from there, encouraging marriages between the multitudinous elven

races.

As good as the concept sounded, it was rather difficult to believe in. Be as it may, they

had already crossed the point of no return. The two wizards who had managed to escape were

on their way back to Ched Nasad to report to Matron Nasadra what had happened. The old hag

would surely seek revenge for the death of her daughter, and she always got her own way.

Perhaps it was better if they lost their lives in the courtyard of the dwarven keep, for that way

they were certain to avoid the torture and humiliation awaiting at the hands of the priestesses.

There was little room for doubt about their destiny should the Matron ever locate them: they

would be turned into grotesque Driders, or, if lucky, tortured for months until the servants of

Lolth grow bored with their screams. Occupied with their thoughts, they almost bumped into

Roman.s back when he suddenly stopped.

He motioned with his hand for them to be silent, and then simply faded from view, this

time without making any motion semblant of spell-casting. But it was too late for the others, as

the numerous tunnels and side-entrances to the cavern filled with tens of small figures. The

short, stout and bearded creatures were armed with huge axes poised to strike. Their armor was

made of mithral, a durable metal of exceptional rarity that dwarves preferred to use in smithing

their armors. There were too many for even Wode and Roman to handle, especially after the

long and exhausting fight with the drow war party.

The dwarves held their positions silently, eagerly awaiting the command to cut down

the despised drow. The captured warriors drew out their swords, while Wode stepped up,

showing no signs of fear. Heavy steps could be heard among the throng of the Stout Folk, and a

single dwarf stepped in front, pushing his compatriots aside with little tenderness. He halted a

few feet away from Wode.

His mithrall full-plate armor was of superior quality, and surprisingly did not lack style

either. Golden coins were fastened to the silvery metal, forming a large hammer on the chest

plate of the armor. His short stubby arms reached for his helm, and with a lot of effort he took

it off. Two blonde braids hung from each side of his face, his beard was similarly arranged and

decorated. The eyes were blue, deep and melancholic. So melancholic, in fact, that Roman

would never forget them.

He had seen those eyes once before, many months ago, in the Cavern of the Cloven

Heads South-East of Ched Nasad. A tribe of local creatures, the Grimlocks, had captured a

party of dwarves to use for feeding purposes without doubt, but Roman had stumbled across

them and liberated them, demanding nothing in return. He was certain the dwarven

commander was one of them, and now felt that he had a card to play. He moved beside Wode,

and appeared out of nowhere.

The dwarf commander was hardly surprised; instead, he continued scrutinizing the

drow suspiciously.

"What in the name of Hell are you doing here, cursed drow?" he asked, placing his axe

menacingly upon his shoulder, from where he could take an effortless swing at the first foe

foolish enough to make a move. The silence went on for a few moments before Wode replied.

"We are running away from Ched Nasad," he said trying to appear calm, despite the

troll blood that sent adrenaline coursing through his entire body and his head throbbing with

murderous desires, preparing the sinews for the frenzy that was about to come. "Away from our

family that wants to kill us."

"Drop your weapons," he ordered, "You are now officially considered prisoners of the

Stand, and you will do as I say. Your destiny shall be determined in the encampment."

Wode brought his hands above his head showing that his hands were free, and Roman

dropped a handful of adamantine stars to the floor. The four warriors from Ched Nasad

dropped their swords. With a flick of the wrist, the dwarf commander motioned to a few of his

fighters to pick up the weapons and bind the prisoners with ropes.

..

Soon the six drow travellers were walking slowly through the tunnels, surrounded by

dwarves who were closely monitoring their each step, not trying to hide their disgust. Wode and

the warriors from Ched Nasad harboured no dreams of escaping, knowing that all attempts

were predestined for failure. The dwarves didn.t coat their weapons in poison, as the drow did,

but their axes were deadly enough not to need it. They were fearless, these short, squat

warriors, dying before even considering retreat. Wode was anxious about the trial awaiting

them. They would be probably executed right away, since dwarves hated the drow with all their

hearts.

Wode didn.t believe in cant spread by the priestesses of Lolth, in the stories of torture in

dwarven prisons, the blood-drinking dwarves, and the mutilation of the brave drow; it was all a

heap of steaming rothe-shit for him. The drow would say this to give their own actions a hint of

normalcy, and Wode couldn.t grasp the point of it. They were evil, one way or another.

He had bought a slave in the market of Ched Nasad, a surface elf called Naur, and

carried out his first Breed experiment on the specimen, providing him with the claws and eyes

of the Basilisk – a dreaded monster whose gaze could turn flesh into stone. He had later traded

Naur to Irkkidul, a powerful denizen of the lower planes in exchange for components he

required to carry on with his research. The remorse he had felt then was something new to him

as a drow used to treachery and selfishness. But it had not been not remorse for Naur as a

living, sentient being; it was remorse for him as the first product of his centuries-long

experimentation. Despite that, he sometimes still wondered what drow would be like if they

weren.t ruled by Matrons and clergy of Lolth. He couldn.t know the answer, and he had no

time to give it more thought, since the first fires of the dwarven settlement could be seen in front

of them.

Small, easily mounted tents were clustered in the center of the cavern, and numerous

sentries were positioned around all visible accesses. The encampment was home for several

hundred dwarves, nomads who roamed through the Underdark in search for food, evading the

monsters they were not strong enough confront.

The dwarves who escorted them broke the silence with shouts in their guttural language.

They were smiling and greeting each another with coarse, yet sincere jokes. The further they

advanced through the big cavern, more dwarves would gather around them, the children

peeking curiously between the warriors. They had grown somewhat accustomed to drow

captives, but hardly ones with monstrous claws and demonic masks.

Wode gazed at Roman. The exhaustion was obvious on his body, but he walked straight

and proud, confident in the powers he had recently received from his lord. Wode, being the

tallest of the six, could clearly see they were headed for the largest and most decorated tent in

the encampment. The skins it was made of formed a depiction of horrendous monsters being

brought down by the dwarven axes.

"Get in," the blonde dwarf ordered sternly. "Show our king some respect, or, by the

love of Moradin, I shall cut ye all down myself." A dozen dwarves followed Roman, Wode and

four other drow into the tent. The blonde dwarf commander stepped in last and brought down

the curtains, shielding the inside of the tent from prying eyes.

As they stepped in, Wode and the four drow warriors averted their eyes from the

burning light of the torches blazing inside, but Roman did not. The eyes of the Chosen clearly

perceived the colossal throne and the abundant feast laid out before the dwarven king. The king

himself fitted the entire setting perfectly: his red beard reached almost to his groin, his mane,

tinted a paler shade of the same color, falling freely over his shoulders, accentuated by a braid

of hair that was white as snow on the left side. He had also been held captive in the Cavern of

the Cloven Heads, noted Roman to his immense relief.

"Master Tadran," the blue-eyed commander addressed the king." We captured this

filth in the Northern Reaches. They surrendered without offering resistance, and they say-"

"I believe they can speak for themselves, general," the king cut him short, grabbing the

handle of the axe that rested beside his throne. "Speak now, while ye still have your tongues

where supposed to be," he thundered at Roman, who was nearest to him, the joke

initiating an eruption of laughter from the gathered dwarven warriors.

At that very moment the mask fell off Roman.s face, clanking loudly on the stone floor.

Without the mask rendering his features unrecognisable, his face assumed its usual calm

appearance. Roman granted the dwarven king a wide, ironic grin.

"You!" gasped Tadran, rising from his throne and eyeing the nimble assassin in

disbelief, knocking over a full jug of ale into his lap in the process. "Grudar, is it… can it be the

one?"

Normally Grudar would have protested at his name being spoken out without the

appropriate title attached to it; yet this time he said nothing. His half-opened mouth tried to

utter a coherent sound, but in vain. After more than a few moments he regained his composure.

"Of course! How could I ever forget the face…"

"… Or the deed," finished Tadran, still struggling to recover from the shock.

"Your friends," Roman spoke in thick-accented dwarven tongue. "I cannot recognize

them among the others. Are they still alive?"

The shade of grief, followed by sparks of fury in Tadran.s eyes, spoke for itself. Roman

quickly decided it would hardly be wise to push the matter further and changed the subject

abruptly. "Let me introduce my companions and myself. The tall, bald-headed one with the

strange claw is Wode, and the warriors are, from left to right: Kyon, Wilderon, Zilok and

Valshar. My name is Roman, and we stand here at your service, Your Majesty," he ended with

a deep bow.

"What brings you here, Master Roman? You come from Ched Nasad, correct me if I

err."

"Trouble; what else could it be but trouble, if „the one with the strange claw. is

permitted to speak," Wode said, glaring angrily at Roman.

"We shall talk it over at the dinner table," Tadran said and clapped his hands twice, the

sign for dwarven maids to enter the chamber carrying large, heavily decorated plates laid with

various sorts of food and drink.

It didn.t quite turn out the way dwarven king had hoped it would, as the weary drow

succumbed to the strong dwarven ale and fell asleep before they even finished their meals. Only

Roman remained awake, but he was far from a conversational mood. The five drow slept in

hide blankets, dwarven clerics healing their numerous wounds silently under the watchful eye of

King Tadran who stayed awake through the night, gazing at the drow that had saved his life

once before and wondering what trouble could have befallen him and his companions.

..

Days slipped slowly by in rest, feasts and endless stories Wode and Roman exchanged

with Tadran. The king appeared especially interested in the latest developments in Ched Nasad,

as the drow city was the biggest threat to his nomadic kingdom. Wode was slowly regaining his

senses, but the shade of disappointment was still obvious on his face. He was worried about the

unexplainable loss of his spellcasting abilities, but the few hundred years of life he lost was what

really bothered him. There was so much more to be learned.

"Where are you headed?" Tadran asked during breakfast on the fourth day of their

stay in the Stand, casually sipping a sort of greenish wine.

"Towards Sshamath," Roman replied, looking at the read-headed dwarf with contempt

heavy in his voice. "But Wode can.t recognize this part of Ammarindar. He won.t admit it, but

we are surely lost."

"You cannot be a off track by much. The city of Sammut, or whatever you call it, I have

never heard of; yet there is another city, Yldisso it is called, a not many miles south of here. It is

inhabited by drow, as well as other races. You want filthy drow, show you the way myself."

Roman didn.t think twice. Any kind of help was welcome, and Tadran not far from

being just „any help.. The offer was even more tempting since Wode could no longer rely upon

his magical abilities and was of hardly any use at the moment.

"Certainly, King Tadran; we would be greatly honored to have such an experienced

warrior accompany us to Yldisso," Roman said politely. "The offer is accepted. We are setting

off as soon as possible."

His answer prompted an angry glare from commander Grudar.

"Your Majesty," the dwarf spoke gently, attempting to control his fury, "you must not

leave the Stand. We have already lost one king, and cannot afford to lose another. I can take the

drow to Yldisso."

"No, Grudar," Tadran replied, "I have vowed to take Roman there myself, and so it

shall be done. Miserable is the king who sends his people to fulfil the promises he makes!

Nobody can do this for me, not even you, Grudar. Instead, I shall place you in charge here until

I return."

"But, Your Majesty-" Grudar started, turning scarlet with the rage he could no longer

conceal.

"See this as an order, Grudar. Is that understood?" king Tadran cut him short. He

could understand the concern Grudar felt for him; the blue-eyed dwarf was his friend first and

foremost, and he would probably do the same had the roles been reversed.

Grudar muttered a curse and stormed out of the tent, smacking one of the unsuspecting

guards square in the face in the process. The unfortunate dwarf had stood in his way, after all.

"Let.s start the preparations," said the king, not trying to conceal his smile at the guard

who was rubbing his aching nose, "We have no time to waste."

..

The seven-day trip through the tunnels of Ammarindar brought no trouble to the seven

travelers led by the dwarven king Tadran. Derelict but solid, the tunnels were much easier to

traverse than the narrow passages around Ched Nasad. Thousands of dwarven picks had

turned them more semblant of endless catacombs than a cavern complex. The finely crafted

stone passages had stood there for centuries as eternal, voiceless witnesses of the changing

masters of Ammarindar.

Some of them had only stormed through, taking the fruits of hundreds of years of

dwarven mining with them. Diamonds, sapphires, rubies, black and fire opals, pale green

amaratha gems, as well as mithrall, adamantine and dark iron had been pillaged by the drow,

Hellgate Keep minions and beholders from Wuun.

The overturned carts were covered in debris and spider webs, but remained in the same

position they were left in hundreds of years ago, when the dwarves had fled in urgency. Looking

at the carts, Tadran imagined himself in those times, when his kin had fought a desperate war

against the oncoming demon hordes, and felt the black claw of hatred clutch at his heart. The

same heart that burned with an inextinguishable flame of loathing against the abyssal creatures

wandering through this part of Toril.

One demon in specific fuelled the fire in his heart, the giant abomination that had taken

the lives of two of his friends, Dogur and little Bodo, during the rescuing of Grudar and himself

from its clutches. The demon had killed the former clan leader, Dogrilor, along with a dozen

other dwarven warriors on that fateful day. The price they had paid for the rescue was too

great, but dwarves never left their imprisoned clansmen to die and they would readily pay the

same price again.

He was the head of the clan now, a king likely to face the fate of his predecessor. He

knew he couldn.t expose himself to too many risks, for he was indispensable to the clan. The

morale of fellow dwarves would plummet if they lost two kings in a matter of months and, even

more essentially, Grudar.s suicidal manner of approaching everything could lead the whole clan

in their doom without him even realizing it.

Thinking about the situation in the Stand, Tadran narrowed his eyes and his features

darkened as he stared ahead. He could recognize the runes that marked the entrances to the

passages before them easily; they were entering the dominion of the city he had heard of from

Dogrilor, the City of Refuge, as it was called, Yldisso.

The city that belonged to drow, orc, mind flayer and countless other outcasts was held

together by the iron grip of the Mayor, who exerted severe retribution for any form of violence

in the city. Although the idea sounded good, Tadran wasn.t thrilled by the prospect of visiting it.

The presence of such utter evil was unbearable for him, and he could easily lose his head and

spring upon the first orc or mind flayer that crossed his path.

"Wait," Wode.s whisper broke the silence, "I think I hear something behind us."

Tadran and the rest of the company stood in place, suspending their breath to allow for

better hearing. Roman moved towards one of the smaller side-passages instead, and crouched

behind the wall.

Go, he signed, and I'll catch up with you. Something is approaching indeed; riding lizards,

I presume.

Wode nodded and motioned to the others to start moving. Kyon and other warriors

drew their swords, anticipating a proximate attack. They kept turning back, but the only thing

they could see was Wode, his withered chest moving rapidly as he drew breath.

Kyon didn.t like the former wizard, and he was certain that the others, except for

Roman, shared his feelings. Wode was too silentand unpredictable, and a spark of insanity

would often flash in his eyes, a spark that could make blood freeze in the veins. While they

rested, he would never speak to the others, spending all of his rest in Reverie or obsessed

scrutiny of his monstrous hand. Roman told him once that Wode had cut off his own hand and

replaced it with a troll.s claw, for reasons that the warrior could not comprehend. He also told

him that Wode had been a wizard of great power, but that he had lost his spell casting powers

by yet another strange occurence. Kyon didn.t believe either.

He considered Wode to be but a pitiful wreck of a drow, an aged lunatic who was to be

avoided by all means, for his hideous hand never forgave when wrapped around someone.s

neck. Kyon forced some saliva down his throat involuntarily, as if to make sure that Wode

wasn.t throttling him. He was about to turn around once more before he heard the familiar

sound of a riding lizard.s sticky footpads on the stone surface. The riders weren.t even trying to

approach them unnoticed, he realized.

Kyon and the others turned around, heading for the side tunnel they had passed a

minute ago, but the same sound was coming from behind them too. They formed a defensive

line, three of them standing next to each other tightly, back touching back, and awaited

patiently with their weapons drawn. A few heartbeats later a group of drow riders appeared

from around a small bend in the passage, coming from the general direction of the city. They

wore red tunics with silver eye-shaped emblems.

Heavy crossbows, mounted on the front parts of their saddles, pointed towards the

travelers, and the only drow without a crossbow on his saddle brought his hands up to his face

ready to blast any possible threats to bits with a spell. One of the riders, the leader if one was to

judge by the ranks on his shoulders, raised his hand.

"If your purpose is visiting Yldisso, lower your weapons and come in peace," he said in

a commanding voice. "And if your purpose is any other than this, turn around and leave."

Surprisingly Tadran was the first one to lower his weapon, and the rest of the party

followed suit.

"Our purpose is a visit to your city, for certain." Tadran replied with a great deal of

formality in his voice. "Take no offense, but we expected monsters of some sort, and the

weapons were only a precaution."

The patrol leader smiled, obviously satisfied by the outcome of this brief negotiation.

"Come," he said, turning his lizard around," Yldisso is near."

The patrol surrounded the travelers tactfully, with the crossbows amied at the tunnel

ceiling, but ready to be lowered again at the slightest sign of trouble. As soon as they started,

Wode heard silent greetings coming from behind. Another patrol was approaching from

behind, escorting Roman in the same manner.

The seven travellers, accompanied by twelve Yldisso guards, had reached the City of

Refuge.

..

The entrance to Yldisso was marked by two giant statues holding each other by their

necks, forming the arcs of a gate with their arms. The city itself looked splendid. The ceiling of

the elliptical cavern was thick with stalactites, each one burning in a faerie fire of different

color. One central stalactite held numerous windows, and every now and then a drow robed in

scarlet would appear in one of the windows and cast faerie fire when the spell was close to

ending upon one of the shining stalactites.

Roman figured out that the central stalactite was used to mark the passage of time, for

the fires burning upon it were slowly moving downwards. He had heard of such things existing

in larger drow cities. The large cave was flooded with dark, oily water, and the residents lived

on three islands and three peninsulas linked by massive stone bridges. All of them were heavily

inhabited, except for the peninsula on the far side from the entrance, which hosted a huge,

solidly built fort.

The architecture itself was a mixture of common drow, dwarven and other styles

Roman had never encountered before. Those buildings were built of huge stone blocks like

dwarven ones, yet lacked the characteristic solidness of the style with strange disproportional

shapes. Most of them were cone-shaped and smooth, so they easily reflected the multicolored

glow of the fires from above.

Roman flinched at the sight of a beholder floating casually above their heads, but

relaxed when he saw that other citizens paid the aberration no special regard. He had heard

many stories about the dreaded eye-tyrants, but had never encountered one before.

Over five feet in radius, they resembled enormous floating eyes surrounded by dozens of

smaller ones on stalks. The central eye had the power to suppress all magic in its vicinity, while

the smaller eyes shot rays that could charm, wound or even completely disintegrate those who

crossed their path. The patrols of Ched Nasad occassionally encountered beholders, and a few

of those fortunate enough to live through the encounter had nightmares and hallucinations for

many years after.

Finally taking their gazes off the floating monster, the party gathered around Roman

who was proudly pointing his finger at the big, cone-shaped structure that perched upon the

city.s central island. A huge, purple mask hung above the entrance to the building, the

unmistakable symbol of the Dark Lord, Vhaeraun. Many glittering windows gave the temple a

monumental form, the form Roman often saw in his dreams.

"We are in the right place," Roman stated, more to himself. "Go find a tavern or

something of the sort, and I shall find you soon."

"It is unwise to wander through an unknown city alone, Roman," Tadran tried to warn

him. "Although the city is known to provide refuge for anyone who seeks it, that hardly makes it

a safe place. Just look at all the filth gathered here," he finished, pointing at the group of

passing Duergar, who only shot him a few spiteful glances.

"Worry not, noble Tadran," Roman replied, "I know how to take care of myself. And

please, try to restrain from being as open about your opinion as you are now. Or at least not as

loud," the assassin advised, mimicking the way Tadran pointed his hand at the Duergar.

"I don.t care about no ugly Du-," Tadran continued to argue, but Roman simply turned

his back on the dwarf and hopped away across the bridge to the central island. "Stupid elf," he

muttered, and headed in the opposite direction.

Roman ignored the architecture for a moment and observed the population more

closely. It consisted mostly of drow, Duergar and orcs, with a few humans, Illithids and dwarves

among them. The orcs captured most of Roman.s attention, though; many of them wore

expensive clothing and jewelry that looked simply stupid on the savages who had little on their

minds apart from the looting, rape and murder of unsuspecting, defenceless peasants of the

Surface World. They had probably gotten their filthy hands on more treasure than the average

orc could earn in seven lifetimes and escaped in Yldisso, seeking refuge behind its defended

walls. The city was but a beautiful cage; one with golden bars, but still a cage nevertheless.

Among the other races, Roman noticed all kinds of different classes and professions.

From cheap mercenaries who proudly marched through the city, through more subtle

characters who avoided the crowds, to proud wizards with their unmistakably arrogant

mannerisms.

That was of no great importance, he thought as he approached the temple. The plan that

had formed in his head as he treaded the tunnels of Underdark in silence was nearing its

fulfillment. Every step he took towards the temple brought him a step closer towards the

unification and great victory of the elven races, which before existed only as dogma respected by

Vhaeraun.s clergy. Nothing would stand in the way of Roman Valbrinar once he reached the

surface. Nothing.

..

The wide metal door, decorated by various motifs from Vhaeraun.s dogma, was shut

when Roman reached the entrance to the church. Above the door, a mask made of some strange

purple metal Roman had never encountered before radiated soft flickering light making the

carvings on the door dance. Roman didn.t try to conceal his joy. He leaped up a flight of stairs

that separated him from the temple, ignoring the cries of astonishment from the folk gathered

on the plaza in front of the temple. He approached the door in three soft, gracious steps.

As soon as he approached the door, they opened inwards slowly. The Chosen was

surprised by the event, but did nothing to show it. He took a bold step inside, expecting a guard

or a minor temple apprentice to appear behind the opening doors, but there was nothing but

darkness.

The temple.s inside was a single hall of enormous dimensions, the walls curving toward

the ceiling, forming the dome shape that was visible from outside. A sizeable statue of Vhaeraun

took the center, the blind stone eyes monitoring the entrance through its purple mask. The rest

of the chamber was empty, contrasting the elaborate decorations on the outside of the temple. In

front of the statue stood a black-robed figure of a drow male, his soft voice narrating a recital

from the book in his hands. About eighty followers were kneeling all around the statue,

repeating the chant after the priest. All the heads turned as one towards Roman when the door

behind him closed with a loud slam.

The priest closed the book, making a sound that somewhat resembled the sound made

by the closing door, and spread his hands with a broad smile written across his face. "Our

prayers have been heard! The Masked Lord has sent his prophet to us." With that he crossed

his arms upon his chest and bowed deeply. Again, the rest of the gathered drow mimicked his

motions in minute detail, without rising from their feet. They never took their gazes off the floor

as the Chosen passed through the midst of the congregation, heading towards the priest.

"I have come indeed, Master Virlon," Roman spoke finally, realising that, to his

amazement, he knew the name of this person, whom he had never seen in his life. The answer

came to him mind immediately: he was aware of the priest.s name in the same way the door had

opened on its own accord, the same way he had gained unimaginable powers overnight. The

blood of his Lord was coursing strongly through his veins.

" been waiting for you, Master," Virlon said as Roman approached him and

touched the back of his head, a silent signal for him to raise his eyes. "I see that you know my

name, but I shall introduce myself anyway: Virlon Pressi, at your service, Master, prepared to

act upon every command of the Masked Lord and his Chosen," the drow finished his well-

prepared introduction.

"Faith is substantiated by deeds, not words or empty prayers," Roman started, suddenly

turning around to face the gathered drow. His voice boomed in the empty chapel, suddenly

magically enhanced by the will of Vhaeraun. "Thus, I shall attempt to be as brief as possible."

"The time of the Return draws near," he continued, referring to the conquering of the

surface lands that Vhaeraun.s clerics preached, "and the shadows of the Underdark shall soon

be replaced by the moonlight of the Night Above. For you, and for the rest of the drow whose

hearts beat for the Masked Lord, the time of triumph is near. The tyranny of the Bitch Queen

and her priestesses is at end, and you are to be the first to enjoy this freedom. Go now; reflect

upon what I have said, and prepare for the Call, for those who come unprepared shall be left

behind. Dead."

Roman and Virlon watched as, one by one, the believers sifted out of the chapel in utter

silence.

"Master Roman," Virlon addressed him, this time sounding far more confident, which

suited Roman better. "Have you any special tasks you wish to place before me?"

"I want you to single out only strong individuals, those are able to care of themselves,

for the first trial. It will not be easy to establish a self-supporting settlement on the surface,"

Roman spoke in a low tone. "The rest would be nothing but an obstacle in our path. It will be

much easier to bring them up later, once we have created some sort of permanent settlement

Above."

" see what I can do, but I cannot promise much. Come to think of it, twenty warriors

I can guarantee for."

"There is another matter," Roman continued. "I will send you four warriors who have

joined me on my way. I spared their lives, and in exchange they swore fealty to Vhaeraun and

myself. I have little faith in their promises. Test their faith, and should my premonition turn out

to be correct-"

"Have them slain," Virlon completed the thought.

Had the mask allowed his emotions to surface, Roman would have been wearing a

wicked, broad grin.

"Now, do you know of a way to the surface?" Roman asked, his voice stern once again.

Virlon took a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes in anger. His face was far too

wrinkled to fit the rest of his morphology. He was young, perhaps some years older than

Roman, but many worries had creased his once handsome features, hiding behind his

expressionless eyes. "The path to the surface, master… well, it is complicated. The first problem

is the Mayor. No one is allowed to leave the city without his permission."

"Why is this?" asked Roman.

"Actually, we could slip through the passage you came by, but then we would have to

take a route around the city, which would end up costing us more than three tendays. The way

we seek, though, is through Fort Cane. That is the fortress you probably noticed, and it is also

the home of the Mayor. You wish to go through, you need his permission. It is as simple as

that." Virlon finished, awaiting the next question.

"Tell me more about the Mayor. Who is he, what does he do and which god does he

follow?" Roman was never the one to let the grass grow.

Virlon paused for a moment, sorting out the questions in his mind. "He.s not drow, if

you suspected that. He is a human, and an ancient one at that."

Roman was surprised beyond all possible means. A human mayor, in a city in the

Underdark? That could explain the strange relations among the inhabitants of the city.

Humans, he thought bitterly. Nothing seemed to be beyond the grasp of that short-lived race.

"So?" he asked Virlon, who was waiting patiently.

"His name is Cane Balotain," Virlon proceeded, "and he is a wizard of remarkable

power. A necromancer, to be more specific; one of those who deal in the unholy arts of the

Unlife. He came to the Underdark many years ago, after he was banished from the city of

Silverymoon because of his interest in the Dark School of Magic. Which god follows, I do know,

but I suspect it is a human counterpart of Kirianslee, or something similar."

"And why does he keep the city sealed at that side?"

"That is also beyond my perception, but I suspect he wants control those who enter and

leave, making a selection in both groups. And it.s easier to keep all of the forces concentrated at

defending only one side." Virlon replied with a casual shrug.

"Or perhaps he is playing god," Roman said more to himself. "And that is not the game

to be played."

"See if you can arrange a meeting with him nevertheless, and we shall try to acquire the

writ legally. It should not be a problem to obtain it for one person." Roman said, feeling he had

spent too much time in useless chatter.

"One?" Virlon asked, "You plan on going Above alone?"

"Most likely. I have a few competent companions with me, but I doubt they are

interested in going with me. Don.t worry about that. Your job is to oversee the preparations,

and to answer my call once I.m above. I.m sure He will find a way to get the faithful out of the

city without any writs. Arrange the meeting with this… Caine as soon as possible, and may

Vhaeraun shed His shadow over you." With those words Roman stormed out of the temple,

determination clearly perceivable in his steps.

As he had predicted, the temple door closed behind him silently, and in that split second

he was certain his god was truly with him. His confidence was reinforced with a sense of

purpose he had never felt in his life. For a moment he forgot all about his problems, forgot

Vinera.s death in Ched Nasad, the Ivril family and their dark affairs, even the hatred for Lolth

and her priestesses. His lips were curved in a sincere smile behind the mask, and his body

throbbed with uncontainable power.

His time had come.

..

Tadran, Wode and the four remaining warriors from the eradicated patrol sat in the

Dark Waters tavern, laying back in comfortable chairs and sipping chilled, green drow wine

from silvered goblets. The tavern was huge, a round counter dominating the center of the room.

Half-naked waitresses flitted around the guests, carrying drinks and food on large, oval metallic

trays. Their bodies were oiled, further emphasizing their curves, and they wore nothing except

miniature leather skirts low on their hips. Of course, most of the visitors were male, and they

made no attempts at concealing the reason why they had chosen that particular tavern to have a

drink or two in.

Wode was also staring at the waitresses. He was bothered by the disgusted looks they

cast upon his monstrous hand. They were not the only ones. He had caught somebody staring at

him more than once, only to avert his gaze when it met the wizard.s. He looked outlandish, to

say the least; this he had to admit to himself. Almost six feet tall, he was considered a giant by

drow standards, and the troll claw hardly helped him blend in with the crowd. He had bought

new clothes in a store on their way to the inn, and taken a refreshing bath in his room, which

somewhat improved his overall appearance.

He sat with his hand supporting his chin, giving Tadran a clear sign he wasn.t interested

in his stories about dwarven battle marches against the Duergar. The four young warriors were

lucky they hadn.t tried to tell boring stories of their own, for he doubted he would treat them

with the same the courtesy he showed toward the dwarven king. Actually, he still wasn.t sure

what Roman had been thinking when he took them along. As far as Wode was concerned, they

would be carrion food by now. Or, even better, consumed and digested carrion food.

Folk entered and left the tavern all the time, and it was hard to keep account of possible

threats. Wode.s eyes fell upon a group of humans who had just entered the tavern. They wore

the same insignia as the drow patrol that had brought them into the city, but they were clad in

metal head to toe, carrying nothing but horned helmets in their hands. They had huge two-

handed swords strapped to their backs, and Wode was unwillingly reminded of Kalannar. One

difference, though: the weaponmaster had never carried his sword in its sheath. Wode

wondered who was further from home, the human guards or him.

It.s not that he disliked humans; he just didn.t feel comfortable around them, he

thought, as the warriors seated themselves and ordered a round of drinks from an exquisite

looking drow waitress. Human lives were ten times shorter than those of the drow, yet they

managed to achieve more. Their kingdoms spread through the Night Above with each passing

day, and their wizards were well known even in the depths of the Underdark. A pat on the

shoulder reminded Wode where he was.

"Contemplating lost time, eh, wizard?" Roman said as he pulled another chair and

seated himself beside the ex-wizard.

Wode didn.t bother to respond.

"I.m not accompanying you to Ssamath," he stated as he took a sip from Wode.s goblet.

"I.m heading for the surface."

Tadran.s eyes widened in shock, and the rest of the party eyed Roman as if he was

insane.

Wode was the only one who didn.t seem the least bit bothered or surprised by the

sudden change of the assassin.s plans. He knew that, in fact, the change was far from sudden.

Roman was the Chosen of Vhaeraun, and it would be strange if he failed to aspire to take the

drow to the Night Above. The problem was that Wode didn.t know what to do himself. Ssamath

would have been an excellent prospect had he still been a wizard, but without his arcane

knowledge going there would be a mission without any possibility of completion.

"Then I shall take you to the surface," Tadran said, breaking the thread of Wode.s dark

thoughts.

"There is no need for that, really," Roman answered, but Wode sensed a lack of

sincerity in his voice. His next words confirmed Wode.s presumption. "But I would be more

than honored to have you by my side, Tadran."

"So much about that matter, then," spoke the dwarven chieftain between two sips of

wine.

"What about us?" one of the drow warriors asked; his name was Kyon, if Wode

remembered correctly. "We cannot go back to Ched Nasad; they would kill us on sight!"

"I sincerely doubt you would even reach Ched Nasad," Roman responded. "I have

arranged something else for the four of you. You are to stay in Yldisso, in the Temple of

Vhaeraun. The ranking priest, Virlon, will explain you your duties."

The warriors exchanged looks of satisfaction, pleased that their dangerous journey

through the Underdark had come to an end. Kyon nodded, and continued to enjoy his drink

and the view of the waitresses. Yldisso wasn.t so bad after all.

"Well?" Roman said, addressing the warrior. Kyon gave him a confused look over the

goblet in his hand.

"What?" Kyon managed to squeeze out hesitantly.

"You know where the temple is, and yet, I still see you here," Roman said in a sharp,

dangerous tone.

It turned out to be quite enough of a reminder for the drow from Ched Nasad. Without

a single word, they stood up, picked their travel packs up and disappeared through the door.

Tadran, Wode and Roman didn.t stay much longer, eager to get some real rest after days spent

on their perilous voyage.

..

Although they hadn.t experienced any problems in the two days they spent in Yldisso,

Tadran simply could not unwind in the wretched city. He was bothered by the breath of evil

heavy upon his neck all the time. He had seen only one or two dwarves, and by their looks he

knew they would hardly be appropriate drinking company. A real dwarf had nothing to hide

from, and even if he had a problem, he would rather die that avoid it. Yldisso was definitely not

the place for a dwarf to be.

For a drow, on the other hand, it felt like home.

Drinking his second glass of the potent drow wine, Wode noticed a group of newcomers

in the tavern. The five travellers were dressed in black leather, their piwafwi hoods covering

their faces, allowing Wode to notice that they were drow. He could not presume otherwise

anyway, having noted their slender figures and graceful movements. They bore fine swords,

plainly enhanced by magical means as no one would bother to carve such intricate decorations

into a mundane weapon. One of the travellers had caught his attention in particular. He moved

in a fluid, elastic manner that was strangely familiar to the wizard; yet he still failed to

remember whom those fluent motions belonged to. The person surveyed the tavern closely, and

finally motioned for its companions to seat themselves at the free table. He headed toward

Wode.s table as soon as the rest seated themselves.

The drow approached the table and, without saying a word, sat on the sole unoccupied

chair. Roman and Tadran gave the drow a defiant stare.

"I don.t remember placing a „sit if you wish. sign on that chair," Roman said cynically.

"Please do correct me if I.m wrong, Master Tadran."

The dwarf scratched his beard nervously, placing his other hand upon his axe. "Friend,"

he addressed the drow, "I think it would be best if you took that chair and moved over to

another table. This place is not that crowded tonight."

Wode was silently scrutinizing the newcomer instead. He noticed the azure ring on the

drow.s left hand, and smiled sarcastically. "I see you have found a new healer," he said,

"perhaps even better than your former one. What is it you desire, Hathra?" he spoke, his voice

suddenly losing its pretended warmth.

Hathra took the hood off his head with his right hand, bored with the petty game.

Roman clenched his fists, a definite sign he had recognized the ill bard of House Ivril. Fomerly

ill, that is, for now Hathra appeared in better health than ever before. He had suffered from the

parasite disease, a debilitating ailment that had been eating slowly away at his lungs, for

decades. His eyes were once yellow, as yellow as his hair - one of the plainest signs that a drow

was nearing his death. Now the eyes were ruby-red; the hair had retrieved its glossy silvery

shine.

Wode knew that magic could hardly have been the cause of Hathra.s recovery. He had

once been the one who supplied the bard with strong pain-relieving concoctions, and Wode.s

alchemical skills were matched by few in Ched Nasad. But the proof of the cure was in front of

him: the terrible, painful cough that had once wracked the lithe figure of the ailing bard was

gone.

"Will someone explain me who in the Nine Hells this fool may be?" Tadran yelled and

slammed his fist upon the tabletop, reinforcing his point. He was at a loss concerning the

stranger.s identity, but the mounting tension between the unfamiliar drow and his companions

was almost tangible. "I sense something… evil about his ways."

"Must be because my heart has ceased beating a while ago, dwarf," Hathra answered

before Wode and Roman could. His voice was disturbingly cold and even. "And I have come to

pay a visit to two of my oldest friends."

Roman did not lose his nerve, or at least he pretended not to. "What seek you, vampire?

And on whose behalf do you dare show yourself before us?" He knew Hathra could be nothing

else but a vampire, for all other undead creatures appeared far less pleasant to the eye. His stare

fixed the scarlet irises of the bard, ignoring what he had heard about the dominating gaze of the

vampires.

"Some time before the two of you made your… „retreat.," Hathra began, "I was given a

proposal I simply couldn.t turn down. I was given a hope of healing my disease; what price

could be too high for such an offer?" Wode listened to Hathra.s story intensely, realizing he

wasn.t the only one who had kept his dealings secret in House Ivril back in those days.

"After I had completed the book celebrating the return of the Ivrils to the City of

Shimmering Webs," Hathra continued, "the Matron - late Matron Nedylene – was more than

generous with the reward. Of course, I had nothing else to spend my money on, and saving it for

the future was hardly an option, considering the state of my health back then. I became a patron

of many of the city.s houses of pleasure. One night I ended up in one such house, reserved for

the members of ruling houses exclusively," he made a pause and parted the ends his piwafwi,

uncovering a beautiful set of breastplate armor emblazoned with silver spiders. "Where was I?

Oh, I remember now. I was enjoying my narcotics in the company of a beautiful lady named

Abora of House Auvryndar, and she told me there were ways to cure even the incurable. No

sooner did she speak of this, than she captured my attention." Hathra narrated slowly,

deliberately irritating the listeners with his story. They were eager to get to the part that would

explain why he had come after them, although some suspicions were already forming in their

minds.

"Thus Abora bestowed her love, and eternal life, upon me, and my part was simply to

spy on the Ivrils on her behalf." Hathra gave a brief, forced chuckle of self-admiration. "All I

had to do was play my role of the sick little bard nobody considered a threat, and relay to Abora

all the important plans Nedylene and her children had in their wicked minds."

"You betrayed the house," Wode smiled ironically. "You are no better than the two of

us. Betrayal is the worst sin of all, and you had to escape from Ned-… Akordia.s wrath."

"So you think, Wode," Hathra eyed the wizard, "But Akordia forgave me the „sin., as

you refer to it."

"I don.t believe you," the wizard shook his head.

"Do not be so hasty, please; someone of your age should at last know of patience. By the

way, you look much older than the last time I saw you. Another experiment with you playing the

role of a laboratory rat?" Hathra teased. Although vampires did not know fear, they knew good

judgment, and something in Wode.s eyes told him it would not be smart to push the matter

further.

"So," the undead bard shifted to a different subject, "as I told you, it was pretty easy to

fool Matron Akordia at first, but then I found out that Abora had a spy in almost every House

in the city. Although we don.t feel, or at least that is what they say, the realization shook me to

the very core of my still heart, and I could not bear it any more."

"Thirty little Hathras, thirty passionate lovers," Roman laughed audibly, drilling into

Hathra.s soul, if that was the proper expression. "Please do proceed."

"With Akordia.s money and the help of an independent wizard, I slew my mistress and

returned to House Ivril. Akordia was more than happy to have me back, with my newly

acquired powers. And so my little story comes to its end. I hope it did not bore you to tears,"

finished Hathra with a wide grin, presenting his pearl-white fangs to view for the first time.

"And you came all the way from Ched Nasad to acquaint us with your petty, pathetic

love story?" Roman asked, appearing dead serious. " Excellent. Accept our commiseration and

disappear from my sight, as I have heard you vampires are capable to."

"Oh, another thing," Hathra said, ignoring Roman.s stings. "You can consider

yourselves dead. You have slain the daughter of Aunrae Nasadra, the Matron of the ruling

house. Her ally, the demon Kaanyr Vhok, has already sent his beasts after you. Yet I sincerely

hope they won.t find you; I hope you die today." And with those words the vampire faded out of

view, evaporating into a cloud of greenish gas.

Wode knew what was about to happen.

The four drow who accompanied Hathra into the tavern rose quickly from their seats,

unsheathing their sword and daggers simultaneously. White hair was visible beneath their

hoods, their red eyes burning with hatred and resolve as they stepped swiftly and gracefully

towards Wode and Roman.

Tadran was the first to react. The red-haired dwarf kicked the chair he was sitting on

into a far corner of the tavern and held his axe aloft, preparing to split the first attacker into

two neat halves. Roman stood up calmly, his hands hanging relaxedly down his sides. Wode

didn.t even bother standing up, following the cloud that was Hathra with his gaze out of the

tavern instead.

Just as Tadran was the first to react, so was he the first to suffer; the dwarven leader

went for his prepared over-head strike, but the first drow sidestepped with lightning speed and,

before Tadran could bring his axe back from its swing, went for the wicked two-weapon thrust.

The long and slender sword only nicked the dwarf.s calf, but the dagger dug deep in his

shoulder, the enchanted blade proving harder than Tadran.s mithril armor plating. By the time

the dwarf swung his axe in a low arc of retaliation, the attacker was already well out of its

deadly reach, licking the dwarven blood from his dagger with a fiendish smile.

Wode was brought to the floor by a shower of blades his opponent brought upon him,

but he ignored the countless repetitive stabs and slashes to his back, slowly attempting to regain

his footing. Wode.s blood and fragments of frayed flesh sprayed the entire tavern as the guests

scrambled to place some distance between them and the bloody massacre.

Roman was faring slightly better than his companions. He managed to swat aside the

strikes of his enemy, an unusually tall drow, almost as tall as Wode. The assassin dipped below a

backhanded blow of the sword, and struck the hand wielding the dagger away, creating a

sufficient opening for a vicious head-butt. His forehead connected with the jaw and nose of his

assailant, the bone splintering in a strike that would have brought an ogre dead to the ground.

The sheer power behind the blow sent the undead warrior to the floor, where he merely spat out

a mouthful of ground teeth and cartilage and sprang back to his feet as if unscathed.

At the same time the fourth assailant took a few steps forward and sprang off the

ground in a powerful, almost supernatural leap over Roman. The Chosen was quicker. He

kicked the chair at his feet upwards with his heel, sending it into collision with the flying drow.

The improvised projectile connected hard, sending the warrior crashing down on top of his

companion standing in front of Roman.

Visibly shaken, Tadran was fighting hard for his life. Another vicious wound was

visible on his left arm, combining with the two previous ones to provide a steady stream of

dwarven blood. But the dwarven king had suffered many a wound in his long life and he was

still alive. Alive, and lethal. With a prayer to Clangeddin Silverbeard, the dwarven god of battle,

upon his lips, he charged his opponent with his axe trailing down his left. That seemed to

confuse the drow facing him, and the warrior attempted only a half-hearted jab at Tadran.s

chest before the heavy axe began its killing semi-circular motion. The drow.s head flew a few

feet to the right, rolling away into the corner of the tavern. The body, however, simply vanished

in a puff of smoke, and all that remained was a small cloud of greenish gas that began creeping

slowly towards one of the tavern windows.

"Cursed vampires!" swore Tadran, his short, stubby legs already carrying his stout

figure toward Roman, who was evading the attacks of two flanking attackers with varying

success. Crying out the name of his god once more, Tadran charged towards his drow friend

and his opponents. But the loss of blood was unbearable, even for a sturdy dwarf; he felt the

floor moving below his legs, then rising to meet him in the face as the darkness of oblivion

slowly crept over him. He lay very still on the cold stone of the Darkwaters inn.

By the time the dwarven leader went down Wode had finally managed to regain his

footing and a single sweep of his claw sent the vampire flying across the tavern. The undead

warrior.s lungs were clearly visible through his tattered chain armor and ribcage, but he

quickly stood up and approached Wode nonetheless, this time with a bit more caution. He

circled the far slower wizard and launched barrage after barrage of stabs and slashed every

time Wode opened himself up to his two blades. The wizard.s wounds could not regenerate at

the same rate as they were inflicted, and he felt his life force slipping slowly away. He felt even

wearier when he saw Tadran.s lifeless form sprawled on the floor and Roman covered in dozens

of small wounds that bled profusely.

Having lost count of the time in the battle, Roman felt his body was betraying him. The

sinews ached and he felt dizzier with each attempted dodge. If he could only finish the battle

right away; if he could only shred the unholy things to pieces; if he could…

Suddenly, the Chosen of Vhaeraun closed his eyes and became perfectly still, evading

the blows with incredible ease. It seemed as if he knew where each strike was going even before

it was attempted. He felt his body change its form, his senses sharpen beyond all possible limits.

He focused his mind on the transformation ahead, turning himself into a hail of razor-sharp

whirling blades. He felt he was moving with incredible speed as the sound of snapping bones

and rended flesh surrounded him, sounding like beautiful music in his ears. Roman opened his

eyes and found himself standing beside the crouching mage. Three clouds of greenish vapor

seeped languidly towards the exit, but he didn.t bother following them to put the vampires to

their final death while they rested in their caskets. It was of no importance now. Hathra.s

monstrous progeny had been defeated.

Roman took a quick look at his comrades and was glad to see that both of them were

alive - severely wounded, but alive. Wode was looking at him with disbelief from his prone

position on the floor, waiting for his wounds to regenerate. Wode would be fully healed in a

matter of minutes, Roman thought, but Tadran presented a problem. The sturdy dwarf was

struggling hard to stand up to his feet, each attempt finishing in a hard impact with the floor

and a flow of dwarven curses. The curses told Roman that Tadran was in no trouble that a few

days of intensive healing in the temple of Vhaeraun wouldn.t get him out of.

"Drop your weapons!" a sharp, commanding voice boomed through the tavern. It came

from the mouth of a burly duergar clad in half-plate armor and armed with a huge maul. He

wore the insignia of the Yldisso guard, the familiar silver eye on a red background. Ten oher

duergar warriors stood behind the leader, dressed similarly, each carrying a heavy crossbow

with a wicked-looking barbed bolt in position. All the weapons were pointed at Roman.

"I have no weapons to drop, as you can undeniably observe, and my companions are

hardly in shape to put up adequate resistance to you and your good warriors," Roman

addressed the patrol leader, relieved to see the belligerent Tadran pass out again, "so, if you

could please put those crossbows down I would be more than grateful."

"I place you under arrest in the name of Lord Mayor Cane Balotain and the city of

Yldisso. Show no resistance for, if you do, we will be forced to gag you and place you in fetters,"

the patrol leader said, motioning for two of his warriors to help carry Tadran out.

Uncontrollable rage was building up inside Roman. He was battling the urge to use the

latest weapon Vhaerun had granted him and massacre the duergar as he had the vampires.

Tiny beads of sweat formed upon Roman.s brow and he clenched his fists, glaring hatefully at

the patrol leader.

"Lead the way, captain."

..

A young-looking, well-built man sat on a throne made of bones. His face bore not a

single scar, and only a few thin streaks of gray appeared in his long, raven-black hair. Not bad

for someone as ancient as him, Roman thought while he was entering the throne-room of Mayor

Cane in Yldisso.

Roman, Wode and Tadran had spent the last two days resting and healing their wounds

in the Temple of Vhaeraun. All of the charges against them were dropped after the witnesses in

the Darkwaters Inn had been taken in for questioning, and they were even compensated in gold

for their trouble. The compensation was worth less than nothing, but served to demonstrate that

there was indeed some form of law in the anarchic City of Refuge. The embodiment of that law

now sat in front of them.

Cane was dressed almost entirely in black, wrapped in a cloak that had been hand-

sewed part by part, giving it a scaly appearance. He bore no observable weapons or enchanted

jewelry that would provide him with protection from an unanticipated attack. A single necklace

with a pendant shaped into a clenched black gauntlet with a greenish glow surrounding it

adorned his throat. Roman recognized the pendant as the Black Hand of Bane, the holy symbol

of Bane, human god of tyranny.

One hulking figure, around fifteen feet in height, stood at each of his sides. Completely

motionless, they perched in their positions in heavy plated armor, clutching enormous axes that

could not have weighed under a hundred pounds. Had it not been for the red glow of the eyes

beneath their helms, they could easily be mistaken for a pair of empty, gargantuan suits of

twisted armor. As it was, they were more than enough to discourage any possible attempts on

Cane.s health and well-being.

The only sound in the room was the rhythm of Cane.s nails beating upon the bone hand-

rest of the throne, making the already anxious travellers even more so as they awaited Cane.s

decision concerning their writs, compulsory to everyone wishing to leave the city.

The truth was that Cane himself didn.t know what to do with them. The Mayor had a

difficult decision laid before him. It was against all of his principles, as well as the principles he

had set for the city, to allow three powerful figures to leave, at least without asking them for a

counter-favor. Yet he felt that he should let them go, and be done with it as soon as possible. His

gut feeling told him that the enemies hunting them were too powerful even for the small, but

surprisingly competent army of Yldisso to stop.

Cane Balotain had founded the city of Yldisso some forty years ago, after he descended

to the Underdark attempting to escape an entire squad of paladins of the Order of Radiant

Heart who had razed the Temple of Bane whose ranking priest he used to be. He had not made

the move alone, though, for three hundred elite warriors gathered under the banner of the

Black Hand had accompanied him on his journey, finally settling in an ancient dwarven fortress

on the edge of the big flooded cavern that was to become Yldisso.

Positioned on the outer periphery of the dwarven kingdom of Ammarindar, the Yldisso

cavern was in the center of an unusually long and narrow Underdark tunnel that had no side

entrances or outlets for fifty miles on either side of the city. It was an ideal position for the plan

presented to him in a dream by a figure he believed was the Black Lord himself; to seal one side

and open the other, and rule over all who seek refuge in his realm. Obviously the dwarves had

noticed the same thing, since a magically reinforced adamantine gate blocked the passage

beneath the fort - the western entrance to the cavern. Cane, a formidable wizard himself, soon

discovered the way to open and close the gate, and the golden age of Yldisso could begin.

Renegades and runaways constituted a vast majority of the travellers, and Cane offered

each of them, regardless of race or religion, a place in his army in exchange for shelter. Most of

the travellers had been more than happy to accept the offer, and those who didn.t were simply

eliminated. Slowly, the city expanded and the word of it reached the larger Underdark cities.

Merchants seeking greater wealth arrived, asking for permission to inhabit the old dwarven

buildings and start their businesses. They were welcomed. More renegades running away from

troubles in their home cities sought a secure haven. They were welcomed.

At one point entire clans of duergar, orcs and drow came to the city, offering a certain

part of their warriors to serve in the army. Temples of Gruumsh, Laduguer, Vhaeraun and

Ghanadaur were founded in Yldisso and Cane watched his tour de force grow, ruling with an

iron hand and exercising severe retribution for each crime committed in the city. Yldisso had a

surprisingly small crime rate for such a multiracial city, and no single clan or faction ever dared

question Cane.s authority, for the Guard of Yldisso easily outclassed any two clans combined in

power.

But the true strength of the city lay in individuals such as Roman, Wode and Tadran,

fugitives of immense power who were given the ranks of captains, colonels, special consultants,

high priests or whatever other position they asked for. General Sanro Myl, for example, a

Vhaerunite drow battlemage of great skill who currently served as head of the Guard; or

the Oozemaster, a drow high priest of Ghanadaur, head of his deity.s church in the city;

or Lazar Firspawn, a demented, yet controllable Duergar sorcerer and head of the Firespawn

clan. Each of them was more than able to wipe out an entire squadron of Scoured Legion

Tannaruks single-handedly, and they all stood at Cane.s disposal in times of need.

And he could just imagine what a useful acquisition the three travelers standing in front

of him would be to his forces. A Chosen of Vhaeraun, if one was to believe Virlon – and Cane

never questioned the priest - could attract numerous followers of his deity to the city. Still, he

felt he had to let them go. For the safety of the city and, more importantly, for his own.

Cane let out a deep sigh, and rose from his throne.

"I will let you go," he finally announced, "and that is because your presence in the city is

undesirable. You have become the target of creatures too powerful even for Yldisso to defend

you from."

Tadran felt relieved at the news. With obvious disgust he thought of how what once had

been a proud dwarven kingdom had turned into the sanctuary of filth who animated dead to

serve him. An atrocious notion, for certain.

"Thank my good will and Virlon for your permission," Cane stated arrogantly. "Let

these writs be payment for the trouble you endured, and my people should have prevented.

Take these and leave before more cohorts of the Matrons of Ched Nasad and Kaanyr Vhok

come into my city," he finished and nonchalantly handed three rolled parchments to Virlon.

Roman gave out a cynical smile. "It.s not in our interest to stay here any longer. It seems

we are safer in the savage tunnels of the Underdark than here, in the City of Refuge," he said,

emphasizing the last word.

All color disappeared from Cane.s face, and he struggled hard to control his fury.

Instead of burning Roman down with magic, he only snapped his fingers at one of drow guards

standing at the entrance to the room. "The soldiers shall escort you to the gate," he stated icily.

"Once you have left the city, search for the tower of sage Krissiun Renovar in the Mines of

Blood. He should be able to help you find your way to the surface. I have given you his name

only because I don.t want to see you here again. Ever." And with those words Mayor Cane

marched out of the room, motioning for the guards not to escort him.

"Shall we, masters?" a guard addressed the travelers, tilting his head towards the exit.

" you waiting for? Lead the way," Tadran was more than happy to answer him.

He felt nostalgic, missing his clan, food, tent and everything else about the stand. He hoped the

exit to the surface was near, so he could return to his folk. But first, the debt towards Roman

had to be repaid.

..

The humid tunnels of the Mines of Blood had not been named after a bloody battle, as

their name would suggest, but after the rich veins of the rare mineral known as the Blood Opal.

The dwarves had mined the precious stone renowned for its magic-storing capabilities for

generations.

The opals were long gone now, though, just like their diligent miners. The dwarves had

retreated first, suffering constant attacks of abyssal creatures that mined out the gems to use

them for their foul sorcery. With the absence of the Opal, the interest for the mines had

diminished and now they served only as the home of numerous Underdark creatures. A home

without a host, noted Tadran. The smell of decaying flesh and dried blood was all that could be

sensed in the mines. The deadly silence had always been a bad sign, filling the travelers with

anxiety and fear. The good thing was that they didn.t have much time to let these emotions grow

into a concern, since patches of black fungi were visible in many places in the narrow tunnel

they passed through. They had to slip by the deadly plants before they released clouds of tiny

spores that had the power to close the air pipes in the body, suffocating any breathing creature

in the matter of minutes. Tadran didn.t know whether to feel relief or dread when the tunnel

opened up into a large chamber. The chamber had no visible floor, and the only way across was

over a three-foot wide natural rock bridge, which reached a few hundred feet across. It was

marvelous how the bridge simply stood by itself, not to mention how it supported the weight of

creatures going across it.

Tadran nonchalantly kicked a few stones into the chasm, and he wasn.t surprised when

there was no sound of them striking the ground. He had heard of the place called Lower

Underdark, a place where no known creature could live from the extensive heat and radiation.

Perhaps that was where this chasm led. However, he had no desire to explore it and see; not

now, when they were so close to their goal. The guard who escorted them out of Yldisso told

them that Krissiun.s tower lay "beyond The Bridge". He had not described it in detail, but this

was something that most definitely deserved the idiom "The Bridge".

"This should be it," Wode said, clearly sharing Tadran.s thoughts. The wizard felt

weariness overcome his limbs, and so did his two companions. The constant walking and

wounds that formed before they could heal had affected them more than one could notice. They

were close to the point at which they would drop, unable to continue.

"I hope that person, Krissiun, has some beds and food to spare," Roman said as he

stepped towards the bridge.

"And ale, of course," Tadran said cheerfully, his spirits up from the sheer thought of the

refreshing liquid. "Stop dragging yourself as a snail, Wode. I want a big mug of ale, and

have to carry you if you don.t hurry up." Wode responded with a hateful glare, and moved in

line behind Tadran. The speed at which he moved would have shamed a zombie… had zombies

been capable of feeling shame.

Tadran decided to hold his tongue. He strode purposefully, trying to keep himself far

from the edges. Heights did not sit well with dwarves, and he was no exception. Roman moved a

few feet in front, and Wode was crawling behind, moving from edge to edge, looking like he

would fall over it at any moment.

They were half way across when Roman brought his hand up and signaled for them to

stop. Tadran hadn.t noticed anything disturbing, and neither had Wode, but they knew enough

to trust Roman.s keen senses. Tadran slowly removed the heavy axe off his shoulder and

gripped it hard with both hands. Wode moved beside him, suddenly looking revitalized, a spark

flickering in his eyes. The troll inside him was about to taste blood.

"I sensed vibrations," Roman whispered. Using the drow hand code was probably wiser

under the circumstances, but he wanted Tadran to know what was going on as well. "Be careful.

I think something huge is latched to the bottom side of the bridge."

A second series of vibrations started, this time strong enough for Wode and Tadran to

sense them. The entire structure was shaking, small pebbles rolling off into the endless depths

beneath. A slow and audible sound of breathing could be heard as something massive made its

way up the side of the bridge. Roman moved back a bit, to fall in line with his companions, and

clenched his fists. Tadran.s knuckles went white from the force his fingers exerted on the handle

his axe as the creature slowly found its way up. As it became visible, the dwarven chieftain

thanked Clangeddin for the present his god had sent him.

In front of him stood the demon that had killed his friends Bodo, Dogur, Dogrilor and

the other clan warriors on the day of his and Grudar.s rescue from the dirty clutches of the

Tannaruk. The day of revenge was here and Tadran gave out a whole-hearted laugh, puzzling

his drow companions. The demon seemed confused by the unexpected behavior of the

redheaded dwarf as well, and it twisted its face into a hideous grimace that made it appear even

more repulsive.

The huge body towered over twenty feet, as wide as the bridge, blocking the way

towards Krissiun.s tower. It was streaked with pumping veins and muscles that seemed

disproportional with the small, barbed head. Tadran saw that the lacked its right hand,

and in its place was a long, slender blade, its bluish hue masked with the black colour of dried

blood.

The demon moved slowly towards them, supporting its enormous weight with its arms

for better balance. Its multitudinous tattoos came to life as it walked slowly, making it look like

a bizarre, miniature world full of life. Tadran spat on the ground in response to the hideous

drawings that resembled life and charged towards the monster, hollering curses in dwarven

language.

"Die, cursed norogh," he swore, running surprisingly fast for someone of his build. "You

shall pay for your deeds, bloody wurgym!" Tadran placed all his strength behind the blow. The

axe sank deeply into demons thigh, all the way up to its handle, as waves of black blood sprayed

over the raging dwarf.

Shrieking with pain, the demon swatted the dwarf away with a backhanded strike of its

claw, sending him a couple of feet away. Luckily, Tadran controlled his motion and stopped his

bulk a few inches from the edge. He gritted his teeth, wiped the blood out of his eyes and went

for another lunge. This time, Wode and Roman accompanied him.

Roman was the first to reach the demon, kicking swiftly at the deep cut on the fiend.s

leg. The demon winced and clawed at the drow.s head. Roman evaded the blow by a split

second, but not quickly enough to step out of its way completely: the claw struck him on the

shoulder and chest, black talons slashing all the way to the bone. Blood erupted from the four

slashes, and Roman rolled away from the demon to recover from the pain. The fiend stomped

his foot at the place Roman had layed in moments ago but hit nothing but the bridge, sending it

shaking with the force of the blow.

Wode acted next. He flailed at the fiend.s groin twice, but to no avail. His claw bounced

off the thick leather hide that protected the . A precise, merciless answer followed. The

sword that substituted for the demon.s arm stabbed Wode in the midsection, opening a gaping

wound across his stomach. Wode retreated, cupping his spilling guts with his arms, waiting for

the wound to regenerate. The pain was slowly going away, but the burning monster blood in

him would be there forever.

Tadran made use of the fiend.s attention turning toward his, and slipped between the

monster.s legs to attack it from the back. Two vicious cuts opened across the demon.s back, and

the fiend turned vigilantly, ignoring Roman.s blows that landed all over his legs.

With a quick thrust the monster cut through Tadran.s armor, ribcage and lungs. Blood

and shredded pieces of armor flew and Tadran felt some embedding themselves in his flesh. All

the wounds in the fiend.s body closed themselves as he pulled his sword out of Tadran.s chest.

The monster was able to use the life energy it drew from its victims to heal itself. Roman leapt

on top of the monster, landing in a sitting position behind its neck, his fists beating a wild rhytm

at the base of the hideous skull.

The attempted to bring down the annoying drow, but Roman evaded each

attempt with relative ease, giving Tadran and Wode time to recover from their wounds. Tadran,

despite the huge wound across his chest, didn.t back out. For the third time he charged, this

time doing much more damage. He hit at the monster.s sword arm, just above the place where

the metal was magically fused with the flesh, the skilled slash sending the blade flying away and

into the gorge. The pain sent the demon into a frenzy none of the combatants had experienced

before. It grabbed Roman and slammed him down on the bridge. Bones rattled from the

impact, and the chosen began crawling away from the abhorrent fiend, fighting to remain

conscious.

The demon realized it could not toy with his opponents, as was its hateful custom, but

instead went to complete the duty he had been tasked with and retreat to heal his wounds. He

stepped towards the crawling Roman and towered above the drow to finish what it had come

for: to slay Roman Valbrinar in the name of its master Kaanyr Vhok and his ally, Matron

Aunrae Nasadra.

Roman shut his eyes when he saw the demon approach with determination. He wished

for a quick, painless death, and hoped he deserved it. The multitude of corpses that trailed in his

wake wherever he went was doubtlessly waiting anxiously for his soul. He only regretted that he

hadn.t left his final signature on this demon, as the dwarven king Dogrilor did. He was

expecting the final blow, but it was never to come, at least not at hands of the foul demon. He

opened his eyes looking for the fiend, but it was no longer there. He could only see Tadran

leaning over the edge of the bridge a couple of feet away. Then he saw something else: a

greenish claw still latched onto the edge, the talons slipping slowly away, making deep abrasions

in the stone.

He crawled towards the edge and etended his head over to get a better view of what was

happening. Grasping the edge of the bridge with his troll hand, Wode was still hanging on with

the demon grabbing his lower limbs. They were both very still, even the demon realizing how

perilous its thrashing would be for both while he held onto Wode.s legs. Apparently the wizard

had succeeded in somehow pushing the fiend off the bridge, but he had brought himself into

dire peril in the process. The wizard looked at Roman with a pleading look as the fiend slowly

began to make its way up Wode.s body. There was no way the unfortunate mage could get rid of

the demon, or even pull them both up. There was only one solution.

Wode.s claw surrendered its hold on the bridge, and both him and the demon went

down into the dark gorge in a combined, cacophonous scream that forced chills up Tadran.s

spine. Just like moments ago, when Tadran tossed the pebbles into the chasm, there was no

sound of the bodies reaching the bottom. If, indeed, there was a bottom to be reached.

..

The refuge of Krissiun the sage was far from what Roman had imagined. A derelict

fortress stretched before him, appearing as if it had suffered the damage of hundreds of attacks

but never been repaired. A large stalagmite constituted the central building, upon which leaned

a smaller tower used for defensive purposes. A hollow, dome-shaped stalactite descended upon

the unusual construction from the massive ceiling of the cavern, decorated by a multitude of

windows carved into its side.

Ruined bridges, many of which appeared entirely out of commission, linked the many

parts of the bizarre construction. A worn-down wall of what once had been thick stone,

cavernous holes stretching through its entire length, encircled the entire structure. Cobwebs

and fungi had long ago conquered the site, having found an ideal place to flourish. Tadran.s

eyes flitted around, expecting to run into the ambush of another demon any moment.

His last experience with fiendish creatures had been nearly lethal, and the dwarven

leader would rather die than allow his carelessness place him and his companion into similar

danger. They no longer had the monstrous breeded wizard, or his suicidal tendencies, in their

company. The silent stronghold appeared utterly devoid of life, and the redheaded dwarf idly

wondered whether one of the demonic denizens of the Underdark had not already paid a visit to

the sage they were seeking.

He could only hope not…

Krissiun was Roman.s sole chance of reaching the Night Above. Tadran.s debt had

already been repaid by showing Roman the way to Yldisso. He had decided to bid Roman

farewell once they reached the sage, and return to the Stand and his clan as soon as possible. His

journey was over, but he could not leave the drow to his fate in the treacherous reaches of the

Underdark.

However, Roman had proved that he could handle the many obstacles that stood in his

way. Wode and Tadran had only slowed him in his tracks. The dwarven king gazed at

companion, watching him approach the large stalagmite. The oval entrance to the building was

completely shrouded in spider webs, a certain sign that no one had passed through it for

months. Roman reached the gateway and turned round, signalling Tadran that the path was

clear.

The king stepped tentatively toward the door, taking a brief glance into the spacious

oval chamber that lay beyond. The stalagmite tower that had once reached dozens of feet

upward now lay in ruins, having apparently collapsed down its mid-section. Tadran could make

out the ceiling of the tower through the gaping hole that stretched across the floors of the tiers,

created by a powerful explosion.

"There is nothing to find here but dust and spiders," Tadran muttered. "No one has

surely lived here for ages…"

Roman remained silent. Having scrutinized the area before him, he turned toward the

small stalactite that descended from the cavern ceiling. The side that touched the stone bottom

ended in a stairway, which in turn led into an opening. Dark and silent, it was wide enough to

allow for passage.

The two travellers moved toward the opening cautiously. Tadran.s fists grasped his axe,

his glance darting from side to side, while Roman moved without making a sound, nimbly

covering several yards in a single step. His watchful eye sought hidden traps in the ground, but,

to his relief, found none.

Tadran was the first to venture into the circular cavity; Roman saw him step inside and

then halt suddenly, lowering his deadly axe. The assassin was behind him in an instant, peeking

behind the dwarf.s mighty shoulders and wondering what had caused him to stop. The scene

that appeared before him was more than surprising.

At the end of an enormous square chamber stood a crude throne of stone and steel, its

hand-rests carved with intricate symbols Roman could not identify from the distance. An aged

human robed in a well-worn cape sat upon it; his bony hand clutched a silver harp, his steely

gaze fixed on the dwarven king. Before his feet a minor dragon laid serenely, its sleek, scaly

body measuring at least four feet in length. The dragon.s head appeared small in proportion to

its length. Two beady eyes burned with an eerie green fire and a row of pearly, razor-sharp

teeth decorated its narrow maw. The slender body rested before its master, the wings clasped to

its sides. Tadran.s gaze slipped toward the black claws of considerable size that could rend his

mithril armor to shreds in a matter of moments, a notion that made him more than uneasy.

A beautiful drow female perched upon a stack of cushions to the right of the old man.s

seat. Her comely features were framed in long strands of white hair, arranged in a multitude of

braids. A single scar marred the flawless skin of her right cheek, a clear sign that the enormous

claymore that lay beside her was not there for decorative purposes. The hilt of the emerald steel

blade rested upon her ready right palm, the left hand holding its leather sheath in position.

Several ornamental slits in the sides of the sheath revealed the precious metal of the blade. The

drow moved slowly toward the old man.s throne, leaning upon its hand-rest protectively and

scrutinizing the newcomers. The robe and black chain armor she was clad in could not conceal

the lean, sinewy body beneath.

"You must be Roman, the one I am expecting," the aged human addressed the Chosen

of Vhaerunn. "The dwarf, then, must be king Tadran."

" right in what you presume, old man," Tadran mumbled belligerently.

"Considering the state your residence is in, we had thought that Cane had fooled us."

Krissiun smiled with melancholy, gazing at Tadran. "Forgive me for the state of my

home, king Tadran," he replied, emphasizing the last two words, "but, in my opinion, there are

other matters for you to worry… or grieve about."

Tadran.s face turned grey with fury, his eyes sinking underneath the auburn brows in a

frown. "What speak you about, human?" the dwarf burst out, clenching his mighty fists until

the knuckles turned white. "Be more clear in what you say, or…"

"All in good time, Master Tadran," replied Krissiun, calming the king. "First, allow me

to introduce my spouse, Vanya Gezzir. I have completely forgotten about the members of my

household."

"Rather uncommon for a human, to wed a drow," noted Roman, having inspected the

appearance of the stunning warrior in minor detail. "What is your story, sage, if I may inquire,

unless you have decided for it to remain a secret?"

The old man smiled amiably, making a circular motion with his hand. A large table

appeared in the middle of the chamber, laid out with an abundance of delectable food of all

sorts and excellent wines. Tadran was overjoyed at the prospect of the feast, but something

nagged him inside the back of his skull; the old man.s words had delivered an icy stab of dread

to his heart, and he could not will the sensation away.

"Let us eat first," Krissiun proposed. "I have many things to say to both of you." Roman

noticed two heavily armed guards enter the hall after they had seated themselves. One of them

was also a human, of Krissiun.s age if not even older, armed with a heavy flail. The massive,

jagged ball of the weapon trailed behind him on a length of chain, the other end attached to a

long metal handle, making a scraping noise on the stone floor. His head was all but completely

bald with several thin strands decorating its fringes. A well-kept moustache and short, trimmed

beard dominated the face that bore hardly any lines, despite the man.s advanced age. His figure

defied the years, his stature just as straight and proud as that of his drow companion who had

just stepped into adulthood by drow standards.

.

.

..

Judging from the pair of thin, curved swords hanging down his sides, the drow was an

expert in fighting with two weapons, the Draa Velve, as the drow termed it; few warriors could

boast mastery of this style. His bony face turned toward the visitors, the stare both empty and

intimidating at the same moment.

"The two warriors behind you are Twyll and Kendal," Krissiun broke the tense silence.

"Kendal came to the Underdark with me when I was forced to leave my dwelling on the

Surface."

The sage motioned the warriors to approach the table. The human obliged, but the drow

remained in his place, his watchful eyes fixed on the entrance.

"When Kendal and I descended into the Underdark, we came across a drow stronghold.

They were locked in a bitter struggle with their brethren from Ched Nassad," Krissiun

continued over a sip of wine. "The conflict had, from what I could gather, arisen from religious

discord. Be as it may, the two of us became involved I the strife. The only drow who have

managed to survive the strife and escape before the armies of the chief Matron of Ched Nassad

are these who now stand before you."

The story struck Roman as unusual, yet failed to explain the reason behind Krissiun

Renovar.s descent into the Underdark.

"Thus, Vanya became my spouse," the old man sighed. "As time passed I obtained

another companion," he added, motioning toward the dragon, whose green eye rested

watchfully upon its master, "a dragonling from the depths of the Underdark. Nevrolarre was

wounded and left for dead when I chanced across her. I healed her and she chose to remain by

my side."

"But why would a human descend to the Night Below?" Tadran inquired, voicing the

question inside Roman.s head. "It.s Hell for surface-dwellers here. What has brought you to

these cursed reaches, sage?"

Krissiun went silent for a few moments, his absent stare passing through the dwarf who

concentrated on tearing the flesh off a roasted rothe.s leg with his teeth and loudly sloshing wine

from his metal jug. Roman could perceive that the old man hesitated to reply. "The city I lived

in was under gnoll siege," he replied unwillingly. "The tribes had joined their forces, driven by

the hunger of winter, and needed precious human flesh to ensure their survival. The city was

about to fall under their constant attacks, so I attempted something desperate…"

The gnolls are voracious creatures," Tadran observed between mouthfuls. "They would

risk everything to find food. The hyena-men know no fear in times of hunger."

Krissiun nodded his agreement absent-mindedly.

"I summoned a demon from the deepest reaches of Hell to come to our aid," he

proceeded. "The fiend drove the gnolls off with ease, but the price to pay was enormous. His

powers exceeded mine by far, so he took control over the city, placing it at the mercy of his evil

reign. I managed to escape, together with my guard, Kendal, but the demon would not let me

leave that easily.

"A pact with Hell can never end well," he continued after pausing to cough. "When I

finally settled in this place he decided to leave me be. The presence of more powerful demons in

this area must have driven him off."

"Bad for you, old man," concluded Tadran, finishing off the remains of the food. "Goes

to show that the magic of fiends eventually takes you to hell too."

A malicious smile crossed Krissiun.s lips. His eyes gleamed, the smile widening into a

fiendish grin.

"Hell has claimed you, dwarf, even without the fiendish magic," he stabbed. "A hell far

beyond even the one I am in now…"

Tadran.s face turned scarlet, then white; all colour was drained from it as a crystal ball

appeared in the old man.s hands. The image that formed from the mist inside it was the familiar

one of the Stand. The dwarven village lay in ruins; Tadran could see drow, similar to those who

had attacked them in the Darkwaters Inn in Yldisso, the vampires of Hathra, armed with

swords and daggers, move nimbly among the countless corpses heaped upon each other. His

eyes could not hold back tears as dead children came into view, their eye-sockets empty and

throats cut, resting in the cold arms of their mothers. The dwarven king shook with grief as

Grudar.s head came into view, lying beside the stout body, hands still clasped around the hilt of

his battle-axe. The entire dwarven village was massacred.

All Tadran could do was to remove his stare from the crystal sphere and cover his face

with his hands. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, sobbing after the loss of lives of

those he had loved most. Roman dared not utter a word. He knew that he was the one to blame

for the fall of the Stand. Had Tadran not been noticed in his company in Yldisso, the Ivrils

would not have wreaked their gory vengeance upon the village. Tadran was beyond return;

even if he did go back to the Stand, dead bodies would be all he would find. Tadran.s helpless

gaze rested upon the hilt of his heavy axe, then moved toward the crystal sphere in Krissiun.s

withered palms, a glimmer of purpose flaring inside his emerald eyes.

"Nooo!" he roared, swinging the hafted blade at the ball. Krissiun could barely flinch

before the axe struck, sending tiny shards of shattered crystal across the room. "Curse be on the

drow! For eternity! Curse be on them all…"

No one dared to speak. Krissiun and Vanya sat rigidly, as if turned to stone, watching

the broad back of the dwarven warrior rise and disappear through the chamber archway. They

made no attempts at stopping him. The king without a kingdom needed some time on his own,

and they realised it. Roman wondered whether Tadran would become consumed by the

incessant darkness of depression, like Wode had upon losing his powers and life-force to the

demonic gates of Ammarindar.

He hoped not.

Roman was the only one to rest during their stay with the old sage. Tadran spent the

hours in silent prayer to the dwarven gods of war, pleading for justice and retribution. Krissiun

had, in the meantime, ordered Kendal and Twyll to prepare for journey; the two warriors

would, he decided, accompany Roman in his perilous travels. Cane Balotain, the ruler of

Yldisso, had commanded the sage to provide Roman with all the assistance available, and the

old man knew better than to let the necromancer down. He would have joined Roman himself,

had there been no alternative.

Several hours later they all gathered before the large stalactite. Krissiun traced the

ritual circle of teleportation upon the stony ground; the four travellers observed him sprinkle

fine amber dust around a number of small stones arranged in a circular fashion, the reddish

powder sparkling in the light shed by Kendal.s torch. Having completed the ceremony of

preparation, the old man motioned the four companions into the circle. One by one they

obliged, taking care not to disrupt the fine outline of amber dust with their feet. Krissiun

remained outside the circle. Vanya, his spouse, and his pet dragonling Nevrolarre joined him

soon and for a moment they stood motionlessly beside the circle, casting a parting gaze upon the

four.

"Farewell," spoke Krissiun, his nimble hands already conjuring the magic, dispersing a

shower of magical sparks that drew together to outline the voyagers. The amber dust emitted a

strong luminescence, then ignited into a circular wall of fire around Roman, Tadran, Kendal

and Twyll. By the time the flames had descended, Vanya could see them no more.

-Sagadaun-

Tadran never feared the opponents he encountered. He had stood against giants and

demons, drow and orcs and many more, and he had yet to experience the chilling grip of fear or

flee before the enemy. Once death was near, he thought, he would succumb to the stronger foe

and that would be the end. Now that he knew the Stand was no more, death seemed far more

acceptable; in a perverse way he even desired it: to perish as Wode had, dragging a mighty

opponent into the blackness of the abyss, toward the end of them both.

Yet one matter still bothered the red-headed dwarf, and it was the magic Krissiun had

used to send them on their hastened journey. The grey clouds beneath his feet made him uneasy

to say the least, and he could hardly wait to descend and feel the firmness of stone beneath his

feet. He sensed his body come to a stop and, as the haze dispersed, noticed Roman, Kendal and

Twyll standing beside him, surveying their surroundings and attempting to discern their

current location.

They were still in the Underdark, that much was obvious. The heavy, stale stench of the

tunnels and the everlasting darkness, even the coolness of the stone they stood on, clearly

pointed to that. The grave silence of the cavern they stood in and whose end he could not

perceive was interrupted by muffled sounds of battle that came northward from where they

were standing. Straining his eyes toward the direction of the noise, Tadran tried to discern the

creatures involved in the fight. Blood boiled in his veins as realisation set in. Fifteen tanarukks

surrounded a single drow who struggled to fend them off. The warrior stood no chance against

the swarm of short, stout, demon-tainted orcs, and Tadran could see that he was about to join

his fallen comrades whose carcasses lay scattered around the cavern.

"Foul, reeking half-breeds!" Roman cried in the orcish tongue. "Come, challenge me

and meet your death!"

As the cry pierced the dusty darkness of the cavern, the tanarukks stopped and turned

to face the company. Five of the beasts still traced their circle of death around the helpless drow,

but the other ten moved toward the four newcomers. Large curved tusks protruded from their

porcine maws, drooling in the corners of their lips. Their heads dipped menacingly from side to

side on the thick, sinewy necks as they slowly progressed, their hefty axes still dripping the

blood of the fallen drow. They appeared far more powerful than the orcs, their kin, who had

coupled with demons to produce these monstrous creatures. Their massive, muscular arms

could snap a rothe.s neck with ease, and the deadly axes they wielded weighed well over twenty

pounds. Yet all this hardly worried Roman. The heavy weapons were far too slow for his

lightning moves, and he was familiar with the ungainliness of their motions.

The five tanarukks grunted and snorted and charged the lone drow between them.

Driven by desperation, the warrior attempted to dodge the first two strikes of the heavy blades,

moving out of the way of the one in front as his rear opponent slashed deeply into his shoulder,

almost taking his arm along. Dropping to one knee, he blocked one of the lateral slices with his

saber, slashing across the chest and abdomen of the remaining two attackers with his short

sword. The minor grazes he inflicted hardly made the tanarukks flinch. The massive axes

missed his head and chest by a hair-breadth, forcing him into a backward flip toward a

charging tanarukk behind him.

Meanwhile, the tide of battle was turning against the demon-orcs. Roman created a

sphere of utter darkness before the attackers, signalling his companions to prepare for attack

and springing into the darkness, his fists clenched for lethal strikes. Twyll took his position

beside Tadran to the left of the sphere, as two rapiers flashed in his hands. Tadran hefted his

axe readily, a vicious smile spreading across his lips. Kendal held his position firmly, swinging

the heavy ball of the mace at the end of a length of chain and awaiting the attack of one of the

monsters who charged him with a blood-curdling yell. Before the creature got the chance to act

Kendal swung the flail, wrapping the slender chain around its neck and pulling back with all his

might. The ugly head parted with the body with a sickening crack and the stout body dropped

lifelessly before Kendal.s feet, spraying the warrior with its hot blood.

Roman acted unerringly in the magical darkness. The first tanarukk to reach him

received a direct fist strike to the forehead, driving the metal helmet into the greenish flesh.

Using the force behind his first swing, Roman spun gracefully and followed up with his elbow,

snapping the stumpy neck of his unfortunate attacker who collapsed in convulsions.

Guided by senses other than sight, the assassin knew that three other tanarukks,

although blinded by the magical darkness, would swing toward the spot where they had heard

their companion fall. He dropped to the cavern floor as the blades sought his flesh in vain,

tripping one of the creatures to the floor with his feet and finishing it off with a heel strike to the

back of its head. The other two beasts realised their fate was sealed if they remained inside the

sphere of darkness and traced their steps back to where they had come from. Had they turned

as they left the sphere, they would have seen Tadran stagger as one of the tanarukks drove his

blade deep into the dwarf.s shoulder, but nevertheless land a mighty hit to the beast.s side. The

ring mail of the tanarukk split like parchment as its ribs cracked under the blow.

The dwarven warrior swung once more, missing the half-fiend and nearly dropping to

the ground with the force behind the attempt. He silently cursed Twyll, who had stepped

gracefully between the clumsy slashes of his opponents to come to the aid of the surrounded

drow. The young warrior crouched nimbly, driving both of his blades into the abdomen of the

tanarukk before him and tumbling backward to drag him over his own body in a torrent of

blood and intestines. His slight form disappeared underneath the gory mass as the four

remaining strikes aimed at his back and chest connected solidly with the carcass, shredding it to

pieces.

Cloaked in magical darkness Roman realised that the soft, spongy mass under his feet

was the brain of the tanarukk. Another strike of the heel crumpled the firm skull. He had

sensed the remaining two leave the darkness, their beast instinct signalling them that only death

was to be found there. Stepping outside the assassin saw one of the tanarukk axes shatter

Tadran.s shoulder into a bundle of gory flesh, drops of the dwarven leader.s blood sprinkling

Roman.s face. The dwarf, driven by demonic fury, raised his axe high and landed its massive

blade upon the top of the beast.s skull, splitting it into half down to its waist. Completely

covered with his assailant.s blood and brains, Tadran sliced the dead beast into three pieces

before it could collapse onto the stone floor, its muscular limbs still jerking in spasms.

Kendal wielded his double flail and charged amidst the four tanarukks surrounding the

drow youth; the old warrior spun with remarkable grace, dealing circular blows to three of the

half-fiends. Yet his hand had lost its accuracy and power, the beasts too tough to be severely

harmed. The human ducked a lethal axe strike and swung the double head of the flail upward,

splitting the drooling maw of one of the tanarukks into two, dropping it to the cold stone

ground. His fighting style differed from that of the drow Twyll, who used nothing but pure

double-blade skill – the draa velve, as the drow termed it – to block his foes. strikes with one

sword and deal killing blows with the other. Two of the half-orc half-demons lay before his feet,

cut into pieces by the singing blades. Twyll turned to meet another attacker, whose grunts he

could hear behind his back, only to see the last tanarukk collapse to the cavern floor, its pierced

head dripping blood.

The young warrior stood behind him, two bloody swords in his slender hands. He had

saved Twyll.s life from the treacherous tanarukk axe. The warrior smiled at the young fighter

and awaited the other members of his company. Roman advanced toward them hastily, Tadran

following closely behind.

"Around a hundred tanarukks approaching from our left," he spoke, making futile

attempts to scrape the blood off his arms, both coated in it up to the elbows. "Retreat would be

the wisest option. Where do you come from, boy?"

"I am Illareon Virpens, and I come from the city of Sagadaun, which lies several

hundred yards northward," the drow replied. "Follow me, for we have to seek shelter! The city

is under tanarukk siege; I and my comrades attempted to breach the enemy lines." They all ran

behind Illareon as he spoke, making his way across the rocks in long strides despite his

numerous wounds. The city was becoming visible through the mist, dark and silent in the

distance. Tadran lagged behind, his stubby legs unable to keep up with the pace of the drow.

Roman turned to see how close the tanarukk were getting.

"You are fortunate the demon-orcs aren.t quicker, dwarf," observed the Chosen of

Vhaerunn, leaping over a sizeable rock.

" the fortunate ones, in the name of Clangeddin…" Tadran gasped.

Roman smiled to himself. The city was near, and the tanarukks exceptionally slow. Had

they been quicker they would have captured them, and one hundred half-demon warriors was

too great a challenge even for them. Nevertheless, he was certain Tadran would stay and fight to

the bitter end. As the grey buildings of Sagadaun drew closer Roman began to wonder whether

Krissiun had mistaken, his magic taking them to a place that wasn.t even close to the surface,

Ched Nassad or anywhere else he knew of.

Or perhaps Cane Balotain had ordered Krissiun to take the unwanted visitors to a place

of no return, a city surrounded by the tanarukk hordes, in fear that Roman might return

someday and lead most of the city drow into the holy mission mentioned in the teaching of

Vhaerunn? Then again, it seemed highly unlikely that Krissiun would send his two most trusted

companions into certain death along with them. The old sage had appeared forthright, and had

aided him generously.

This was exactly what worried him…

..

The four weary warriors finally came to a halt. The tanarukks had given up their

pursuit, clearly unwilling to face the still strong defences of the city of Sagadaun. Positioned

atop a small elevation, the city dominated a large cavern whose walls spread for several miles

around it. This central position carried both advantages and flaws: the dwellers of Sagadaun

could reach any of the cavern walls within minutes, and the three enormous stalagmites had

obviously been hollowed out to provide housing. On the downside, the isolated location

presented an excellent opportunity to place the city under siege; there were no walls around its

outer limits, the only obstacle to invaders being the slope itself.

Sagadaun.s appearance was dreary to say the least. The crude dwelling structures,

crafted out of black stone, resembled tombs in every aspect, and the two lower stalagmites were

illuminated by countless dim lights shining from each of the windows. The tallest stalagmite had

no openings in its sides and ascended to the cavern ceiling, resembling a supporting pillar for

the top. The entire city was dark and deserted, in order to provide the enemy with as few targets

as possible.

Illareon saluted the drow warriors who kept the first line of defence, crossbow archers

who recognised him immediately and came to the company.s aid. One of them sheathed his

sword and began healing the injuries they had sustained; Roman noted the name the priest

uttered in his prayers as his hands magically closed the gaping lacerations in Tadran.s flesh.

Kiriansalee, the Queen of the Dead, was the name the cleric invoked, offering his respect

to the mad drow goddess of the dead. Roman had never expected to hear the name again. The

Chosen of Vhaerunn knew that his lord was allied with the Undead Queen in order to weaken

the Demonweb Pits, the realm of spiders where Lolth held supremacy. This, however, did

nothing to help Roman feel less uncomfortable in the presence of those who heeded the call of

the Mistress of the Dead.

"Let us visit my sister Erinda," Illareon proposed. " want to hear your story, and

so will the Mistress of the city."

"Let us go, then," Roman retorted, disappointment written clearly across his face. He

was far from happy to learn that a female hand ran the city, just as it had Ched Nassad.

Their trek among the dark buildings was short. No one could be seen in the unlit streets

bar themselves and the occasional patrol of well-armed warriors, which reminded Roman of the

desperate situation the city was in.

"Where are the city folk?" he inquired Illareon, who was leading the way. "I see no one

but the soldiers on watch."

"They have all sought refuge in the Grand Tower," the young warrior replied, pointing

to the pillar-like stalagmite whose upper end touched the cavern ceiling. "For safety purposes.

Should fate take a turn to the worse, several of the warriors are to slay every survivor, so they

do not fall into the filthy claws of the demons."

The defences cannot hold on for much longer, Roman thought. Illareon.s pessimistic,

indifferent attitude clearly indicated that he had already accepted this outcome; if that was the

case with all defenders, Sagadaun was lost. Judging from the respectful manner in which the

soldiers had addressed Illareon, he obviously held a rank in the city.s military. Such demeanour

on behalf of an officer would hardly inspire courage among his subordinates. Roman could only

hope that the city.s authorities didn.t share Illareon.s view.

They soon reached the gates of the queen.s residence, situated in one of the giant

stalagmites. A dozen or so warriors stood guard before it, keeping a watchful eye on potential

threats in silence. As the company approached they saluted Illareon and parted their ranks,

allowing them passage through a triangular opening tall and wide enough for a giant to pass

through. Light came from beyond the opening, accompanied by the noises of an agitated

discussion. Roman could distinguish several male and female voices which became more and

more audible and discernible as they advanced behind Illareon. The voices cursed the demonic

hordes and their own ill fate.

Having passed through a broad corridor whose walls were decorated with invaluable

items and treasures, Illareon led the group into a spacious hall. A table of gigantic proportions

took the centre of the chamber, a large map of the cavern and Sagadaun stretched across its top.

The city leaders stood around the map, apparently planning some sort of desperate strategy of

resistance. Their gazes rose as the group entered, presenting Roman with an opportunity to get

a better look at them. A beautiful drow female stood at the head of the table, clad in priceless,

green scale armour and a robe of black and scarlet. Roman took her to be the queen and bowed

respectfully.

"Who are the travellers you bring, Illareon?" the lovely drow inquired, removing her

war helmet so that her closely cropped hair came into view. Illareon took a deep bow, first to his

queen and then toward the rest of the gathering. The other members of the city council eyed

him distrustfully, exchanging glances among themselves. A scraggy, toad-eyed drow robed in a

flowing black cloak, doubtlessly a ranking mage, leaned closer to the queen.s ear and whispered

something behind the palm of his hand.

"No need for suspicion, Milady," Illareon spoke calmly. "These four worthy warriors

have saved me from the axes of the beasts."

He hesitated for a moment, observing a frown crease the immaculate forehead of the

queen. Was she angered by the loss of precious warriors in their failed attempt to penetrate the

siege of Sagadaun, or by something the High Mage, Ildon Xerdallyn, had whispered to her? Be

as it is the youth proceeded, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly with anxiety. "Our

attempt to breach the tanarukk lines has failed, Milady. I should have known that all such

attempts are predestined for failure…"

"Five good warriors dead, Illareon," the queen interrupted sternly. "Five sword-arms

down in the city.s defences. What were you thinking of? I ought to have you castigated, but the

traces of battle upon your armour and outfit show me that you have not sacrificed the others to

secure your own retreat."

"I would rather meet my own death, Queen Gidelle," spoke the warrior, lowering his

head humbly, "than disgrace myself in such a manner."

"As for the strangers who have rescued you," Gidelle interrupted again, exasperated by

Illareon.s pathetic tirade. "Introduce yourselves!"

Addressed for the first time, the company stopped their idle scrutiny of the assembled

dignitaries and turned their attention to Queen Gidelle, as they had learned was the title and

name of the mistress of Sagadaun.

"I am Roman Valbrinar," spoke the Chosen of Vhaerunn, "and I come from the north,

from Ched Nassad." He decided not to reveal his reasons for leaving the City of Shimmering

Webs until he learned something about the relations between Sagadaun and Ched Nassad. He

had not crossed the Underdark and faced its numerous perils only to betray himself to the

mercy of Matrons Akordia and Aunrae by means of a carelessly uttered word. The position of

Sagadaun in relation to Ched Nassad was unknown to him, but it seemed most probable that

Sagadaun was independent from the much larger city. The Matrons of Ched Nassad never

tolerated the presence of the clergy of Kiriansalee in the cities under their control, and the

assassin was certain that the Queen of the Dead was revered in Sagadaun. Still, he had to be

wary.

"King Tadran Ironfist," spoke the redheaded dwarf, regretting his words immediately;

they had only reminded him of his loss, and tears formed in the corners of his green eyes. "No

longer a king," he added, swallowing hard. Gidelle turned her gaze away from the white mask

across Roman.s chest and toward the dwarf, expecting an explanation of his words, but received

none. Twyll stepped forward instead and bowed with a flourish.

"Twyll Gezzir, at your service, Queen," he spoke, keeping his head down. Roman eyed

him with disdain. Before he could proceed, the aged human introduced himself in bad, heavily

accented drow language. "I be Kendal, servant of famous master Krissiun Renovar."

Gidelle was far from impressed by the mention of Krissiun.s name, and paid little

attention to the man who presented himself through the fame of his superior. Self-esteem was

the virtue she valued highest. She spent a few moments in careful scrutiny of the group, trying

to remember whether she had ever seen drow, a dwarf and a human travelling together and

wondering by what twist of fate they had chanced upon the godforsaken cavern of Sagadaun.

"They appeared out of nowhere, Queen," spoke Illareon, guessing Gidelle.s thoughts.

"There was a flash of light as I fought for my life and then they were at the battle-site, rescuing

me from my assailants." Silence pervaded the gathering for a moment, until a scrawny old

female, whose dirty, long white hair descended to the floor, interrupted it.

"Demon magic!" she hollered, raising her stick arms above her head. The countless

bones that adorned her figure rattled. "The cursed tanarukk have sent us their spies,

transformed through the work of magic! Have them slain on the spot, my Queen!"

Gidelle considered the hag.s words. Old Varalure had a point. No one could have

penetrated the demonic siege and lived to tell the tale. They had probably staged Illareon.s

rescue to make their treachery more inconspicuous, and the dim-witted youth had led them

straight into the chambers of the city council. A tense silence pervaded the room; the stares of

the gathered drow dignitaries were almost tangible upon Roman.s skin, and the others felt the

same.

The mage whispered something again, and Gidelle nodded toward him. He smiled to

her, revealing a set of glossy black teeth. Roman perceived no malice in his smile. Before he

could speak for himself, Gidelle turned to the old witch.

"Had they undertaken this scheme as you say, why assume the form of a human and a

dwarf, besides that of drow?" she inquired. "These two races are hardly common in these parts,

Varalure…"

Unable to argue her point the old female went silent. Her brow frowned and she glared

at Roman; the Chosen of Vhaerunn read pure hatred and a desire for murder in the look.

"Answer, then," the Queen commanded. "Where do you come from, and for what

reason? Speak to me and speak the truth, for if you try to deceive me I shall know."

"We come here for other reasons," spoke Twyll, although no one had expected him to.

"Our journey was to bring us to the surface world."

At the mention of the Night Above the council members looked at each other in surprise.

A low murmur spread through the gathering but they soon went silent again, awaiting the rest

of Twyll.s story. They were all interested in what the warrior was saying, for the passage

toward the surface world was precisely above the tallest stalagmite of the city.

Roman smiled as he read these words off the lips of the frog-eyed wizard, satisfaction

spreading through his entire being. The Night Above was near after all. He took a bold step

forward, pushing Twyll gently aside, and approached Gidelle, preparing to reveal her his story

from the very beginning, from that fateful escape from Ched Nassad up to their arrival into the

enormous cavern that housed the city they were in now.

The city of Sagadaun.

..

The dark elf.s body moved with difficulty, sending waves of pain to the mind which still

struggled through the black haze of unconsciousness. Pain was the first thing he became aware

of; overwhelming as it was, he revelled in the sensation. A blurred vision of his surroundings

swam before him slowly, then sharpened as he regained eyesight. His senses were returning to

him one by one and he became aware of the pool of thick, congealing dark fluid he lay in. Blood.

He turned and rose from the surprisingly warm ground. An enormous body lay beside him, far

larger than his own form, twisted and crushed by the powerful impact of the fall. Most of its

monstrous parts had separated from the frame and lay scattered all over the area.

Wode remembered.

The carcass was that of the fiend he and his companions had fought upon the bridge.

Wode had died too, torn to bits by the perilous fall, yet his troll regenerative ability had slowly

restored him to life. He attempted to judge the distance they had fallen: several dozen miles, he

was certain, falling for what seemed an eternity until they collided with the hard ground in an

explosion of flesh and blood. He could not tell how long his regeneration had taken, but images

flashed through his mind, images he knew not whether to place in the period before or after the

fall.

Images of hairless creatures, tall and thin, veins and blood vessels clearly visible under

the pale skin. Creatures whose jaws sprouted long, sharp teeth whose sharpness he could

remember for they had embedded themselves into his flesh many times. He squatted on the

ground beside the dead demon and gazed upward. Although his vision was limited to several

dozen yards, Wode wondered how long it would take him to find his way to the top, even if he

possessed House Ivril insignia that granted him the ability to levitate. He looked round,

searching for a way out of the cavern large enough for him not to be able to perceive its limits.

A crazy thought struck the mage; his long, slender fingers worked the familiar pattern

of latching on to the Weave, attempting to cast one of his most simple spells. To his enormous

surprise, dancing magical lights appeared around him, illuminating his surroundings. Wode

smiled as he noticed a dozen or so low, oval passages leading out of the cavern in all possible

directions. The mage summoned a continual light spell and directed it above his head. Dim blue

light illuminated the cavern and the long-haired drow picked one of the passageways at random

and ventured through it, overjoyed at the return of his spell-casting abilities. He wondered

whether his slaying of the giant demon, who now lay in the cavern in pieces, had been the cause

for this. Perhaps what the Abyss had taken had been returned by the death of one of its

monstrous offspring.

One thing had not returned, though. His hand moved across his features and found

them withered and wrinkled, deep lines still in place as they had been ever since that fateful

passage through the portal to the fiendish planes. He pushed the long strands of his grey hair

behind, conjuring a leather band to tie it into a thick braid that fell across his back, so it would

not obscure his vision. The deep corridors radiated strange warmth that Wode knew originated

from the stones around him. His current location was too deep in the bowels of the world even

by Underdark standards. He had read about these reaches in tomes and ancient scrolls, the

Deeper Underdark where no one had ever ventured and returned to tell the tale. Completely

unheard of by most drow, the chasms and tunnels that led there were few. A cold sensation of

dread passed up his spine as he beheld the skeletons that lay crumpled beside the walls of the

tunnel. Their bones were thin and elongated, with long digits of the fingers that ended in sharp

claws, their skulls lined with dozens of teeth as jagged as the stiletto daggers of Ched Nassad

assassins.

It had not been a dream after all, concluded Wode.

The creatures that had fed on his flesh while he lay helpless were real, not mere figments

of his tortured imagination, and their presence worried the mage. He had no desire to encounter

them again, to stare into the dreadful round, utterly black eyes and face the powerful claws that

aided the teeth in their tearing of flesh. Even though his own memory of them was vague, his

body recalled the pain and horror with remarkable clarity. This time, however, he would not be

helpless, a heap of flesh crumpled on the ground in regeneration: his entire array of magic spells

was with him now, as well as his monstrous troll claw that had proven itself an asset countless

times in the past.

As he wandered deeper through the tunnel, he perceived it broadening several yards

ahead. There were a few more skeletons near the walls, all of the same type of creature. He

could remember their appearance, albeit his memory was hazy, yet could not link the

physiognomy with anything he had ever seen or heard about. The centuries of fervent study had

granted him knowledge on almost everything that breathed in the Underdark, beyond it, even

the Planes, but he was certain that he hadn.t come across anything similar to these beasts. He

was completely ignorant of whether they were resistant to magic, or the style and tactics they

employed in battle. Still, there was nothing else to do but move forth.

He attempted to remain as silent as possible, watching his every step. His feet were bare

and the hot rock scalded his feet. There was not a shred of clothing on his entire person, which

did nothing to surprise him. The leather of his boots and garments had doubtlessly been

digested in the bodies of the creatures, along with the flesh they had consumed after the fall. His

own. He stepped around one of the bone-piles and stopped his stare the end of the tunnel, from

where a greenish, wavering light emanated, the source of which he was unable to perceive. As he

moved closer to the light, Wode noticed that the tunnel led straight down, a vertical descent into

a spacious cavern; an awful stench of rot and decay came from within. Drawing nearer to the

circular opening a couple of yards in diameter, Wode peered over the edge, but retreated in a

flash, pressing his slender form against the wall behind his back. He felt his entire body

drenched in the cold sweat of fear from what he saw.

The cavern below was crowded by the pale monstrosities he had encountered. Several

hundreds of the creatures rested on the stone floors, the cavern illuminated by the glow of

puddles of green liquid. The mage wanted to head back and try his luck down a different tunnel,

but he knew it would be nothing but a waste of time and precious energy. The nude humanoids

could be anywhere and everywhere. He did not have to wait long to see just how correct that

assumption was, for at that very moment a powerful blow coming from behind sent him a

couple of steps closer to the gap in the stone.

He struggled to maintain his balance, but toppled over as another strike across the

shoulder shoved him forward. Wode could feel the claws embed themselves in his flesh a split

second before he fell through the gap and straight amidst the swarm of creatures. The impact of

the several yards. drop was almost painless when compared to the fall he survived after going

over the edge of the bridge during his struggle against the demon Eruzzill. Wode rose to his feet

immediately as the countless creatures started up, awakened by his intrusion, and began

ganging around him slowly.

The mage wasn.t about to give them a head start: his lips already moved with the

incantation of a magic spell of his own creation. The two creatures which stood at the mouth of

the cavern and which had pushed him in were already descending atop him in elegant leaps.

Wode.s magic formed serrated rings around their bodies; the rings tightened and rotated,

scattering shredded bits of slimy, bloodless flesh over the mage and the swarm of monstrosities

through their deadly slits. The long-haired drow lost no time as the gruesome shower

descended, already calling on the Art for another effect. The cavern filled with grey smoke and

the first circle of Wode.s assailants, their sinewy forms already tensed for the lethal spring,

dropped to the warm ground as desiccated husks. Their horrific cries nearly deafened the mage

but he maintained his concentration, well aware that if he gave in to the terror he felt he was as

good as lost. His next evocation formed a ring of flames around his form, forcing the creatures

to take a step back in fear.

Delighted to note that the creatures were not immune to magic as he had suspected, he

worded a brief arcane phrase and clasped his hands together, enlarging his form noticeably.

The pale-skinned humanoids screamed in agony as they touched the flaming circle and circled

around the former arch-wizard, awaiting further development. Wode knew that there were too

many in number, for more creatures joined the fray with each passing moment. An entire army

of the bony monstrosities swarmed through the numerous entrances to the cavern; their pale

forms appeared eerie in the light of the ring of flames. He could see the veins on those nearest to

him pulse with the rush of blood from the excitement, their ugly maws stretched in diabolical

grimaces, seeking the flesh of the mage. Yet the fire had kept them at bay long enough for Wode

to increase his height and girth to almost double their original value. He loomed above the

swarm like a dark giant, his claw monstrously enormous even before the enlargement.

He bought some time with the troll claw, casting his minor spells with it to test the

toughness of the creatures. The aberrations dropped one atop the other, but new ones would

replace those that fell and Wode realised he.d have to preserve his precious powers; the wall of

fire would not hold the swarm forever – the flames were already burning dim and descending

slightly –, and once its magic wore off he would have to face the unforgiving claws and teeth of

the monstrous army.

Suddenly the swarm parted, the creatures stepping aside and making way for something

that was struggling to enter the cavern; from his high position Wode could see the thing, a

hideous, impossible combination of lizard and humanoid. The abomination drew closer and

closer, and the long-haired mage shuddered with fear. Fear in its most base, primal form, for

the sight before him awakened the primitive instincts of the monster whose blood was

intermingled with his own by the unnatural process of Breeding; his entire frame shook as his

animal senses screamed to the rigid sinews to run, to escape from the terror before him.

The newcomer was enormous, surpassing even the largest, mightiest giants he had

encountered in the slave markets of Ched Nassad in size. It crouched on all fours, taking slow

steps forward on humanoid toes that ended in curved, scimitar-like green claws. The features of

the creature were lizard-like, bar an extra pair of eyes, four in total, which radiated scarlet light

as if a fire was burning beyond the sizeable orbs. It approached its opponent languidly, the

powerful, muscular tail sweeping the ground from side to side, giving Wode precious moments

to ponder his course of action. The mage moved forward, dispelling the flaming circle around

him. The swarm did not attack; the creatures held back instead, creating room for the battle of

the two giants. Wode took the strange, sobbing sounds that emanated from their throats for

expressions of content and expectation. They were obviously looking forward to the gruesome

strife.

The mage was not given much room for thought, for the monstrosity tensed its

enormous form and charged him. Crackling green light formed around his troll claw as he

managed to infuse additional might into it by means of various magic spells he channelled; the

claw increased in size until it was almost the same size as the caster in his giant form. The half-

lizard sprang forward with poise that appeared impossible given its several thousand pounds,

covering the dozens of yards in an eye-blink. Its huge claws sought the flesh of the mage, who in

turn stretched his gigantic hand forward and spread its palm. Its thick fingers closed themselves

around the sinewy neck of the beast, contracting for the lethal choke. The giant creature emitted

a horrific shriek, driving its mighty claws into the heap of flesh around its throat and rending

pieces off the troll hand. Wode.s grip did not falter. The dull cracking of broken bones filled the

cavern marked the demise of the gigantic lizard, whose powerful form jerked a few more times

in its final throes before collapsing at the feet of the long-haired old drow.

The monster was dead.

Wode did not watch the final spark of life disappear from the four crimson orbs; he was

already preparing to evoke his remaining spells, for he doubted not the creatures would attack

as soon as they got over the shock. His troll claw was regenerating before the eyes of the bare-

skinned creatures who watched in awe. They did not attack. To Wode.s endless surprise they

fixed their stares upon him and, one by one, knelt to the warm stone ground. The sounds they

made now resembled a soft clerical incantation. The mage.s spells were wearing off, but it did

not worry him anymore. His assailants were kneeling before him, bowing their heads, singing

him anthems he could not understand completely but the meaning of which it was not difficult

to perceive.

Wode.s laughter of contentment rang for long afterwards through the caverns of the

Deeper Night Below.

-The Surface-

The drow gathered around the black stone table eyed Roman in disbelief. They could

not believe their own ears; the proposition made by the assassin seemed too preposterous to be

given serious consideration. Only Gidelle gazed absent-mindedly at the miniature replica of the

city of Sagadaun that lay upon the table-top; the model demonstrated the impossible position

the city was in perfectly, besieged by its foes from all directions. There was no way that the ring

of demons could be breached, and it would only be a matter of days before Sagadaun fell into

the claws of the demonic army and their merciless leader, Kaanyr Vhok.

Roman.s proposition was far-fetched to say the least, a desperate attempt devised by a

madman, but the Queen of Sagadaun knew there was nothing else to be done to save the city.

The opinions of the rest of the city council differed greatly and this surprised the Queen, for to

evacuate the dwellers of Sagadaun to the surface was, in the heads of most drow, the equivalent

of escaping into the fires of the Nine Hells. Could the fate that awaited them in the surface world

be better than falling into the clutches of the demons? The gathering murmured and pondered,

yet no one dared voice their standpoint on the matter. Time was running out.

Roman attempted to convince the assembly that this was not necessarily inevitable. The

maze of tunnels and caves that led from the top of the tallest stalagmite would take them to the

Night Above. Once they reached the surface, the assassin continued, they would endeavour to

build a new dark elf colony, and over the course of time establish diplomatic relations with any

neighbouring settlements. Gidelle knew that Roman had been guided by the dogma of

Vhaeraunn in this crazed notion; the prince of rogues stood for the unification of all dark elves

who deviated from the teachings of Lolth and their brethren who walked the surface world into

a strong community that was to restore the ancient elven supremacy in the north of the Night

Above, a land completely unfamiliar to the assassin.

The idea was worthy, albeit utopian, for the contempt the two sub-races held for each

other had created a deep gap between the once-kin, and the strength of those who would

certainly oppose such an endeavour superior to that at their disposal. Should they try their luck

upon the surface, the drow would be subject to attacks from all other races, ranging from the

erratic humans to the feral orcs who abounded in that part of the Night Above. However, the

Queen of Sagadaun was in favour of Roman.s plan; anything seemed more appealing than

death at the hands of the tanarukk. A death that was inevitable, for in the three days Roman

had spent in the city the defenders had lost over twenty well-trained sword-arms.

"Very well, Roman," sighed the Queen after a long pause. "Let us hear the particulars

of your plan. How do you plan for us to leave Sagadaun without exposing ourselves to a

tanarukk attack from the rear, as we retreat?"

Roman waited for the murmur to calm down, his eyes fixed upon the large tactical map

of the city. When he raised his head, the assembly could see that his features radiated serenity

and self-confidence.

"We are to start as soon as possible," he began, "sending warriors forward to scout the

path, then another group of soldiers to guard the civilians and the civilians themselves. The rest

of the army, its largest portion, would go last, so the tanarukk do not get a whiff of our

intentions…"

"They shall become suspicious, be as it may," interrupted Erinda Virpens, captain of the

Sagadaun city guard and sister of weapon-master Illareon Virpens. "As soon as they see our

ranks dispersing they will charge the walls and attack us from the back as we retreat. Not a

single soul will make it past the tunnels above the city!"

"No, Erinda," Roman spoke calmly. "As we retreat we shall collapse the towers of the

city of Sagadaun, destroying the climb and securing our road to safety. They will be unable to

follow us."

The frog-like eyes of Ildon Xerdallyn, the ranking mage, shone with eagerness and he

smiled his joy. "The plan is wise, Milady. Roman speaks well. Have we anything to lose? If we

remain in the city until it falls, we shall all perish."

"It is settled, then: we shall vote on it," replied the beautiful queen. "It is the only way to

reach a final decision. I shall not make the call myself, for the responsibility is too great. My

personal preference will not be the cause of countless deaths of those who call me Queen."

The drow nodded their heads slowly. Roman scrutinized their faces, attempting to

penetrate the mask of indifference and learn the decisions of the five members of the city

council.

"Who is in favour of our retreat from the city of Sagadaun and into the Night Above, as

proposed by Roman Valbrinar, the Chosen of Vhaerunn?" Gidelle.s voice resounded through

the chamber. The Queen raised her delicate hand as she spoke, signifying her approval. The

frog-eyed mage followed suit, but the hands of Varalure, Erinda and Illareon remained

motionless upon the table-top. Roman could not believe that his plan was about to be rejected,

that the drow of Sagadaun would prefer death to the chance to flee and seek refuge under the

merciless Sun of the Night Above. His mind flooded with grim images of his hands wrapped

around the filthy neck of the witch Varalure. As he deliberated these thoughts, he saw Illareon

hesitate, then raise his slightly trembling hand in the stale air of the chamber.

The assassin.s proposal was accepted.

The drow warriors prepared for their retreat in haste. Not a single one of them even

considered halting for a break, for the lack of time was apparent to everyone. Like deep gnomes

burrowing through rock they moved from stalagmite to stalagmite, home to home, gathering the

bare necessities for the trek to the surface world.

The citizens were already heavily overburdened by their own possessions, which they

would not leave behind, as well as the treasures Sagadaun was renowned for. Slowly but

determinedly the throng made its way up the broad staircase of the tallest stalagmite, the one

that stood as a pillar supporting the cavern. The warrior scouts preceded the crowd, their wary

eyes scouting the path before them, clearing out the minor Underdark beasts that could pose a

threat to the oncoming mass of civilians.

Varalure, the servant of Kiriansalee, was still inside the city, working her foul

necromantic magic to cause the dead drow and tanarukk, who lay in heaps before her, rise as

skeletons. There were sufficient corpses to create an undead army around the perimeter of

Sagadaun. However, Varalure.s powers were not powerful enough to pose a significant threat to

the tanarukk armies, so she simply scattered the undead around to trick the demonkin into

believing that the city.s defences still stood. This was supposed to grant the citizens of Sagadaun

sufficient time to reach safety. That is, if the term safety could be applied to what awaited in the

Night Above.

Roman was certain that the tanarukk would follow, so he suggested to Gidelle to

obliterate the entire city in a tremendous explosion as soon as the last drow was out of harm.s

way, in the caverns above Sagadaun. Illdon the mage placed a large quantity of explosives into

the foundation of the central stalagmite, linking them with lines of magic dust that would be

used to activate the blast from the safety of the caves.

The tanarukk struck before the second day was over: a minor skirmish, just one of

many that had taken place in the past few days. It was the tactics of the demons to attack and

withdraw frequently to wear the enemy out, always striking at a different spot to ensure the

defenders were unprepared for the attack. Three dead and several injured drow were the gory

outcome of this last charge. The already strained defences of the city were about to break down.

There was no time for delay.

Gidelle, who had remained in the city along with the last of its armies, commanded them

to withdraw. Lines of soldiers moved toward the escape, leaving no one behind in the deserted

town but the Queen, Roman, Tadran, Twyll and Illareon. Kendal had gone long ago, moving far

in front of the scouting warriors; his mission was to make first contact with the surface world at

the point of emergence, for, being a human, he was more familiar with the terrain and could

function under the blinding light of the Sun much better than the drow.

"Let us move," the voice of Illdon sounded around them. "The explosive spheres are set,

and all of the citizens have made it through the stalagmite and into the caverns."

Gidelle smiled with satisfaction and moved toward the ascent, motioning for the others

to follow her. They made their way up the winding staircase rapidly. One of the openings gave

them a perfect overview of the city and they could see the tanarukk hordes move into a frenzied

charge from all sides. Roman cursed Lolth silently; in his hatred and paranoia, the assassin

believed that the Queen of Spiders herself had whispered to the tanarukk that the city was being

evacuated.

Fortunately they were not far from the top. Illdon was already there, holding an unlit

torch in his hand. As they reached him, he conjured a magic flame and the oil-soaked cloth

caught fire immediately, casting a shimmering light across the black walls. He lowered the

flame to an almost imperceptible trail of magic dust that led down the corner of the stairs, next

to the wall of the stalagmite. The magic dust ignited in a flash of light, descending down the

spiralling stairway and illuminating the way. The group retreated quickly, reaching the safety

of the tunnels above the stalagmite that was to shatter in the detonation and crumble to the

bottom of the city cavern. Silent in the darkness of the damp tunnel, Gidelle could almost hear

her heart thumping against her chest with anticipation. The moments seemed to her like years.

Nothing happened.

She was aware that the delay before the blast could go on for seconds, even minutes, but

something was wrong; she sensed it not with her tortured mind but her entire body, a gut

instinct that told her something had gone awry. One by one, the rest of the group became aware

of the same fact and their angered glares turned toward the frog-eyed mage. Illdon stood at

their side, stupefied and frozen by the ominous silence that was soon to be broken by the coming

onslaught of the tanarukk hordes.

"What happened with the explosion, Illdon?" inquired Gidelle, attempting to control

her fury.

The mage shrugged and knelt before Gidelle, his entire body trembling. "I double-

checked everything before I departed, Milady," he began his apology, his voice shaking with

anxiety. "Someone, or something, must have intercepted the magic flame on its way to the

explosive charges…"

A dire bout of misfortune, Roman thought. He was about to leave the citizens of

Sagadaun to their fate and head to his final destination alone, but the thought of Vhaerunn and

His teaching gave him newfound confidence.

"Is there another way to start the detonation?" he spoke to Illdon, who had lowered his

frog-like eyes to avoid Gidelle.s penetrating glare. The Queen had managed to calm herself

down, contemplating a solution to the problem.

"T-there is only one way to do it," the mage added humbly. "One could descend to the

bottom of the structure and light the explosive dust charges oneself, with this very torch… that

would, yes, that would certainly be the way…"

"It is settled, then," spoke Gidelle firmly, without hesitation. "On your way, Illdon! Go

down the staircase and light the explosives. Now!"

Her words struck the mage like the lash of a whip across the face. He took a few steps

back, shock freezing his face into a hideous grimace resembling a humble smile. His eyes, wide

open in terror, spoke far more than his mouth which uttered nothing but incoherent sounds.

"B-but Your Highness," he began, his voice trembling, "that is a certain way into death!

This is not – can not, in fact – be my fault, that much is sure… is my life not more valuable than

this? Could you not send one of the warriors instead?"

Gidelle moved toward the mage, drawing her sword from its sheath. The black blade

shone in the dim light, and the spell-caster recoiled in fear. "We have no time for discussion,

Illdon," she growled through clenched teeth. "Move!"

But Illdon remained motionless, awaiting the killing blow from the hand of his Queen. It

was far better than death under a tanarukk axe. He shut his eyes and waited for the end to

come.

"Bloody pathetic," a deep voice resounded from behind the group. Tadran stood atop

the stairway, squatting to pick up the flaming torch. His mighty axe rested upon his other

shoulder, ready to send the first tanarukk to cross his path back to the Nine Hells.

" take this cursed city down on the heads of the demon-kin, drow," they heard him

mumble as his stout form disappeared round the first twist of the stairs. "I owe them that much,

and more…" the light of the torch went out of vision completely, as the dwarf.s words turned

into barely audible murmur.

Gidelle re-sheathed her sword and silently summoned the rest of the group to follow her

into the tunnel. There was no sense in waiting, wasting their time to see whether Tadran would

succeed in his suicidal intention. If he did, all would be well for the citizens of Sagadaun; if

not… well, no one wished to ponder the outcome.

A few minutes later, as they ascended the stone walls by means of improvised ladders,

they heard a tremendous rumble hundreds of yards beneath their feet. A grim smile crossed

Roman.s masked features, for now he knew the red-headed dwarf had not failed.

..

Shrouded by the veil of night, Kendal slowly made his way through a plot of shrubbery

and surveyed his surroundings. He had reached the end of the narrow, claustrophobic tunnels

and cavern complexes several hours ago, and now his feet touched the surface world for the first

time in many, many years. Fresh air, laden with the scents of flowers and greenery, tickled his

nostrils as the endless sky stretched for as far as he could see above him, dotted with countless

specks of distant lights. The warrior breathed deeply and took in the scene, realising it was early

autumn. He never realised how much his spirit had yearned for these simple splendours during

his exile deep in the bowels of the world, in the damp, decaying confines of the Underdark. Joy

filled the old warrior.s soul, even though the landscape around him was completely unfamiliar.

A vast forest lay before him, reaching beyond the corners of his vision; nothing but

regal, ancient trees for miles around. The Moon sprinkled its silvery luminescence over the

scene as Kendal attempted to determine his position; still, he could not recall ever hearing of

this part of Faerun. A small lake lay in the proximity of the narrow aperture that led into the

tunnels of the Underdark through which the warrior had ascended, its still waters gently

caressed by a mild autumn breeze that blew in from the giant forest. The trees went on for miles

and miles, seemingly without end, and Kendal noted that the terrain was flat, with only the

occasional hill-side rising above the plane. There was nothing else to do but wait for the

Sagadaun drow, so the warrior sat down on the moist ground of the small clearing before the

cavity, revelling in his surroundings.

His wait was not lengthy, for the first patrol of drow scouts soon emerged from the

shrubs and trees that cloaked the entrance into the Night Above. Kendal smiled at their

expressions of utter perplexity; most of them had never before ventured into the surface world.

They were fortunate; had they exited into the merciless light of the Sun that they were

unaccustomed to, few would have remained on their feet from shock as the burning rays scalded

their sensitive eyes. Yet under the silvery radiance of the Moon the citizens of Sagadaun could

seek shelter first, a sanctuary in these endless woods where the towering, thick canopies

prevented most of the sunlight from reaching the ground. As the days progressed, their eyes

would become more and more accustomed to the bright orb in the sky, until they adapted to life

on the surface completely. And if they didn.t… there was no turning back now.

The patrol leader composed himself quickly, as his hands motioned a message to Kendal

in the silent language of the drow. The old warrior understood it perfectly: is everything in

order? the message read. What was he to say? For all he knew, an entire horde of orcs could

emerge from the nearest trees any moment, or the civilians could face a barrage of elven arrows

shot from ambush as they made their way through the opening. The reputation of the ruthless

dark elves preceded them, and even the most civilised races would not hesitate to slay them on

sight and without due warning. He nodded his head in confirmation. The leader moved back

into the aperture, leaving his astounded warriors to survey the world that was to become their

new home.

It took the citizens under an hour to reach the gateway to the Night Above, and the

clearing filled with their amazed murmur as they beheld the surface world they had only heard

of in tales and legends. Kendal cursed silently, wishing for them to be quieter. He had no idea

how all this was going to end. Fortune had been on their side so far, for his keen eyes had not

perceived anyone around the small clearing or among the nearest trees. He could not suppress

the notion that foes watched them from the forest, studying their every move; or perhaps a

member of the ancient circle of the druids, a guardian of nature who would inform the local

elves and rangers of their presence, which would bring about the certain demise of the

Sagadaun drow. There was far too much bad blood among the once-kin to allow for

negotiations or mercy. Not a single dark elf would be spared, warriors, females and young alike.

How could one blame the surface-dwellers for this attitude? The number of elven and

human settlements that had been pillaged by the drow exceeded the limits of memory; their

children had disappeared into the depths of the Underdark never to return again, their

treasures hoarded by merciless Matrons in cities miles below the surface. What had the silent

drow, who had introduced himself as Roman, thought when he proposed the retreat from

Sagadaun? Death from tanarukk axes might have been the better option. Be as it may, Kendal

was far from worried. He was almost safe in the Night Above: a man more than capable of

defending himself from the countless foes who roamed the surface, a man in possession of

sufficient treasure to live out his final days in the lap of luxury. Krissiun.s parting gift had been

more than generous, a just reward for the years he had spent defending his master when the

sage.s own spells and magical song failed.

He was unaware of the passage of time as he day-dreamed of the wonderful days to

come, and by the time his mind returned to reality Illdon was already drawing on his magic to

close the aperture that led back into the fathomless reaches. All of the drow had emerged and

now stood around the clearing, as Gidelle, Roman, Illareon and Erinda issued orders to

organise the most vulnerable among the citizens behind the squadrons of warriors. Kendal

approached the group and stood at their disposal.

Gidelle ordered them to rest at the side of the lake. The witch Varalure used her magic

to test the clear waters for contamination. As she gave her approval, the crowd settled by the

lake and drank thirstily, then proceeded to wash the dust and sweat of the long journey off.

"Five groups of three warriors each," spoke Gidelle to Erinda Virpens, the commander

of the Sagadaun army. "They are to move immediately and scout the forest. I do not wish to

lead the civilians into a trap; a massacre is the last thing we require."

Erinda and Illareon nodded their heads in silence and began picking out the worthiest

warriors for the task. Shrouded in velkyns, magical cloaks that rendered them all but invisible,

the scouting parties headed for the immense forest.

"We shall hide in the forest during day-time," ordered the Queen after consulting

Roman briefly. "The sunlight will be far less painful to endure there. As soon as the scouts

return, we shall move and set up camp deeper in the forest and scout the surroundings."

The warriors were back before long, their cloaks flailing behind them as they ran. One

by one the group returned and reported to the Queen; only one of the parties, the one that had

ventured furthest to the North, was nowhere to be seen. Gidelle waited longer, but the dark,

towering trees were all she could perceive.

"Fires of Hell!" she cursed, drawing her sword. "Something must have happened to the

scouts. I shall go and see what has stalled them."

Illareon jumped in front of his Queen without thinking, blocking her way to the forest.

"You must not expose yourself to such an unnecessary danger, Milady!" he spoke firmly,

attempting to talk her out of her perilous intention. "Let some of us go instead, and we shall

investigate what has happened to the scouting party."

"Illareon speaks well indeed," added Twyll. "You are the leader of your warriors, and

the people of Sagadaun are lost without you. We shall head in the direction of the party

immediately, and see what the reason behind their disappearance is."

Bowing deeply, so that his robe touched the ground, Twyll turned and called to Illareon

to follow him. The two warriors made their way toward the forest in brisk, determined steps.

Roman followed in utter silence. He caught up with the warriors in a couple of steps and the

three of them soon disappeared in the darkness beneath the gargantuan trees. The leather

outfits clung to their sinewy figures, reflecting the radiance of the Moon. Gidelle watched them

move out of view and bowed her head, sighing deeply.

She feared for their lives. They were the best at Sagadaun.s disposal now, and losing

them would be equivalent to losing two dozen other warriors. All she could do now was to wait

and hope for their safe return, offering silent prayers to Kiaransalee, the Queen of the Dead.

A smile of satisfaction suffused Roman.s features, a smile that could not be wiped off

even by the ominous ambience that pervaded the primeval forest. His heartbeat quickened upon

perceiving the immense towers of an ancient elven castle that reached above the canopies of the

surrounding trees, for now the Chosen of Vhaerunn knew his prayers had not gone unheard.

Everything he could ever have asked for lay within the reach of his able hands: the derelict

structure before him would serve as a sanctuary for the Sagadaun drow, the starting point of his

endeavour to create a strong community of both surface and dark elves, all in the name and

everlasting glory of the Masked Lord.

Before this could proceed, however, there were some matters that required clearing up.

Varalure, the Kiaransalee-worshipping bitch, would die, for the drow of this new empire

would owe their allegiance to none other than Vhaerunn. All has gone according to my

preferences this far, thought Roman. He was certain that the dark deity into whose service he

had sworn his life was overseeing everything, smiling his silent approval and guiding matters

with his almighty hand.

He had to attempt to subdue the euphoria that was overtaking him. The sight they had

feared most lay before them, in the ruins of the outer walls of the castle. The three drow of the

scouting party were dead, literally torn apart limb by limb. Their blood was spattered all across

the walls, even the bark of the trees they lay underneath. It was obvious that the scouts had been

ambushed, for their weapons still rested in their sheaths, untouched. Illareon frowned at the

scene; he had trained each of the dead drow and it pained him to see them meet such a

horrendous death. Not to mention the fact that they had been surprised and utterly defeated by

the enemy, which only added insult to injury. He was certain that it was not a beast of the wild

that had slain them, although he knew nothing of the might of the creatures of the surface.

Roman motioned for them to be silent and approached the bodies of the slain, striding

gracefully from tree to tree. The sizeable hole in the solid wall, he could now observe, was the

work of a massive projectile hurled from an engine of siege. Behind him, Twyll and Illareon

followed in silence, their blades glittering in the sparse rays of light that the thick canopies let

through.

Before they could reach the opening, Roman was already squatting beside the carcasses,

examining the grievous injuries. He waited for his companions to join him before he spoke.

"The wounds go quite deep into the flesh," he noted, running a slender finger along the

broad, gaping wound upon the chest of one of the warriors. "Claws, like those of the troll, only

far larger and more powerful…" Twyll, whose exploring eye was fixed upon the ground,

nodded his head in approval without raising his intense stare. He had found something that

caught his attention.

"You are correct," he finally spoke to Roman, pointing at a giant indentation in the firm

ground. The other two could see that it was the impression of an animal paw, its claws as long

and keen as the daggers they wore at their side. "The tracks of this beast almost measure up to

the length my torso."

Roman regretted not taking Kendal with them. His knowledge of the surface would be

of enormous help in this situation. They could only guess what awaited them in the lightless

ruins of the castle ahead. The original inhabitants of the structure must have abandoned it ages

ago, leaving behind excellent dwellings for the roaming beasts that had been more than content

to substitute the hundreds of chambers and hallways for the dark, dank caverns they had once

called home. The three warriors spent a few moments surveying the surroundings, then decided

to follow the tracks into the central building of the elven castle complex.

They had to move fast. As the hours passed the dark sky in the East began to brighten,

the blackness of the night giving in to the scarlet hue of the coming day. The Sun would rise in a

few hours, blinding the exposed drow who had just ascended from the depths of the Underdark.

Illareon moved ahead, embittered by the death of his comrades-at-arms; his muscular figure

was the first to disappear through the rectangular opening that still supported what once had

been a stout wooden door. Swinging his swords in anxiety the warrior made his way into a dark

chamber, motioning for his two companions to remain absolutely silent, for he had sensed the

familiar overpowering odour of beast. Before him, in the reeking darkness of the spacious

chamber, lay a creature that Kendal would have termed bear, had he been present. Only this

bear outsized all members of the species the human had ever seen by a long shot; the massive

animal was at least three times as large as the mightiest of its kin. Its bulk stretched across the

stone floor, obviously asleep. The barrel chest rose and descended in rhythmical intervals, and

the sound it made resounded round the stone walls.

Illareon took a step back to allow Roman to move in front of him. The assassin reached

into his belt pouch and produced a pair of metal throwing stars coated in drow sleeping poison.

The black, glossy substance dripped down the stars of the silvery grey metal known as elundor.

Placing his entire power behind the throw, Roman spun and launched the star toward

the massive head of the bear. The lethal whistle of the weapon and the sound of metal piercing

bone filled the chamber as the beast roared and jumped to its feet with amazing agility,

perching on his rear paws. The animal towered over nine feet in height. The poison had had no

apparent effect on it, which did not surprise Roman who knew many of the huge beasts of the

Underdark to be immune to it as well.

Although Illareon was shaken by the animal.s blood-curdling roar, he moved before the

bear. His quick feet sought the best attainable position, preparing to spring out of harm.s way

should the need arise. He was well aware that a single sweep of the enormous paw could send

him straight to the Demonweb Pits and into the realm of Kiaransalee, to whom he had pledged

his devotion. Roman and Twyll were about to do the same, but a strange noise behind their

backs made them turn around. To their enormous surprise, two of the trees had become

animated and were now making their way across the courtyard, the very ones that the dead

patrol lay under. It was now obvious how the warriors had been slain, taken by utter surprise

and ripped apart by the monstrous branches they had sought rest underneath. A weathered

human appeared behind the two treants; he had been the one who had animated the guardians

of the forest. Twyll had heard about these men through the tales of Kendal and the sage

Krissiun. He was a druid, member of an ancient circle whose history reached back into the very

beginning of time. The old man.s hands moved in a recognisable pattern as he called upon his

natural sorcery, and Twyll could hardly blame him, although fear of the unknown gripped his

heart. After all, to him they were drow, members of the race that had slain the human.s

comrades by hundreds, perhaps thousands, a vile, depraved kind that was to be erased from the

face of the world. He would still fight to preserve his existence, mind. In contrast to Twyll.s

calmness, Roman let his immense hatred fuel his rage as he made his way toward the old man in

long, graceful leaps. Ixizju! sounded the call inside his mind, summoning his other-planar aide, a

silent stalker being composed of mist.

The druid froze in terror as he saw the elegant assassin spin through the flaming

magical rings he conjured before him, then round the huge charging treants, a horrific smile

spreading his black lips. The oblivion that was to come soon was more than welcome…

..

Gidelle was the seasoned veteran of many a bloody battle, yet her insides still churned as

she beheld the three returning warriors. The right side of Illareon.s face was torn into a mess of

shredded skin and flesh, a gaping wound stretching across his shoulder and onto the muscular

chest. Roman had not been spared either, she noted. Gory strips of flesh were exposed to the

chilly air of the early dawn, dripping blood even at the slightest motion. Twyll, on the other

hand, remained unharmed. His magical levitation ability had worked to a double advantage: it

had enabled him to move safely out of harm.s way, and presented him with an excellent

opportunity to unleash the lethal bolts from his unerring crossbow.

"We have located the scouting party," reported Illareon as the witch Varalure used her

healing magic to stop the bleeding from their injuries. As her next spell regenerated the hideous

wound upon Illareon.s cheek, Roman explained what had taken place.

"A druid murdered them," he said, coughing and spitting the blood from his lungs with

a grimace of pain. "He had doubtlessly been entrusted with guarding the old castle from

intruders. We destroyed him, along with his companions, a pair of animated trees and a bear of

remarkable size."

Kendal.s sharp gaze fixed the assassin as he heard the last sentence. His body shivered

as if he had remembered something.

"That is not all," added Twyll. "I failed to observe this at first, but a bird perched upon

one of the boughs of the trees. It fled after the battle was over."

Kendal gazed at Twyll and cleared his throat audibly, as if he was attempting to draw

their attention.

"I presume the bird might have been another druid, Queen," he spoke with a humble

bow, "or, even more likely, a druid companion, for, as Twyll says, it had not taken part in the

fight."

"Shapechange," Gidelle noted, more to herself. "Like the magic of Illdon and the

priestesses of Lolth, who are known to take the form of spiders. I take it that now the entire

forest is aware of our presence?"

"Aye, Milady," Roman replied. "It is also likely that their allies are already gathering

their forces for a decisive strike upon our heads. In my opinion, there is but one way out of the

situation…"

"To fortify our position in the castle?" Gidelle inquired, guessing Roman.s trail of

thoughts. "Is that what you propose, Roman?"

The assassin nodded his reply.

"Then so be it," the Queen spoke more loudly. "We can reach the fort before sunrise.

New Sagadaun; that is to be the name of our settlement. We shall build it upon the ruins of the

old one, left behind in the blood of the tanarukk."

And that of Tadran, Roman thought. Without his sacrifice the citizens would have died

in the tunnels above the city, in a massacre of epic proportions.

He gathered a few droplets of blood from his wound and sprinkled them over the

ground, silently invoking magical phrases that had formed inside his head on their own accord.

"Let us head for the castle," he spoke. "My drow shall follow us."

As he spoke, the crowd began to disperse. A minor portal appeared in the space Roman

had outlined with his blood, a flashing whirlpool of grey and blue energy. Drow after drow

emerged from the magical gate, heavily armed and clad in chain armour that bore the engraved

symbol of the Mask. Dark cloaks swept across their backs and shoulders. Roman could not help

from smiling as he observed the familiar face of Virlon among the throng. The ranking priest of

Vhaerunn in Yldisso returned the smile, bowing deeply before the Chosen of his Lord.

..

The throne of black granite was poorly illuminated by a dim yellow light. Hundreds of

selgons swarmed around it, sitting on the warm stone ground, eyes fixed upon their mighty God

in mute reverence. The God perched upon the throne, his detached stare roaming the distances

beyond the heads of his faithful. Selgon was the name Wode had given them.

His pasture had accepted him and raised him to divine status as moment the lifeless

body of the giant humanoid lizard Xilduss struck the ground, its neck broken by the might of

the immense troll claw. Many events had occurred since. He had learned much of the eerie,

alien creatures whose name was almost impossible to pronounce, and whom he had named

selgon. Their origins reached far into history, when an unfortunate party of ancient explorers

had ventured into these realms and was swallowed by darkness. Their bodies had been

disfigured by orthu, the powerful radiation of the Underdark, a remnant of the ancient powers

that had shaped the world at the dawn of time.

The selgon were, in fact, a race of pale, deformed – or improved – elves, depending on

the point of view. They certainly were a sturdy sort. Their bodies were as hard as rock, their

bone claws as strong as metal enchanted by sorcery. The wounds they made would not heal. The

same applied to their keen teeth that exuded venom of such potency that it could easily paralyse

a giant. Their numbers were vast; Wode kept several thousand in the endless tunnels around his

throne, sending many others to distant caves in search of prey. Which was all but pointless, for

the selgon exhibited cannibalist tendencies: they consumed the aged and ailing among their

ranks, as well as weak infants and anything else that moved. In this part of the Underdark, its

deepest reaches, they were the sovereign rulers. They had no natural foes; the only conflict they

had was among their own ranks, where the challengers would settle their disputes in bloody

duels.

The victor would satisfy his hunger first on the carcass of the defeated, then allowing his

females and offspring to feed on the left-overs. The body would be finished off by the most

fortunate among his tribesmen. Wode had celebrated his day of Becoming with a magnanimous

feast, killing ten of the selgons and serving them as food for the tribe. Their howls of

gratification rippled through the caverns and tunnels, rising all the way to the high bridge

where the mage had battled the demon Eruzzill. The former master of the selgon, the lizard-

man he had slain, had not risen above its beast instincts and remained a thoughtless monster to

the end. Xilduss had made no use of the powers bestowed upon it by the reverence of the selgon,

its animal mind probably incapable of comprehending the divine status it had been granted. It

dominated the race through sheer strength and terror. Wode consumed the giant body on the

day of the Becoming.

The former drow arch-mage had undergone a transformation.

As divine might channelled through his body, the magical enlargement his body had

undergone in the struggle against Xilduss had become permanent. The troll claw rested beside

his throne, its sinews pulsing with new-found strength. The monstrous fingers moved as the

mage reflected upon his newly acquired status. His skin had turned a dim greenish hue,

streaked with large black spots. The hide sprouted keen spikes which the new deity could

retract and draw out at will.

At this very moment they demonstrated their full length, for Wode was furious.

He could barely remember the days when he had conducted his first attempt at creating

a hybrid of humanoid and other races; the experiment had resulted in the grotesque creation of

a surface elf with the claws and deadly gaze of a basilisk. This first hybrid, an unfortunate elf

who had once been known as Naurr, had been sent to the plane of demons as a gift to the

archdemon Irrkidul, who in turn had provided Wode with the required components for the

completion of the deviant process. Wode.s new divine powers granted him the ability to see into

the distant parts of the Universe and the other Planes, limiting the vision only to those beings of

his own creation. He was astounded to see Irrkidul, the mighty demon he had once trembled

before, turned to stone, standing at the side of a misshapen throne as a statue.

Naurr sat upon the throne defiantly, his red orbs that could petrify living flesh at a mere

glance glowing in the swirling darkness of the demonic pit. He knew that his creation could see

him, for now they were almost equal in power. Yet the monstrosity had received these powers

long ago, becoming capable of spying on its creator; Wode could not help but wonder what had

prevented the creature from seeking just revenge for the unthinkable agonies the mage had put

him through.

Be as it may, Wode made the decision. Naurr was to perish.

It was because of him that Wode was referred to as The Second; all because of the

cursed surface elf who had committed himself to ardent efforts as soon as he had achieved

divine status. Naurr had transmuted the hideous dwellers of his plane in the same manner

Wode had altered him, adding the limbs and natural weapons of various creatures to their

twisted bodies, making them stronger and more formidable in battle. He had appeared in Ched

Nassad in a vision to Wode.s apprentice, Radul, revealing to him the secrets of the Breeding and

providing the necessary materials for the conclusion of the work, just as Irrkidul had done for

Wode when the mage had made his first hesitant steps in the sacrilege. Radul had used the

knowledge to turn a part of the Ivril armies into hybrids upon which Hathra had bestowed

eternal vampiric life, turning the warriors into vile creations of immense power. In turn, the

Breed, as these violations of nature called themselves, worshipped Naurr as their deity. Akordia,

the present Matron of House Ivril, tolerated the growing faith among her ranks despite her own

worship of the Spider Queen Lolth. Whether she had choice or not was another matter…

The God could not ponder the situation any longer, as fury grasped control over his

actions.

He rose from the immense black throne, which immediately transformed into a cloak of

shadows that shrouded its creator. He made his way down the steps as beneath him the selgon

scurried in terror. Wode.s penetrating gaze transfixed a small group of the creatures, who

began to tremble in fear, but remained where they were. Thinking themselves to be predestined

for food, they threw themselves at the feet of the Lord, whose mighty steps made the stone

ground quaver and crack. As he approached them Wode raised his troll claw above their

cowering heads, invoking his power through incantation and motions of his other hand. The

selgon went absolutely still at first, then screamed in agony.

Their naked forms seemed to merge into an abominable heap of flesh and bone,

radiating a bright scarlet magical light as smoke filled the cavern where they stood. Wode

allowed his imagination run wild as he transmuted the twenty selgons, moulding and twisting

the senseless heap of flesh as he desired through the power of his mind. The rest of the tribe

witnessed the horrific transformation in utter silence, frightened beyond their wits.

As the smoke descended and dispersed, the form of Wode.s latest creation became

visible. Shaken by the sight of the creature, which outranked even Xilduss, their old master, in

monstrosity, the tribe moved back in absolute horror. The thing standing before them utterly

defied description.

The creature stood above ten feet in height, yet it grotesquely muscular forelimbs

reached the stone ground of the cavern. Its fingers were, in fact, the arms of the selgons Wode

had used in the transmutation. The arms of the monstrosity continued into mighty shoulders

upon which rested twenty heads, screaming in the maddening agony of the horror that had

befallen them, the agony that still coursed through the detestable body.

Yet the hybrid was still incomplete; focusing his divine power of mind, Wode clenched

his enormous claw. A pair of huge wings sprouted from the abomination.s back, accompanied

by a shriek of anguish the hybrid issued as the transformation was completed. The awful

hollering was replaced by hideous laughter from its twenty throats, weary, but content laughter

as the multitude of heads turned in all directions, pleased with its new form. The dragon wings

attracted special attention, as did the finger-arms whose strength was beyond belief.

"Feed…" spoke Wode, and the creature snatched several selgons with one sweep of the

giant hand, stuffing the shrieking tribesfolk into its twenty maws. Bright slime sprinkled all

around the cavern and evaporated immediately, as the flesh of the unfortunate creatures was

torn and swallowed in wet, gurgling sounds. Wode waited for the abomination to complete its

terrible meal, then summoned it to approach him. His creation obeyed, twisting its body like a

dog awaiting the gentle hand of its master, bowing its many heads in utter devotion.

"You shall head for Vezanthor," Wode ordered, his thundering voice resounding

through the cavern. "There you shall seek Naurr and retrieve him for me. Do not slay him; I

require his body alive. Just remove his eyes, for their power is lethal even for the selgon…"

Having said this he took a step back, using telepathic force to disperse the selgons that

had gathered around his throne. His raised hand made a quick motion of the fingers and a

crimson portal appeared before him, conjured from blood and utter evil. Yet this time his heart

did not quiver as it had when he had endeavoured to present Naurr to the demon Irrkidul.

The creature did not await its master.s orders: a single leap took it across the cavern

and through the portal, sending a wave of blood splashing across the cavern. The selgon

gathered around the puddles of scarlet liquid and drank greedily, delight in their eyes. Wode

walked among the bloody pools toward his black throne. He closed his eyes as he rested upon it,

viewing the demonic plane of Vezanthor throught the twenty pairs of eyes of his latest creation.

..

The autumn nights on the surface were cold, windy and loud. Illareon had observed this

after spending his first in New Sagadaun. He had also learned that, once darkness descended

upon the great forest, the beasts of the day went to sleep and were replaced by the stalkers of

the night. The deep sounds made by the nocturnal birds, which Kendal had named owls, often

roused him from sleep, making him draw the ever-ready swords that never left his side.

They were fortunate, Kendal had said, to emerge from the Night Below in the season of

fall, when the Sun was at its weakest. It had taken the drow a lot to get accustomed to moving

around under the hood of his cloak in this cold, rainy autumn weather. In the heat of the

summer Sun he would certainly have gone insane…

"What are you doing out here on your own?" spoke a feminine voice behind him.

He did not have to turn around to know that it belonged to his sister Erinda. The

stealthy strides of her graceful legs were unmistakable. She approached him, cloaked in a

flowing shroud, its hood covering her long white tresses, armed with the two deadly bladed

gauntlets that never left her hands.

"I have come out for some air, sister," he replied, shivering as a gust of cold wind blew

suddenly. "The great shining Moon in the sky, countless stars… it shall never cease to amaze

me. It is just so different from down there."

"It certainly is," his sister agreed. "Nothing but caverns and darkness everywhere.

These vast stretches of land, and the endless skies above us – it nearly drove me to insanity, at

first."

Illareon nodded, watching the changing of the guard. One of the groups ventured out of

the castle gates on patrol. The weapon-master idly wondered whether they would return. They

had already spent seven days in the ruined castle, and nothing worth noting had occurred since

the battle with the druid on the fateful night of their ascent. Still, there was an almost tangible

tension in the air; an awkward premonition that something was about to happen.

"Where are the others?" Illareon inquired, not as much out of curiosity as to break the

strained silence that screamed in their ears. Nothing could be heard apart from the nocturnal

birds and the rustling of the wind.

"They have assembled in the main chamber," Erinda replied. "Roman speaks of nothing

but the greatness of Vhaerunn. Varalure frowns and grinds her teeth at this sacrilege, and the

Queen holds her peace wisely."

"The chosen of the Masked Lord has gained self-confidence since the reinforcements

from Yldisso arrived," the warrior concluded. "Over a hundred sword-arms, as well as the High

priest Virlon. They almost outmatch our own army in power…"

Erinda frowned.

"I would think twice before saying that, brother," she cut in sharply. "You have trained

them well. Our warriors are as strong as the servants of Vhaerunn, and the powers of our spell-

casters reach beyond those of Virlon."

"But Roman is on their side," muttered Illareon, more to himself. "I have begun to

suspect that his Lord might indeed be more powerful than ours..."

"Speak no more of this, brother!" whispered Erinda, her eyes darting round to see if

anyone had witnessed her sibling.s foolishness. "The favour of Kiriansalee is with Sagadaun, it

always has been. Varalure says…"

"Varalure is but an ageing hag," Illareon almost shouted at his sister. "Had it been for

her wise council, you and I and the drow of Sagadaun would have been dead long ago. Or

perhaps roaming the Underdark as mindless, animated corpses created by her foul sorcery?"

Erinda.s slender hand was almost imperceptible to the eye as it darted from her cloak,

aiming for her brother.s chees, but Illareon.s reactions were quicker than lightning. He caught

his sister.s hand in his own before it reached its mark.

"Take care, brother," hissed Erinda, "and allow not these thoughts of blasphemy to

enter your mind once more! Those words need not be spoken for them to reach the ears of the

Queen of the Dead. I respect your prowess in battle, and love you as a brother. Your death

would be a tremendous loss to the city."

Illareon calmed himself and released his sister.s hand. He turned and walked away,

melding with the treacherous shadows of the ruined castle.

Erinda remained motionless for several moments, her gaze caressing the lethal weapons

on her hands. They no longer glistened, and the delicate ornaments that had once covered the

deadly blades had already fallen victim to corrosion. Removed from the magical influence of the

Underdark, the blades had become brittle and fragile. They would soon turn to klund dust,

rendering them useless; exactly how long the process was to take was beyond the knowledge of

Erinda Virpens.

Only death could be worse than the fate that had befallen the drow of New Sagadaun.

Roman paced the corridors of the castle nervously, observing the warriors as they

busied themselves with carving wooden stakes into improvised short spears. He could not help

himself from cursing loudly as he beheld the enormous pile of black dust in the courtyard. In

the three weeks they had spent in the castle, they had succeeded in repairing the derelict walls

and stocking – with enormous help on Kendal.s behalf – their supplies of food and other

necessities. Yet, there was one problem that defied solution.

All of the drow weapons and their magical cloaks, velkyns, had corroded and

decomposed. All items crafted out of klund, a magical metal of the Underdark commonly used

by drow, now lay in the heap of dust in the courtyard. The warriors walked around the castle

unarmed and in despair, knowing that a small tribe of orcs could massacre the entire

population if they chanced across the fort.

Roman hastened to the meeting chamber, where he found Gidelle, Illdon, Virlon and

Erinda in silent anxiety. The heads of New Sagadaun worked hard to reach a solution to their

problem, yet none was forthcoming.

"Any suggestions, Chosen?" Erinda spoke cynically. "Have you found weapons for our

soldiers?"

"The infinite wisdom of Vhaerunn shall come to our aid," Roman replied calmly, taking

a seat at the round stone table, "just as he has done so far. I am surprised that you fail to grasp

this, Erinda…"

"Erinda speaks well, Roman," Gidelle cut in. "The drow of our city have never faced

worse fate, not even when the cursed tanarukk laid siege upon us. We have no idea where the

nearest settlement is. Even if we did, the dwellers are likely to be more inclined to slay us all

than provide assistance."

Roman went silent. He knew that Gidelle was correct in her assumptions. For hours on

end he would offer his prayers to Vhaerunn, yet the Masked Lord had remained silent. Truth

be said, the assassin had little hopes for aid from his Lord. He considered their predicament a

task that Vhaerunn had posed to him, a chance to prove his worthiness and purpose.

"There is nothing left for us to do but wait," Gidelle broke the silence. "We shall seek a

village or settlement in this wilderness and make contact. Perhaps they can direct us toward a

supply of armaments for our warriors."

"We could commission agents," Erinda added, "to seek craftsmen and smiths in the big

cities who are prepared to sell us weapons. The treasure we brought from Sagadaun could buy

weapons for a full-sized army."

Gidelle held her tongue, not wishing to remind the general of her army of the fact that,

to most surface races, a good drow was only a dead one. The agents Erinda wished to send

would never reach the smiths and traders as she had envisioned.

The silence that ensued was broken by the sound of feet racing down the hallway. The

guard at the door ushered one of the scouts into the chamber; he gasped with exhaustion and

struggled hard for breath, almost collapsing before his queen, who yearned to hear the latest

development.

Regaining his composure, the warrior relayed his message.

"Milady," he began, kneeling before the Queen respectfully, "a sizeable army of darthiir

nears New Sagadaun as we speak… there are too many of them… armed to the teeth…"

Hearing the drow term for all surface elves, Roman leapt from his seat.

"Another sign of Vhaerunn.s mercy, Milady!" he cried, spreading his arms in delight.

"Allow me to intercept the army and contact their leaders. If I get the chance to speak, they

shall refrain from attacking us."

At the mention of the Masked Lord.s name, Erinda grimaced. Roman.s habit of

associating everything with the will of Vhaerunn annoyed her to no end.

"I agree, for this is the only choice we have," Gidelle replied. "Any opposition on our

behalf would result in nothing but utter obliteration of both yours and the troops of Sagadaun.

Go now, and take Illareon, Twyll and Varalure with you. Waste no time."

Roman headed for the castle gates immediately, searching for the two warriors and the

priestess of Kiriansalee. His black cloak flew behind him, and Gidelle was oddly reminded of

death.

..

It was pointless to attempt to conceal one's presence among the trees from creatures

native to the ancient forest, so the assassin and his company lost no time over it.

Darthiir...

The drow term encompassed all kinds of surface elves, ancient enemies of the drow. The

sole purpose in Roman's troubled mind was to establish long-lasting peace among the darthiir

and the ilythirrri; was he to succeed in his intentions, a new era would dawn upon the world, one

that would unify the elven races in the North. The North that had belonged to them many years

ago.

The Chosen of Vhaeraun was aware of the ambush that lay waiting in the forest shrubs,

aware of the dozens of keen arrows that rested upon the tensed bow-strings, well concealed in

the canopies of the ancient trees. Still, he held his silence until the archers appeared, rising from

their hiding positions. Surprised, Twyll and Illareon drew their swords, but a quick motion of

Roman's hand prevented any foolishness on their behalf. The company stood no chance against

the elven patrol, and the warriors would fall to the unerring arrows before they could take a

step toward the archers.

The tense silence did not last for long. A golden-haired elf sprang from a nearby tree, his

green cloak trailing behind him, and landed not far from Roman. His bare arms were covered

in scars; Roman observed that two fingers were missing from his left hand. The elf took a few

tentative steps toward the company, eyeing them with hatred. They stared at each other for a

few moments. Finally the elf muttered something inaudible and spat on the grass.

"Discard your weapons, cursed drow," he commanded in excellent drow; his

pronounciation would have shamed a house Matron. "A word of warning: just provide me with

a decent reason, and my lads shall cover you in arrows. I sincerely hope you do provoke us..."

Roman laughed the insult off. "Worry not, brother," he replied cheerfully, "we come in

peace and, as you can see, bear no weapons."

The elf issued a brief command to his men, frowning as he heard Roman term him

brother. "I'm not your brother, Mori'Quessir," he retorted menacingly, as his comrades

emerged from the trees, keeping the drow warriors in the sight of their bows. "One who

murders innocents and children in cold blood and takes us into slavery can be no brother of

mine. Were I to heed my gut instinct, I'd have had you slain on the spot."

"All drow are not child-killers and slavers of the darthiir," Roman replied. "Some of us

live for the day that shall witness the union with their surface brethren and the eradication of

those who are not of the Fair Folk."

The elf smiled bitterly and grasped the hilt of his blade.

"Take them to the camp," he commanded his warriors. "Let Queen Lenna decide upon

their fate..."

The sharp tip of a sword between his shoulder-blades reminded Roman that they should

follow the elf robed in green. Illareon and Twyll offered no resistance as the elven warriors

shoved them forward roughly, although the expression on their faces told a different story.

Varalure grumbled and muttered to herself as the elves beheld her withered features and long,

greasy hair, decorated by numerous small bones, with unimaginable disgust. On they moved,

led by the elven commander, who Twyll noted to be extremely rough-spoken. They harbored no

dreams of escape, for their low numbers and inferior equipment offered no chance in a struggle

against the well-armed, highly trained warriors of the patrol. Roman sensed his dreams had

come true. His quick mind absorbed and processed the new knowledge far beyond the capacities

of others, and he had already memorised the name of the elven queen. The assassin smiled as he

visualised his ideas for the future of the drow he had led to the surface. Vhaerunn is great

indeed, he reflected. He guides the occurences to fit his divine purpose, had done so ever since

his Chosen embarked upon his perilous task. The day of glory, when the masked Lord would

triumph over the deities of the elven pantheon, was near.

Lost in his day-dreams and reflections upon his position in the new kingdom, Roman did

not feel the passage of time until an enormous settlement appeared from the thick trees. Over

four hundred elves milled around the tents and huts in the trees, clad in light armour and

shrouded in warm cloaks that offered them protection from the autumn winds and rain that

had managed to find their way through the thick canopies and rows of ancient trees. The party

of four was quickly surrounded by the settlement dwellers; the many inquisitive stares made the

rest of the party uneasy, but Roman smiled with confidence. The elves seemed apprehensive of

something, for they kept glancing in the direction of a large tent that took the centre of the

settlement. Colorful decorations depicting the forest and nature were interwoven with the thick

canvas, making it seem almost alive among the shrubbery that retained most of its green

coloration, despite the advancement of autumn.

The guards pointed their weapons at the drow prisoners, not taking them out of sight

for an eyeblink, even as the patrol leader entered the tent, moving aside the strip of material

that covered the entrance. All the drow could do was wait. It did not take long, though; the

cover moved again and another elf exited the tent, robed in a cloak as red as blood. The

decorated sheaths of his two sabers came into view as he moved. His long, coal-black hair was

swept aside, covering the hideously deformed left side of his face, doubtlessly made so by slashes

of a knife. The left eye of the warrior was white and apparently devoid of sight; still, Roman

could not avoid the sensation that the blind orb was fixed upon him. He held the cover of the

tent respectfully and waited. Within moments, a lovely elven maiden emerged. A crown of

anaver, a rare white metal, decorated her long blond tresses, indicating her superior status. Her

lithe form was protected by armour of full plates, clearly the work of experts: ornamental red

roses covered the black armour plating, winding around the curves of the body. A long sword

hung at her side, ornated in the same pattern as the armour.

The queen.s guardsmen took her side immediately, a band of elven assassins whose

countless scars and worn leather armour spoke of their experience. Roman noted that the

leather body armour had been crafted by masters of the trade. The icy stares of the assassins

darted round the gathered crowd, ready to strike out even at the smallest threat to their

precious charge. It certainly seemed that they would welcome the opportunity to drive their

lethal blades into the throats of the captured drow.

Roman.s party gave them no opportunity to exercise their deadly skills; they stood and

waited motionlessly under the scrutinizing stare of Queen Lenna. Her eyes paused upon Roman,

whose chest was bare despite the freezing cold so that the image of the Mask of Vhaerunn came

into full view. The queen averted her eyes as the mask seemed to dance in the chilly air. She

glanced at the assassin.s face, but the mask that covered his features gave nothing away. Only

the two purple eyes returned her stare defiantly.

"What is your business here, drow?" she inquired calmly, draping her long cloak over

her armour as she noticed Illareon staring at the ornated plating. "I was told that you provided

no resistance and that you were brought before me of your own free will."

Roman bowed respectfully; Lenna.s two guards reached for their knives, but the queen

motioned them to stay still.

"Queen Lenna, I presume," spoke the assassin, "I am Roman Valbrinar, the Chosen of

Vhaerunn, exiled from Ched Nassad, the City of Shimmering Webs, and the sworn enemy of

Lolth, the Spider Queen."

Lenna nodded her head and gestured for the warriors to lower their bows. Then she

turned toward one of the many elves in the crowd and indicated him to come forth. Roman

could see nothing but a pair of green eyes underneath the massive helmet of the heavy armour,

as the elf bowed before his queen. His azure robe bore the symbol of a soaring bird, with a cloud

in the background.

"Listen to their words, Weillon, and listen well," Lenna spoke to the elf. "Should a lie

cross their treacherous lips, let me know, and they shall meet the fate that awaits all the black-

hearted drow."

Weillon nodded and motioned with his hands, invoking a magical spell effect. He then

produced a wooden holy symbol from his belongings, identical to that upon his cloak, and held

it out ritually, closing his eyes. Lenna waited for the priest to complete his preparations before

speaking.

"A party of drow, treading the forest unarmed…" Lenna commented. "Not what one

would consider a common encounter in the High Forest, I must say. You could have fallen

victim to one of the countless horrors that lurk within."

Roman.s lips smiled underneath the mask.

"One does not require weapons to defend oneself against the horrors, Queen Lenna," he

replied. "Furthermore, we ventured into the forest unarmed to show you that we come before

you in peace." Lenna raised her right eyebrow inquisitively, waiting for Roman to proceed. She

glanced at the priest, Weillon, but he remained in the position he had assumed.

"We come from a forsaken castle, in the eastern regions of these woods," the assassin

continued, "where the High Forest ends. The population of an entire drow city has emerged

from the Underdark, fleeing from the claws of the tanarukk. Several hundred drow have sought

refuge within the derelict walls."

Lenna.s beautiful features darkened, but she managed to control her anger. Her gaze

wandered heavenward, where the ancient giant trees ended and the grey clouds of the autumn

skies began. She shook her head absent-mindedly.

"That castle was the home of elves many moons ago," she told Roman after a brief

pause. "Until they heeded the Retreat, that is, and moved westward across the seas to

Evermeet… no one could ever have imagined that drow would inhabit the sacred place."

The mask of the Chosen of Vhaerunn frowned at those words.

"You speak as if all of us vowed allegiance to Lolth," hissed Roman. "Our arrival here

marks a new age, one where elves would rule the surface realms. We have wasted enough time

waging pointless warfare upon each other, wars in which no one gained but the foes of

elvenkind."

Lenna was interested in what the assassin was saying, it was written across her face. She

would occasionally glance at the priest, who remained motionless.

"I beseech you, on behalf of the drow of New Sagadaun and their leader, Queen

Gidelle," spoke Roman, turning toward the gathered throng, "and in my own name: give us aid

in our intentions, and we shall emerge triumphant in the end!"

His heart filled with joy as he observed some of the heads nod in approval. His long-time

dream was about to come true.

"I implore you to re-consider, Milady, and all you who have sworn loyalty to Queen

Lenna: how far would the borders of our realm stretch if we stood strong against the opression

of the orcs and their evil kin, as well as the fickle humans who now roam freely the elven lands

of old?" the assassin continued, his purple eyes flaring as he spoke. "Give some thought to my

words..." he was about to proceed with his narrative, but a sharp motion of the queen's hand

stopped him in his tracks.

"The druids of this part of the forest have informed us of your arrival," spoke Lenna

sternly, "and not a single one of you was to remain alive. Too much elven blood has been spilled

in wars against the drow in the High Forest for your proposal to be accepted readily. Still, your

words are wise, and there is sagacity in what you say. I shall meet with Queen Gidelle, and see

whether there is room for negotiations."

Roman bowed respectfully once more. An eerie gleam pervaded his eyes, and a fiendish

grin seemed frozen into the mask on his face.

"May I ask for a few words in private, Milady?" he inquired. The queen nodded her

approval and the two of them disappeared into the main tent. The two assassins did not even

flinch as they made their way past them; they dared not, for an imperceptible nod from the

queen ordered them to remain on the spot.

So they stood in the middle of the elven settlement, three drow surrounded by a swarm

of elven warriors who were prepared to have them slain should anything happen to the queen.

Varalure had a brief glimpse of Roman emerging from the tent, his hands covered in blood; yet

as she blinked the image disappeared, and the old hag heard the voice of Kiaransalee, the Queen

of the Dead, inside her mind. Unfortunately for her, she failed to comprehend the message as

the queen emerged on her own, whispering something to her two trusted assassins.

The dead body of Varalure slammed against the forest floor a couple of moments later,

pierced by countless arrows the elves had fired from concealment. She was dead before she

could know what had taken place, the thought racing through her dying brain as her soul

hastened to meet Kiaransalee, the grim deity whose service she had paid with her life.

Of this Roman was certain…

..

The sulphuric vapours of Hell filled the lungs of the immortal Naurr. His gaze rested

upon the stone statue of the demon Irrkidul, the old master of Vezanthor, the realm of utter

chaos and primordial evil. The realm where flesh and blood ran in endless rivers, where the

cries and screams of the murdered pierced the ear and drove the mind into the black pits of

lunacy.

The appearance of Vezanthor defied description, for most of the horrors were

unperceptible to the eye. For as far as even the immortal eye could reach it resembled the inside

of a heart, walls of pulsating flesh constantly bathed in blood. Bridges of gory tissue stretched

between the opposite walls; they would tremble and quiver as Naurr walked beneath them. The

ground beneath his feet was formed out of the wailing faces of creatures unfamiliar even to the

wisest sages of Toril.

Swathed in a cloak crafted out of human hides that trailed for yards behind him, Naurr

hacked and tore at a deformed humanoid with his claws, swallowing the bloody pieces of meat

that still jerked in belated spasms as the creature howled in agony. The monstrous elf cut the

ear-splitting howls short by digging his claw, elbow-dep in gore, into the creature.s throat. He

ripped the throat out, cramming the heap of flesh into his gaping maw that dripped black blood.

The creature.s lungs strained as it attempted to bawl once again, but the air hissed out of the

torn pipes, forming little bubbles in the spurting blood.

Naurr.s emerald hair fell across the hideous cloak, framing his pale, expressionless

features. His two basilisk eyes had evolved, becoming far more powerful than those of the

ordinary beast. The two sinewy arms ended in claws that had also come from a basilisk, added

onto his body long ago by a gruesome process that had challenged and defied nature. The claws,

as dark as magical darkness itself, could cut through bone, wood, even metal with ease. Metal

plates covered Naurr.s chest, fitting over each distinctive muscle perfectly, hard enough to

protect the new Lord of Vezanthor from the attacks of mere mortals.

Finishing his gruesome meal, Naurr leapt a full twenty yards toward his throne, formed

out of the corpses of dead children from the plane he had once inhabited. His blood-stained lips

stretched in an ugly grin as his supernatural senses relayed to him something beyond mortal

perception, somewhere in the ever-suffering world he now ruled as undisputed lord and master.

His teeth, as long as the teeth of the baatezu, still dripped the blood of the last feeding.

Naurr.s barking laughter sounded across the realm, more hideous even than the terrible

cackle of the demon lords of the Abyss, as his claws dug into the decaying flesh of his throne.

Suddenly the Lord went silent, tilting his head to one side and moving his pointed right ear as he

rose from his throne. The First walked toward the distant wall of the Plane of Terror, guided by

an inner sense that warned him of impending danger.

He had only taken a few steps in the direction of a pulsing incline when a pack of biris

appeared, barking and clawing at the pile of rotting meat they trod upon. The malevolent

offspring of Vezanthor lived for one reason only: to wreak evil. The disgusting, squat, hairless

creatures were obviously fleeing something; a horror that made no particular effort in catching

up with them, for the grotesque scarlet oddities moved at such a slow pace that anything could

overtake them with ease.

Naurr knew that their pursuer, whatever it was, had to be dangerous. He had perceived

the creature as it made its way into his realm, but his divine knowledge failed him when it came

to identifying it. The creation was enormous in size and gruesome in appearance, even more

bizarre than the biris.

The hairless amorphous mounds of moving flesh slithered beside him, lowering their

ugly heads and watching their master with their evil orbs, fearing retribution for their

cowardice and retreat. Naurr glanced at them briefly and dismissed them with a mental

command. He would take pleasure in their torture later; let them think that they had avoided

his wrath for now. Once his claws had rended the intruder to bits, he would find out who, if

anyone, had conveyed the monstrosity into his realm…

Leaping over a hundred feet in height, Naurr found himself on the other side of the

ridge. He could behold the creature now: the many heads that rested upon its chest, the huge

arms ending in fingers that themselves were other, smaller arms, equal to Naurr.s in size. The

creature was extremely dexterous for its immense size. It tore apart entire packs of biris before

the charging creatures even reached it; the ground around the monstrous intruder was littered

with biri bodies, and Naurr silently cursed their inaptitude in combat. The demi-lord sprang

into the foul air of his domain, spreading his claws for the decisive blow as he aimed his leap at

the creature. His hideous cloak trailed behind him as he descended.

The power behind the impact drove Naurr.s form into the gruesome body of the

creature in an explosion of flesh and slimy effluvium that ran through the veins of the

aberration. It howled in agony, rising onto its hind legs. Ten of the creature.s many heads

moved into the gaping hole of the wound; their sharp teeth grappled the Lord of Vezanthor,

tearing him out of the body and tossing him several dozen yards backwards. Naurr stretched his

feet to collide with the wall of flesh, tumbling safely to the ground. The countless flesh wounds

on his body healed immediately as the First struggled to regain his breath.

Although the wound in the creature.s back spouted gouts of vile fluid that served as

blood, the monstrosity showed no sign of weariness or pain, only endless fury. Its back arched

and the hind quarters tensed, and Naurr could guess what was about to happen. Although he

anticipated the leap, not even his divine reactions could move his body out of harm.s way:

several thousand pounds of flesh collided with his chest, the forelimbs grappling him as the two

bodies dropped to the ground.

Ten of the finger-arms squeezed the Lord with force sufficient to crush a giant. Naurr

cried in pain, struggling to escape the pin, but to no avail. The creature had him pinned upon

the ground as the twenty leering heads bit and ripped the sinews of the helpless deity. His

pectoral muscles were already torn to gory shreds, and Naurr knew that it would be a matter of

moments before the teeth reached his heart.

He opted for a desperate move.

Straining his lungs to inhale as deeply as the weight of the creature allowed it, the Lord

of Vezanthor suppressed the pressure inside his blood vessels, channeling the life-giving flow

into his brain. His crimson eyes blazed and he directed their gaze at the magical beast; the

power of his eyes could turn hundreds of humanoids into stone with a mere glance. The

aberration jerked in a mighty spasm and went completely stiff, its hide turning a dull grey hue

as the still living flesh beneath it slowly transmuted into stone. The hulking form grew heavier,

pushing Naurr into the foul soil beneath. The elf roared triumphantly and freed himself of the

iron grasp, leaping through the immobile creature and shattering the lump of stone into rubble.

The Lord of Vezanthor landed several yards further and squatted on the ground. Blood trickled

from his deadly eyes, running down his cheeks in two scarlet streams. Slowly he rose, the

ground quavering beneath his feet.

A swarm of biris neared the stone remnants of the dead atrocity; Naurr raised his claw

high into the fetid air and conjured an electrical discharge, turning the frightened biris to ashes

on the spot.

The First lumbered toward his throne wearily and rested upon the pile of decomposing

flesh. His wounds healed gradually, and Naurr laughed as the blood gushed out of the open

lacerations in his sinews. A gurgle of blood from his mouth choked the laughter.

When he was prepared, regenerated and rested, he would find out who had conveyed

the giant beast into his realm. His retribution would make the impudent outsider beg for death.

..

Wode frowned and clenched his enormous troll claw. The cursed Naurr was mightier

than he had assumed. The death of Irrkidul had increased his powers beyond belief. They now

matched Wode.s own; the ex-mage had perceived that in the light of Naurr.s struggle against

his horrific creation. He had gone a long way from a mere elven slave, the first of Wode.s

experiments, to a lesser divine power that had become tainted with demonic traits, a result of

his triumph over Irrkidul.

The demonic elf had to be slain before he became too powerful to destroy. Naurr would

soon learn who had sent a hunter to claim his life; once he did, he would attempt to exact

revenge. Wode knew that such a risk could not be taken. Determination in his every move, he

rose from his throne and drew a circle in the still air with his hands, opening a magical gate of

grey energy. A single step took him inside, beyond the reach of his subjects. sight.

..

Illareon had felt more at ease facing the tanarukk in the defence of Sagadaun. Back then

he had known who the enemy was, and that all drow around him were on his side. Now,

however, the situation was more than dubious.

Roman had requested the death of Varalure from the elven queen and his wish had been

fulfilled; he had not even made attempts to conceal this. It was obvious that he lost no sleep

pondering the wrath of the ruler of New Sagadaun, Gidelle. Thirty changes of Sun and Moon

had already occurred in the skies over the city, and each of them had witnessed the growth of

New Sagadaun. Furthermore, New Sagadaun was no more: the name of the city was altered to

Malhalma, the word for throne in the tongue of the surface elves. It was another attempt of the

Chosen of Vhaerunn to appease the new allies of the drow.

Queen Gidelle seemed to take no note of the death of Varalure, Illareon remembered.

Overjoyed by the favourable turn of fortune, she had silently traded the death of her High

priestess for the advancement of the union. Gidelle and the rest of the city council might have

not approved of Varalure, but to Illareon she had been the symbol of the only religion he had

ever known.

Curse upon you, Roman! Illareon thought.

The two queens, Lenna Oakirus and Gidelle , spent days in the council

chamber, planning the future of Malhalma upon the great round table. New city walls and

fortifications had already been erected around the ruins of the old; in their safety, the surface

elves were building houses in the tall trees, linking them by suspended overpasses.

Illareon could see small groups of surface elves and drow as he made his way across

town; they garbled excitedly, each in their own language, and gestured wildly in attempts at

communication. The weapon-master refused to bother himself with the tongue of his new allies.

A sole thought occupied his mind: how to avenge the death of Varalure at the hand of the

intruder, the self-proclaimed messiah who had used the misfortune of Sagadaun to ascend to top

rank in the hierarchy of the new settlement, higher than Illareon could ever hope to reach

himself: Gidelle.s high councellor and the leader of the assassins of Vhaerunn.

Illareon had remained far below Roman, holding the position of weapon-master and

army instructor in the skills of battle. It was a surprise to him that the Chosen of Vhaerunn had

not claimed those posts for himself along with everything else. He had not even glanced at the

intruder since the day when Varalure fell to elven arrows in the darthiir camp. He returned the

salute of a company of his men as he passed them, fury clouding his mind.

He swallowed hard as he noticed their armaments. The swords and crossbows crafted

out of magical klund were long gone, replaced by blades of crude iron ore and long wooden

bows. Ill-wrought metal plates served them as protection, a far cry from the klund armour that

could resist even the mightiest blows.

Those were the presents of the surface elves to their new allies.

He could not withstand the pressure any longer. A lump had formed in his throat,

making his breathing slow and laboured. He wiped the sweaty palms of his hands on his robe

and started toward his chambers. Reaching the top of the staircase that led to the army

lodgings, he walked down the well-lit corridor, lowering his hood to protect his still sensitive

eyes from the light. The still darkness of his chambers welcomed him in silence as he unlocked

the door. He approached a small metal chest and opened the latch. His nimble hands extracted a

dark shroud from its interior, which he then placed upon the chair beside his bed. He

immediately felt better behind the heavy drapes that blocked the painful rays of the damned

Sun. He fell upon the large bed with a sigh, waiting for sleep to come.

Waiting for the night.

How wonderful the Underdark is, Illareon thought. Night was the only period when he

felt completely at ease as his heart ached for the beautiful caverns below, where light was

limited to the dim, colourful glow of the different varieties of fungi.

Illareon sighed. It was very likely that he would never behold those caverns again.

He drew aside the drapes that covered his windows and took a deep breath. The hilts of

his swords showed beneath his black hooded cloak. He completed his preparations by pulling a

pair of leather gloves, with the fingers cut off, over his hands. Having done this he ventured

outside.

He was like a shadow to the guards, silent and imperceptible as he avoided them in the

narrow corridors. Making his way out to one of the dozens of balconies of the ancient castle, he

sprang gracefully and landed onto the ledge of another. The drow made not a sound as he

tumbled softly to the stone surface.

He was fortunate: a curtain was drawn across the balcony window, hiding him from

those inside the room. Years of training for tasks such as this had taught him well: he lay in

waiting for a few moments, then squatted and moved a corner of the curtain aside, peering into

the corridor beyond. It was deserted. He took a quick step inside, stilling the motion of the

curtain with his hand. Not a trace remained of his passage.

He leapt across the few yards of the corridor, reaching the small aperture that led into a

dark chamber. The clerical chant of Virlon, the priest of Vhaerunn from Yldisso, sounded from

within.

A fiendish smile crossed Illareon.s face as he realised that the priest was alone.

Silent as death, he drew his two swords from their sheaths and entered the improvised

temple of the Masked Lord, the hood of his cloak covering his face. Virlon heard the steps

behind him, for the figure that stood above him made no further attempts at remaining silent.

The hand of the priest moved toward the ornated dagger at his side instinctively, already too

late. His severed head dropped to the stone floor with a dull thump and rolled aside, the eyes

staring at his murderer. The twitching hand grasped the dagger reflexively, then jerked and

released the decorated handle. A puddle of thick black blood spread across the floor and

Illareon side-stepped the flow nimbly, then spun the swords in his hands and placed them back

at his side.

His cloak flew behind him as he raced toward his chamber, content at last.

..

Roman opened his eyes and contemplated the developments for a brief moment.

He knew what had taken place. The priest Virlon was dead. Vhaerunn had whispered

the news into his ear as soon as the murder occurred. He rose from the cushion he used for his

reverie and walked out of his chamber. The mask appeared almost demonic upon his frowning

face as the assassin made his way toward the room Virlon had turned into a makeshift shrine to

the Masked Lord. The priest spent his evenings there, praying for the success of the intentions

and plans of the Chosen of Vhaerunn.

The prayers had somehow found their way to the ear of the Maksed Lord and he had

bestowed his grace upon his devout follower. Until now, that is.

Roman could see the beheaded corpse of the High priest even as he approached the

door, lying in its own cooling blood. The head had rolled over so that the lifeless eyes stared at

the arch-way and Roman. The Chosen clenched his fists as he knelt to the stone floor.

"Reveal to me the identity of the murderer, Vhaerunn," he prayed, staring at the small

statue of a drow armed with two curved knives, "reveal him to me, so I may avenge the death of

a member of your clergy…"

The Masked Lord remained silent.

Roman.s features darkened with fury. He was unable to control the nervous twitches of

his left eye as rage filled his chest, combined with a sense of utter helplessness. Then he realised

that he had directed his wrathful gaze at the statue of Vhaerunn and lowered his gaze humbly.

He glanced at the rigid corpse of the priest once more.

Illareon, the dead priest.s voice sounded in the stone chamber, booming off the walls.

Roman was uncertain whether his wits were failing him.

Illareon! resounded through the hallways and corridors as Roman made his way across

the castle, toward the southern tower where the weapon-master resided. A terrible pain shot

through his heart as he strode purposefully.

The only drow he could hold in trust was dead. The drow who had worshipped

Vhaerunn to self-depreciation was slain in his own temple, conveying his final cry from the

plane where he now rested to Roman, uttering the name of his murderer. The Chosen of

Vhaerunn was overpowered by fury.

His gloved hands yearned for the blood of Illareon Virpens, and he would have his

revenge, even if it meant he had to fight his way through all the drow of Sagadaun to get to the

weapon-master. He would avenge the death of Virlon even if the price to pay was his own life,

he decided. The union of dark and surface elves paled in importance, although he had invested

all his efforts into its success. The abrupt, pointless end of the life of his friend could not be

tolerated; he would drown his sorrow in Illareon.s blood, and then ponder the consequences.

Roman covered the same path that Illareon had crossed not long ago and reached his

destination. Invoking silently a few magical words, his body became invisible. He passed beside

a patrol, composed of a surface elf and a drow, without them noticing anything.

He finally made his way to the wooden door and noted that it was locked. A small blade

appeared in his invisible hands; it had cut its way through countless necks of his foes before,

severing dozens of jugular veins, inducing a quick and relatively painless death. This time it

served the assassin as a crude, yet efficient tool to pick the metal lock, making his way into the

room in a flash.

As he sprang into the chamber, the view inspired Roman to fury even greter than the

one he had experienced upon seeing the dead priest. The cold-blooded murderer meditated

upon a set of comfortable cushions, the murder weapons at his side. The sheaths and cloak

tossed carelessly across the table still bore the blood of the innocent priest; he had not even

made the effort of removing the traces of his bloody work, which infuriated Roman even

further. Two strides took Roman to Illareon.s side, and he swung his lethal fist at the temple of

the unsuspecting drow. The blow would shatter the bone of Illareon.s skull, driving the tiny

shards into the brain and slaying him instantly, although he would prefer to see the murderer

suffer. Lost in the ecstasy of his revenge, Illareon did not hear a thing.

Roman.s fist never reached its deadly destination.

An inhuman force tossed him backwards, and the assassin.s body slammed against the

opposite wall. Illareon, awakened by the thump, sprang to his feet and drew his ever-ready

swords. Then he beheld the enormous avatar before him and dropped the blades, kneeling

before the towering form.

Dazed by the shattering impact, Roman struggled to his elbows and knees. His gaze fell

upon a pair of immense boots that could not obscure the amazing structure of the mighty legs

beneath them. The Chosen knew who had interposed between him and Illareon.

"Why?" he rasped, lowering his hands at his side.

"Because blood is repaid by blood, Roman," boomed the divine voice. "The Queen of the

Dead sought the death of Virlon to soothe her rage over Varalure.s murder. And because your

ego does not allow for the objections of others, subject…"

Illareon dared not make a move.

He stared at the eight-foot figure of the avatar in disbelief, noting his scarlet hair, bright

eyes and muscular arms sprayed by blood. Two long blades rested in sheaths upon his thighs, as

long as Illareon.s swords and crackling with magical energy that could slay dozens of foes on

the spot. A shroud of shadows danced round Vhaerunn.s body; small fists would appear from

the whirling shade, holding onto the light armour that barely concealed his sinewy form.

"Curse be upon you should any harm befall this drow," Vhaerunn continued, "for his

faith is as strong as your own, and Kiaransalee is my ally in the struggle against the bitch Lolth.

Heed these words as a warning, and my divine will. Do not gamble with what you have achieved

so far."

Roman dared not raise his gaze.

The will of Vhaerunn had rendered him powerless. As time passed, his fury subsided,

yet the death of his friend and cohort Virlon stung him like a long-forgotten injury. Illareon.s

faith was shaken, for he beheld the face of a God for the first time, but he remained strong and

confident in his worship of Kiaransalee, the Queen of the Dead.

The appearance of the Masked Lord.s avatar had left its consequences nevertheless:

Illareon would stir from his sleep for many nights to come, his brow laden with sweat and deep

circles beneath his eyes. He would never forget Roman.s stare as his Lord disappeared back

into his dark realm. From that fateful night he sleept with one blood-shot eye open, making sure

that his twin blades never left his side, awaiting the arrival of the Chosen of the Masked Lord.

He felt relief as he sought atonement for his sin, laying his swords beneath the statue of the

Masked Lord, Roman at his right.

"Vhaerunn is great indeed," he told the Chosen later. "It is an honour to replace Virlon

in his duties. May my contribution to the Masked Lord.s holy purpose strengthen the alliance

between His divine Self and the Queen of the Dead in the battle against the Spider Goddess!"

Roman remained silent. Illareon still had to prove his worth, to show whether he could

replace the High Priest Virlon. He preferred to think otherwise, waiting for the weapon-master

to make a wrong move. Yet Illareon never did: he remained priest until the day when Malhalma

grew to the size of the human cities of the west, and the united elvenkind ruled the forests of the

north undisputed, all the way to the southern borders of their realm, the magical springs where

unicorns would come to drink and wade in the clear waters.

..

High amidst the fetid green vapours of the demonic plane, Wode paid little attention to

the curious demonkin that gathered dozens of yards below him. He used his magical powers to

raise a multitude of scattered rocks from the ground below, shaping them into a disc of stone

beneath his feet. The platform he thus formed levitated high above the hellish landscape.

A warm wind blew minute particles of dust into his eyes, reeking of sulphur and death;

yet it bothered the God not the least bit.

His quick hands conjured the final magic spell and his work was complete. The circular

stone platform below him stretched several miles in radius – the product of several hours of

diligent work. About a dozen feet thick, the podium supported large pillars that framed its

circumference. The unusual stone it was crafted from bestowed special powers to Wode; powers

that enabled him to summon Naurr into his presence against the other deity.s will. Descending

onto the disc from his levitation, Wode looked around his latest creation with content. The stage

was set for the ultimate battle between him and the Lord of Vezanthor.

The former arch-mage had formed this arena for one purpose only: to emerge

triumphant from his clash with the First in the only manner that would bring him satisfaction.

Thus he had not used concealed traps or magic that would grant him unfair advantage. The

battle would be one-on-one, a straightforward duel of skill and power, and he required no

devious means to place him ahead. Naurr was, after all, his own creation; his might, although

tremendous, could never match that of Wode, the creator of the Breed and undisputed lord and

master of all his creations.

Wode spread his arms and spun around. A melodic invocation flowed from his lips as

scarlet sparks of magical energy burst forth from his fingertips, spreading across the miles of

stone beneath his feet and overflowing the scene with warm force. The mighty teleportation

magic transported the disc into the cold darkness of open space, dotted solely by the countless

stars that pulsed in the distance. Thousands of miles below the disc shimmered the surface of

the planet whose underground depths Wode had once called home. He who had once been a

mere mortal, living in fear of the merciless Matrons of the Underdark, now smiled bitterly as he

recalled those grim days.

His weathered face, traversed by a multitude of lines and wrinkles, appeared weary at

first, his eyes misty like the waters of the river Styx. Still, the deity moved with a new spring in

his step, his enormous sinews dancing with the desire to kill and wreak destruction upon the one

who had wronged him. He leaned against one of the pillars and lowered his head, closing his

eyes and focusing. His features would occasionally jerk in spasms as his mind sought Naurr in a

different plane. Finally he opened his eyes and smiled maliciously. He raised his troll claw,

enlarging it to gigantic proportions, and thrust it into the stone ground below with all his might.

Particles of smashed rock flew everywhere as the discharge of magic illuminated the

darkness around the God. Wode reached through the hole in the stone, closing his troll fingers

around something and pulling Naurr out from within in a triumphant roar.

The claw had seized the First by the neck and held him aloft as the demonic elf thrashed

in space, taken completely by surprise.

Naurr made futile attempts to free himself, still not realising what had taken place mere

moments ago. His claws sought the flesh of Wode.s lower arm, but the Second hauled him across

the stone floor. The elf landed dozens of yards further, tumbling softly to the ground and rising

to his feet, preparing to face the threat that had plucked him out of the grisly depths of

Vezanthor like a puppet. A vicious smile crossed his lips as he beheld his creator.

He did not need to inspect his surroundings to realise where they were now. Wode had

summoned him onto the surface of the enormous stone disc in the orbit of their native planet.

This was where the final clash of the two gods would take place.

The former drow mage should not have wasted all this effort in summoning him, Naurr

thought; he would have been more than happy to manifest on his own accord. In a way he was

grateful for what the mage had done to him, for him, when he completed his gruesome

experiment. Still, the agony and suffering he had endured at the hands of Irrkidul, the former

power of Vezanthor the mage had sold him to, were only too fresh in his mind.

The Wode who faced him now appeared nothing like the Wode he had known then. His

mane was completely white and much longer than Naurr recalled, his face lined with age, his

body also wrinkled and worn, but bursting with divine might that had increased his sinews to

gigantic proportions. The Second was completely nude apart from a pair of leather trousers that

reached down to his knees. His troll arm was ten times its usual size, covered in delicate tattoos

that depicted the process of creation that naurr knew only too well.

"The tables have turned since we last met, Cursed One," Naurr grinned in mock

humility. "Should I lie on the table again, so the Master can turn me into his new creation, as he

pleases?"

Wode ignored the irony in Naurr.s words. He moved toward the elf instead as the

ground trembled beneath his monstrous feet; his form towered well above twelve feet. Naurr

had not expanded in size upon embracing immortality, retaining his original height of six feet.

The immense size of his creator dwarfed him in comparison.

"Only this time Naurr is no helpless slave, the stone slab of your laboratory table as cold

as ice beneath his back," cried the elf, leaping away from danger gracefully as the troll claw

smashed a large hole in the stone beneath him. "Naurr is as great as you are, Wode!" he

finished, latching his claws into the flesh of Wode.s back and opening two bleeding wounds,

several inches deep. Wode turned round with lightning speed; his fist sent Naurr flying aside

and into collision with one of the stone pillars. The solid rock cracked with the force of the

impact and its upper portion collapsed onto the prone Lord of Vezanthor.

"Not nearly as great, nor as mighty, feeble elf," Wode replied as Naurr struggled to

regain his footing, shoving the heavy stone aside. Then his claws grasped the remnant of the

pillar and hurled it at Wode.

Wode deflected the huge projectile with ease, immediately reacting to slam Naurr with

his troll claw in a strike that the elf could not avoid. Tons of stone crashed to the floor, making a

sizeable dent in the rock as the smashed particles ripped through the divine flesh of the Lord of

Vezanthor. A single motion of Naurr.s hand healed the numerous wounds in his flesh, as the

gaping flesh wounds puckered and closed up.

"I am almost impressed," Wode spoke. "You have gained much through a simple twist

of fate, darthiir; much indeed… yet the memory of you shall be erased from my mind, as well as

your existence from the face of this universe."

"Prepare to meet your own doom, wretch!" roared Naurr, rising in a leap too quick for

the mortal eye and spreading his lethal claws. He directed his strike at the head of the Creator

of the Breed, who managed to avoid the blow that would have passed through him by a few

inches. The strike ripped the left side of his chest to bloody shreds of flesh and gore, almost

severing his left pectoral.

The Lord.s howl of agony deafened Naurr who completed his flight several yards

further. He did not give the Second a chance to recover from the blow, concentrating as he had

during the battle against Wode.s creation in Vezanthor. The crimson ray from his eyes struck

the body of his creator, slowly turning his flesh into stone. Blood flowed from the orbs as the

demonic elf channelled its flow into his scarlet orbs. Wode.s skin became stone, rendering the

God immobile.

The gleam in Naurr.s eyes did not blur his focus; the Lord of Vezanthor maintained his

concentration for several more moments, until the pain in his eyes became unbearable. The

basilisk eyes bathed in the blood that streaked down the demonic cheeks. He wiped the blood

from his eyes and gazed at the defeated god triumphantly.

The hairs at the back of his neck stood aloft in horror as he heard the sound of cracking

stone. A dozen or so yards before him stood Wode, struggling for breath. His skin had crumbled

into dust as he managed to overcome the power invoked by his opponent. The agony of the loss

of his skin had caused him was almost too great to bear.

Making the most of Naurr.s surprise, Wode swung his mighty fist at the elf. The fist

stretched across the distance, striking the Lord of Vezanthor squarely in the face, almost

turning it to bloody mush. Naurr collapsed in pain, clutching at his destroyed face.

When he looked up at Wode, the Creator of the Breed noticed that one of Naurr.s eyes

had rolled out of its socket, the gelatinous blood-streaked mess making its way down his cheek.

His facial bones and teeth had shattered under the blow. The elf remained conscious, despite the

excruciating pain; his shaking hands conjured a portal before him. The magical gate shone with

the hue of his plane, the dark scarlet of freshly spilled blood that ran through the pulsating

walls. A swarm of biris, natives of Vezanthor, charged Wode from within the enormous portal,

forcing him to take a step back.

"I do not stand alone, Naurr," he hissed, opening an emerald portal on his end of the

stone disc and summoning thousands of selgons to his aid. The two armies collided in a demonic

frenzy of blood and howling, battling each other to the bitter end.

Both deities maintained their concentration on the magic of summoning, until they

perceived that the battle was not developing into anyone.s favour. Hundreds of grotesque

corpses littered the ground by the time they chose to end the futile struggle and decide the

outcome in a clash of divine powers.

Although weariness had set into their mighty limbs they charged each other, slashing

and opening new wounds across the ones that had barely healed, carving the flesh that already

hung in loose pieces. Naurr attempted to avoid Wode.s claw, but most of the Second.s blows

reached their target, slamming him against the stone gound, ripping his flesh and cracking his

bones. His hide cloak had been ripped to shreds that hung from his back, spattered with his own

blood. Wode was beyond recognition. Having lost his skin, bleeding profusely, he was more like

a demonic god than drow. The Creator raised his arm, spreading the claw to crush his foe to

bits, but Naurr rolled away from the lethal strike which tore a hole in the floor instead. The elf

leapt upon Wode.s back, wrapping his legs around the massive neck and twisting aside, forcing

the giant to the ground. Wode.s head collided with the stone ground, smashing the face against

the rough rock. Blinded by the flow of blood from his broken brow, he caught his assailant with

a powerful sweep of the troll claw, severing his arm at the shoulder in a spray of fresh blood.

Naurr howled in agony and leapt almost a mile away from Wode. His remaining hand managed

to conjure another portal into his home plane, and his mangled form disappeared into the dark

red light of the magical gate.

The Second roared his disappointment. Naurr was beyond his grasp now, in the relative

security of his demonic plane, recovering from his wounds. He was also losing control over the

enormous stone disc, which had already begun to plummet into the planet.s orbit. All the Dark

Claw could do now was to transport himself back into his realm, the Deeper Underdark, and

heal his wounds, swallowing the bitter taste of defeat.

As he sat upon his throne healing his injuries, Wode saw, through the eyes of many

mortals, the immense meteor appear in the night skies above his native planet, colliding with the

surface in an explosion of hundreds of tons of magical stone that took thousands of lives in a

blinding flash. In his own plane Naurr brooded in silence. The Lord of Vezanthor had managed

to escape the wrath of Wode, the Creator of the Breed.

For now…

-The End-

Thanks to:

Nenad Ćipović (Roman) for translation and suggestions

Damir Salković (Tadran) for translation and suggestions

stanar79 or congo levi (facebook) for contact


End file.
