Daughter of the Drow (10 page)

“I’m going to get your things now,” she said, pointing toward the water. The boat had bobbed to the surface and had drifted nearly to shore. Both of the dragon’s heads nodded eager agreement.

It took but a few minutes for Liriel to tow in the boat and unpack her cargo. The dragon quickly devoured the seafood, the two heads arguing all the while over the choicest tidbits. The left head squealed with delight at the sight of Liriel’s cast-off gown and begged her counterpart to join her in The Change. Deep dragons were natural shapeshifters and could change at will into either snake or drow form. Zz’Pzora’s drow shape had but one head, but even this form could not grant the dragon her left-headed longing for society. The drow-dragon had features that were decidedly undrowlike: round, dark eyes; a button nose; and full pouting lips. Her skin retained the bright purple hue of the dragon’s scales and cast the same faint purple light as usual. In any form Zz’Pzora was, to say the least, conspicuous.

Undaunted by such limitations, the drow-shaped dragon wriggled into the gown. Hands on hips, she paced along the shore in a broad parody of a seductress’s slink.

“It’s very becoming, Zip,” Liriel murmured, struggling to keep the mirth from her voice. “Suzonia will be consumed with jealousy.”

With a happy sigh, the drow-dragon flung herself down beside Liriel, ready for some gossip. At ZzTzora’s urging, Liriel told stories about her life in Menzoberranzan: the round of parties, the social intrigue, even the incident with Bythnara Shobalar.

A queasy expression crossed the dragon’s purple, elven face. ^So a wizard died to get me the pyrimo. I wish you’d told me that earlier!” she said in the low, gravelly voice of her right-headed persona. Before Liriel could respond to this, the drow-dragon’s face twisted into a sly smile. “If you’d told me, I would have enjoyed it far more!” put in the left-headed side. “Especially if some of those fish had eaten—”

That was a bit much for Liriel. “I have to get back now,” she said abruptly. “Where are my weapons?”

The drow-shaped Zz’Pzora pointed toward a small cave. Blue light spilled from the low opening, marking it as an especially powerful source of the radiant energy.

Liriel stooped and entered the small cavern, There she found the sack she’d left with the dragon two years earlier. Eagerly she opened it and drew out a small, spider-shaped metal object. The eight legs were perfectly balanced and evenly spaced, and each ended in a sharp tip. She took the weapon by one leg and hurled it at the wall of the cave. The legs bit deep into the stone.

“Perfect,” she breathed. With her lethal aim, a thrown dagger could handle most creatures of flesh and bone; this new weapon could pierce the carapace of many an Underdark monster. The dark elf pried the metal spider out of the rock with her knife, not wanting to lose a single one of her new toys, and then she tied the bag of magic-enhanced throwing spiders to her belt.

Before she left the grotto, she gathered fragments of scales the dragon had broken or shed. The scales of a deep dragon were a rare and valuable spell component, and once dissolved in acid they could be used to make the prized everdark ink used by drow wizards. Since Liriel’s allowance did not begin to cover her expenses, she had developed a lucrative trade of her own, These scale fragments would bring her enough gold to fund more adventures, buy more books, and learn more spells.

The elf quickly said her farewells to Zz’Pzora, and the two friends made their way to the far side of the grotto. There, in a small recessed alcove, hung a leather sling. Liriel seated herself and took a deep breath. Above her soared a long, straight shaft. The opening was too far away for her to see, but she knew from experience it would take her to a point very near the entrance to the water run. She and Zz’Pzora had rigged up a series of ropes and pulleys in this shaft. The dragon would pull Liriel up now, and return the boat to its starting point at her leisure.

Still in drow form, Zz’Pzora grabbed the ropes. The dragon’s first tug sent Liriel jerking sharply upward. As the drow rose in a series of quick bursts followed by long teasing pauses, she fervently wished she hadn’t exhausted her levitation spells for the day. There was no telling when the dragon’s sly, chaotic persona might overwhelm the more sensible head, and it was a long way down. At the bottom of the shaft lay the crumpled remnants of old bones, a silent testament to the fate of other creatures who had fallen—or been thrown—into the shaft.

But once again, Liriel made the ascent without incident or treachery. She dropped the three pebbles that signaled the dragon of her safe arrival, then took her new spellbook from her pack and unwrapped the skins that protected it from wear and water. In the book was a spell that would enable her to establish a portal to a familiar spot of her choice. She chose Spelltower Xorlarrin.

With a mischievous smile, Liriel imagined Kharza-kzad’s reaction to her latest prank. Her hands flashed through the gestures of the spell and she summoned the gate easily. Yet she lingered at the lip of the shaft, and her eyes scanned the

Elaine Cunninghara beloved landscape of the wild Underdark. She suspected it might be a very long time before she would see it again.

If there was ever a time when Fyodor needed the strength of his berserker rage, it was now. Yet the familiar heat and fury did not come to the young Rashemi. He had already fought too much for one day. So he drew his sword and slowly, carefully began to back away from the enormous scorpion-spider.

But the creature seemed fascinated by the light of the torch. It made no move to attack, but as soon as Fyodor eased out of range, it skittered forward until it was back in the circle of light. The man tried this escape several times, not knowing what else to do and hoping it might tire of the game.

As it happened, the monster did just that. The result was not at all what Fyodor had hoped it might be.

One of the creature’s antennae furled back, then whipped up toward Fyodor’s face. Reflexively, he raised the torch to ward off the attack; antenna met flame with a searing hiss. The giant arachnid reeled back, but not before its second antenna snapped forward, low and fast. This one hit Fyodor’s ankle, and the end wrapped around and around as though it were a striking whip. So quickly did the second strike come that Fyodor was yanked off his feet when the creature retreated from the torch’s flame. The back of Fyodor’s head hit hard on the rocky floor, and a hundred tiny, brilliant lights burst behind his eyelids.

The painful light flashed and faded in an instant, and Fyodor once again found himself in total darkness. The fall had knocked his torch from his hand. He groped around for his sword; it, too, had fallen out of reach.

Fyodor was not one to be easily discouraged, but he was beginning to dislike his chances in this fight. He drew a knife from his sash and hauled himself into a sitting position. He did not need light to know where one of the creature’s antennae was.

As if sensing Fyodor’s intent, the insect relaxed its whiplike hold. The flow of blood resumed in the man’s numb foot, and feeling returned with a sharp, prickling rush. Perhaps, he dared to hope, the creature had lost interest in him now that there was no more light.

But then there came the quick skittering rush of many legs and a sharp, rending stab as the creature’s small, beak-shaped mandibles found Fyodor’s leg. The man hissed with pain and drove down hard with his knife. The weapon glanced off the creature’s bony shell. He stabbed two more times, with no success. The monster clung, and its side-by-side mandibles began to grind together in an attempt to rip loose a chuck of meat. Fyodor’s next thrust was into the flesh of his own leg.

Using the knife as a lever, Fyodor pried the creature’s beak open. He rolled away from the grasping mandibles, several times and as fast as he could. In his wild retreat he rolled over a hard, familiar shape.

Fyodor’s hand closed on his cudgel and he rose to his feet. The next time the antenna whipped forward to seize his ankle, he was ready. As long as the creature’s antenna held him, he had a good idea where the rest of the body must be. Rushing forward, he began to beat wildly at the arachnid. Many, perhaps most, of his blows rang with the sound of wood on rock, but a good many of them landed on the monster’s shell. Once the creature seized his ankle with a pin-cer; Fyodor thrashed the clawed appendage until it let go. The taut antenna also relaxed, and it seemed the scorpion-thing would release him altogether. Fyodor was not feeling so generous, himself.

The fighter planted a heavy boot on the creature’s antenna, pinning it firmly to the ground. He did not dare let the monstrous insect out of the range of his driftwood club, for fear he could not see or turn aside the next attack. Fyodor redoubled his efforts and smashed with all his strength again and again into the arachnid’s protective shell.

Finally he was rewarded with a cracking sound and the sudden pulpy give that suggested victory was within reach. The man continued to batter at the creature until it was reduced to a sodden mass.

Breathing hard, Fyodor reached for the flask tucked into his sash. His leg burned with cruel heat where the giant scorpion-thing had bitten him, and he knew the pain he felt now would be a pale thing compared to what must come next. He pulled the cork from his flask and tipped some of the liquid onto the open wound.

Some tame later—perhaps a short time, perhaps not—Fyodor came to himself again and found he had been sleeping on a bed of cold rock, For many minutes he lay where he had fallen, piecing together bits of memory until he could recall all that had happened to bring him to this place. The terror that was the Underdark came back to him, with one thing added.

He could no longer hear the footsteps of the drow he sought.

Kharza-kzad Xorlarrin’s expression when Liriel breezed into his suite of rooms was all she could have desired. The wizard’s thin face tightened with shock, sending ripples through the web of worry lines that creased his forehead and collected around his eyes. He also looked guilty, and his red, slightly protruding eyes scanned the tower chamber furtively as if he feared what might follow her into the room.

“I’m here for my lesson,” she announced smugly. The wizard stepped closer to examine the delicate web of spinning, glowing lights that framed the magic door. “I haven’t taught you how to access a gate!” he protested in his querulous voice. “How did you do it? No one knows a gate into my rooms except—” He broke off abruptly, and in a quick nervous movement he ran both hands through what remained of his hair.

Liriel smiled and draped her arms around the wizard’s neck. She would have her magic lesson, but she also had a certain, velvet revenge to exact.

“I know you haven’t taught me that particular trick,” she purred, “and just think of all the opportunities lost. Imagine, if I could just pop into your private study any time I pleased

“

The Xorlarrin wizard cleared his throat several times and backed away. “Yes. Well. Perhaps another time, I’m sure, but at the moment I am otherwise engaged.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, and her voice was suddenly steely. “It’s time for my tutorial.”

Kharza sighed and raised his hands. “Very well. But first you must tell me how you learned to conjure a gate and who gave you the spell. For your own safety I must know this. Wizards are a treacherous lot, and most gates have hidden requirements, secret limitations. You can’t run in and out of them on a whim, you know.”

The girl produced her new spellbook and assured her tutor that “her father the archmage” felt she was ready to study and cast such magic. Liriel had discovered early in life that Gromph Baenre’s name was a real conversation stopper, and she dropped it whenever it seemed likely to speed things along. As she’d anticipated, Kharza-kzad’s protests evaporated at once, and they were able to get down to business with a minimum of his usual fussiness.

Together they went over Liriel’s new spellbook, rehearsing arcane words and gestures, exploring the limits and the secrets of the various magical gates. Liriel threw herself into the lesson with her customary intensity, and her focus did not falter until they neared the center of the book,

“This gate goes to the surface,” she murmured. The eyes she lifted to her teacher’s face were wide with astonishment and wonder. This gate goes to the surface! I had no idea such things existed!”

“Of course, my dear,” the wizard said mildly. “There are many such spells. Some raiding parties use them, as do merchants. Have you never wondered how fish from the Sea of Fallen Stars, which is many hundreds of miles from here, appear fresh on your plate?”

“I have no idea how it gets from the market to my plate,” she said absently. “But just imagine, Kharza! To see the Lands of Light with your own eyes!”

The Xorlarrin wizard frowned, troubled by his pupil’s rapturous expression. “If you must talk of such things, Liriel, take care who might be listening. These spells are hoarded like rare gems, and the teaching of them is carefully regulated by the masters of the Sorcere. If it were known you were learning to access such gates, your studies with me would be quickly ended.”

The light faded from Liriel’s eyes. “They are ending,” she mourned. “This will be my last lesson. Tomorrow morning I have to report to Arach-Tinilith.”

“You, a priestess!” The wizard was clearly aghast at the thought.

“Don’t get me started,” she grumbled. She untied the strings that held a small leather bag to her belt. “But I did bring you a farewell gift. This bag holds the latest harvest of deep dragon scales. You can send the usual half-profit to me at my new address. Or better yet,” she said slyly, “y°u could bring it to me, during one of our little assignations. I would so hate to have them end, just because I’ve been sent to the Academy. And think of all those who have been entertained by your boastful tales. Surely they are expecting sequels.”

A look of sheer panic crossed the wizard’s face, and he quickly put some space between himself and his student. Liriel might be young, but she already possessed a considerable grasp of magic and a creative flair for vengeance.