66- "I've got friends in low places . . ."
66—Mother, I’m home!
Their business with Khelbin Blackstaff settled, the duo return to the Far Forest, and Taran hardly complains about the lack of dancing girls once they arrive.
Thelbar sets to researching spells and crafting a few magic items, both for Taran and himself, including a pair of unique circlets. “These hold the spell gentle repose within them,” he says.
“Uh. What for?” Taran asks.
“Would you have your clone decay while it awaits your death, brother?” Thelbar replies, as he brandishes a wicked-looking scalpel. “Now hold still, this will only take a moment.”
Taran and Khuumar while away a carefree month breaking up drow riots, training an elite shadow-elven expeditionary force for local scouting and defense, and gambling away Taran’s fortune. The first of the Waterdhavian builders arrive, and work upon the new home for the Champions of the Risen Goddess begins in earnest.
Khuumar, Gorquen and Taran establish regular sparring sessions, with Taran and Gorquen concentrating on aerial combat. Taran takes the majority of the sessions with either opponent, but it is many times only through a liberal application of deceit and treachery. Khuumar proves a surprisingly honorable combatant, considering his heritage, and it is often he and Gorquen scolding Taran on a point of fighting etiquette.
Taran also establishes Winter Survival Training for his cadre of fledgling rangers. To the drow, it is a triple-cursed affair. Not only is it bright, but it is cold enough to kill the reckless, and they are often wet. Having no word for snow in their language, they call it “the burning dust”, or more poetically, “grandmother to the ice storm” (the spell being well known to them). Taran is dubbed “Arunshee’s Kiss,” and while he assumes the name is a respectful reference to his sword, it is a play upon the old phrase “Giving Them Lolth’s Kiss,” which was a euphemism for torture; Taran is a relentless taskmaster.
All in all, it is nearing mid-winter when Thelbar emerges from his studies, and announces that he is ready to take the group to Menzoberranzan. There, they will settle their unfinished business with the Matron Mother Banare, and as Taran puts it, “Bring Nathè to my side.”
“Whether she cares for it or no,” Khuumar says.
“Mind your tongue, drow,” Taran fumes.
Khuumar laughs, amused by Taran’s emotional reaction. “You know, if you were smart you’d liberate you a nice, pliant human slave girl. Like one of those the playthings kept by those Red Wizards you like so much.” Khuumar smirks. “Drow woman’s going to bring you pain.”
“Pfeh. I don’t take advice from you on love.”
“You make sense only when you’re bleeding or something? You’re in love with a drow, moron. A woman like Nathè , you’d better put her in fear of her life first thing you do, else she’s going to run you cruel.”
“We don’t hurt the people we love here on the surface. We only harm the people that harm us.”
“Same difference to a drow,” Khuumar shrugs.
“It’s not!” Taran says, warming to the argument. “You love the people you trust, and you trust the people you love.”
“Which makes you vulnerable to them.”
“Exactly.” Satisfied, Taran leans back.
“You’re such a fool, Tar-Ilou,” Khuumar says. “I knew you were stupid, but I’m surprised to see that you’re a sucker. What you don’t know about drow women could kill a dozen men your size.”
-----
Thelbar teleports the group to Waterdeep, just outside of the dimensional anchor surrounding Khelbin Blackstaff’s estate, and they trudge the long drive up to the main house. Once there, they are greeted by the manor’s master, politely if not warmly, and led through a complex of rooms beneath the house.
“Wizards and dungeons, wizards and dungeons.” Taran thinks to his brother. “They all pretty much have them don’t they? What’s the deal with that?”
“Well, it’s counter-symmetrical,” Thelbar replies sagely.
Khelbin proves true to his word, and provides the characters with the rune-carved stone tablets that indicate a visitor has passed through Menzoberranzan’s outlying checkpoints, as well as giving them a brief outline of what to expect. He leads them to a portal that he tells them will give out in the center of the city, very near the fane of Lolth.
“You can’t miss it,” he says wryly, as the characters step into the portal.
-----
And so they do not. Menzoberranzan is truly spectacular, a massive city underground, rivaling Waterdeep itself for size and grandeur. The city is built into a multi-tiered cavern complex, each individual tier large enough to hold the entirety of Mistledale, and still have room for one of the ostentatious palaces favored by the drow nobles. Massive stalactites and stalagmites are also worked, providing towers that reach hundreds of feet into the air. The whole of the place is busy and bustling, lit by a pleasant glow from phosphorescent fungi, in the drow fashion. The characteristic elven eye for beauty and elegance is present, made all the more strange by the inequity and evil it houses. The temple to Lolth is the most impressive structure in the place—the compound stretches so far to either side of the main gates that the individual figures guarding its walls can no longer be seen.
Taran, Thelbar and Khuumar approach the temple gates boldly, and their obvious lack of subservience provokes an instant challenge from the multitude of guards there. Crossbows and lances are leveled at the characters as they approach, and one guard steps haughtily forward, intent on teaching these outsiders a lesson.
“Be on your best behavior, Khuumar,” Taran says.
“These guards are powerfully armed,” Thelbar warns mentally.
“This is my culture, human,” Khuumar replies. “And my people. I know their ways better than you.” Khuumar stands still, his hands crossed behind his back, and he fixes the approaching guard with a withering stare. “I could take them,” he assures himself.
“What business do you have with our Queen of Spiders,” the guard demands with a threatening leer. “Speak quickly, or suffer!”
“Well,” Taran drawls, as he stares flatly at the guard. “We . . . have . . . come . . . to see . . . the Matron Mother.”
The guard narrows his eyes, perhaps taken aback at the audacity of the request, and the implied insult with which it was delivered. If he expected cowering servitude, this will prove to be only the least surprise of what will turn out to be a long, trying day. Taran displays the pendant of Lolth, given to the group the last time they met the temporal and spiritual leader of the drow capitol, and smiles.
“So chop, chop,” he says. “We’re already late.”
The group is taken into the Temple, and led to a central chamber, an audience hall of sorts, if one ever needs an audience with several hundred people. The massive room is decorated with murals depicting the most depraved acts, and the looming presence of the Spider Queen is implied, rather than depicted directly within the artwork. The effect is beguiling and unsettling in turns.
The group is left to wait, and long minutes pass without any sign of courtesy or even acknowledgement. Finally, and without fanfare, the Matron Mother appears, looking to have aged in the time since the heroes saw her last. She is flanked by a wiry male swordsman on her right, and Nathè on her left.
Her greeting is terse and to the point. “You have failed. I do not see a child in your midst.”
Thelbar smiles, a thin and cheerless expression, and replies, “We did not fail. We killed Irae T’ssarion . . .”
“That petty rebellious trash?” The Matron Mother says. “I care little for the life of Irae T’ssarion, and even less for your role in ending it. I sent you for the child, and you have not delivered on your promise.”
“Oh, as to that. We did liberate Sharlequannan, but the child proved . . . willful. If she has not seen fit to contact you,” he opens his hands, “what can I tell you?”
At this moment, a pair of drow, one male and one female, emerge from a side door to the rear of the party. The male wears the robes of a wizard, and the female is dressed in the vestments of Lolth. Her resemblance to the Matron Mother is uncanny.
“Ah, excellent,” the Matron Mother crows. “Pay attention my children; you will see what happens to those that fail us.”
“Like you failed your f-cking goddess?” Taran growls at the Matron Mother.
The male fighter steps forward, an angry flush darkening his features. “Show your respect!” he yells.
“What respect?” Taran replies, placing his hands on his sword hilts.
The drow smiles at Taran’s pugnacious stance, and opens his hands, palms up. “Any time you’re ready,” he says, a deadly stare punctuating his smug grin.
The Matron Mother barks, “Stand your ground, Dantrak!” And to Taran, she says, “You could not cross blades with him. He is first sword.”
“Oh, yeah? Well I’m the last sword,” Taran says, with a cold edge to his voice. His eyes hold the drow’s stare.
The moment stretches, then the younger drow woman speaks. “Mother, I have been thinking,” she purrs. Her features bespeak a lifetime of cruelties, gleefully perpetrated, alongside a deep sense of confidence.
“She has access to 9th level spells,” Thelbar thinks. “Both young ones do. But the Matron Mother is without spells altogether.”
The young woman continues. “You said our time would come when the child is delivered. It is not these who have failed, it is you who are weak. You have failed us. You have failed your people!”
In that instant, Nathè turns and whips two swords from their scabbards. Before anyone can react, she attacks the Matron Mother, cutting her twice with flaming and frost weapons! Dantrak whirls, shock and surprise clear on his face.
“Tenebrous favors us above all others!” the young priestess screams. “There is a new god for the dark elves!”
“Nathè , don’t do this,” Taran says. “We have a home for you now, with me!”
Dantrak is easily the fastest swordsman Taran has ever seen. In an instant, he has drawn his own swords, leapt to the Matron Mother’s side, and cut Nathè deeply. “Treacherous bitch!” he growls.
Khuumar, as one who understands that betrayal is the common coin of all drow trade, is unsurprised by the turn of events, and takes advantage of the moment to close the distance to the Matron Mother—but once there, he does not attack the elderly drow, but rather sunders Nathè’s flaming sword with a single blow from his own two-handed blade!
“I told you so, Taran, you dumb bastard!” Khuumar yells. “You should pay me to nursemaid you!”
A drow female appears from out of the shadows, directly behind Nathè and Dantrak. “Hello, mother,” she says, and runs the Matron through! The ancient drow cleric is badly wounded, and raises her hands feebly in front of her.
Thelbar hastes himself, and sends a feeblemind streaking at the male wizard, but the drow’s innate resistance foils the spell.
Taran stands stunned, and sees Nathè give a subtle drow sign, “Help me.” He draws his own blade, and looks indecisively at the fight—on one side of the room, his lady love duels the best swordsman he’s ever laid eyes on, and on the other, a pair of drow that present the infinitely more dangerous threat.
Dantrak says, “We will spend a lifetime torturing you for your audacity!” Exactly which of the treacherous drow he intended his threat for is not clear, however. So many traitors, so little BAB.
Nathè stabs her sworn protectorate for the second time, and flees from the melee toward Taran. But as she does so, Khuumar seizes the opening, and destroys her other sword. “Bitch,” he says.
Nathè runs to Taran’s side, her eyes wild and flaring. She is flecked with warm blood and she smiles into his face. In that moment, Taran has never seen a woman look so beautiful.
“I love you,” he whispers, and places Arunshee’s Kiss into her hands.
“Isn’t it curious how events can turn so fast, mother?” the cleric asks, then points a single perfectly manicured finger at Thelbar. The familiar sensation of an implosion presses in on him, but Thelbar resists the spell. And just at that moment, the wizard completes an invocation and everything seems to stand still.
Then the time stop ends.
A massive array of spells fills the room with sudden effect. The Matron Mother, Dantak, the hidden assassin and Khuumar are struck with a horrid wilting, a maximized fireball, and a lightning bolt all at the exact same instant. Taran, Thebar and Nathè are blasted by a cone of cold, and separated from the mage by a wall of force. The mage himself is instantly cloaked by a shield spell, stoneskin and a globe of invulnerability.
Nathè dies immediately, falling against Taran’s side as she collapses.
“I have waited hundreds of years to do this!” the mage screams. “Satisfaction, at last you are mine!”
Dantrak is withered, scorched and blasted and dies within the whirlwind of spell effects, unable to resist the withering rain of magic. Khuumar is badly hurt, and falls to his knees, only his pride keeping the pain from his lips. From the ground, he lashes out at the rogue, crushing her ribcage, and finishing what the mage failed to do.
But the wizard is not finished yet, and he says to the Matron Mother, “Die.” His power word snuffs her life from her form, and she falls across the corpse of her would-be assassin.
“Uh, I’m killing him first I guess,” Taran thinks to Thelbar. “Give me the word.”
Thelbar disintegrates the wall of force, and thinks, “Go.”
Leaping forward, Taran charges the mage, but despite the wizard’s confident disregard of the fighter, Taran proves that not everything that can’t be cut can’t be killed. He drops his sun blade at the last instant, and tackles the mage, taking him to the ground, and locking his arms in what he hopes will be the first of several brutally painful submissions.
“Hold him down,” Khuumar yells, “I’m coming!” And he begins to move across the room.
Thelbar speaks a power word of his own, and the cleric is stunned—she reels backward, disoriented and unable to focus. At that moment, the chamber’s main doors fly open, and a pair of drow guards standing outside the room take in the scene.
“Murder!” one yells, obviously making his bid for Understatement of the Year. The other sounds the alarm, proving that drowish pragmatism is still kicking, even if drowish chivalry has long since rotted away.
Taran begins to work on the mage’s neck, cranking it painfully and choking the air from the drow. Khuumar rushes to his side, and readies his sword for a killing blow.
Thelbar approaches the guards, and says “Hold! I have great news!” He then casts charm monster and dominate monster. Both spells take effect. The dominated drow moves to the cleric, and carefully places his polearm over her heart before punching it through. To the charmed guard, Thelbar says, “Keep your fellows from entering this room. If you can hold them for a few moments, you will be First Sword in the new order!”
Thus assured that all this murder and betrayal will work out in his favor, the guard gratefully turns to his new task, closing the doors behind him.
Khuumar runs the mage through, nearly piercing Taran in the process. “We’d better get scarce,” he says, “before that guard goes down.” Helping Taran to his feet, he says, “Tough break about your little camp-follower. Better luck next time, hey?”
Taran scrambles to his feet, shoving past Khuumar and his gloating smirk. He begins grimly placing the bodies of the fallen into the portable hole. As he does so, Thelbar crosses the room, touching each of the companions in turn; by the time the temple guards kick aside the bolt-ridden body of their former comrade and throw open the door, there is nothing visible within the room but blood-smears and broken weapons.
Unseen, the trio of adventurers flies invisibly out of the temple into the city, and in a matter of moments, teleports home.