R. Salvatore - Archmage

They knew.

Quenthel couldn’t suppress her wicked smile.

Malagdorl Del’Armgo, weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo, cut a striking figure among the downtrodden of the Braeryn, the poorest and most crowded district of Menzoberranzan, a place so full of offal, living and not, that it was commonly referred to as Quis’ kenblum , the Stenchstreets.

“Uthegental!” one sickly drow male said from a decrepit doorway, and when the weapons master spun on him, he fell away with a cry and gasp.

But in truth, the weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo smiled upon hearing the name, the name of his great uncle, who, by Malagdorl’s estimation, was the greatest weapons master to ever serve in Menzoberranzan. That very morning, under the guidance of Matron Mother Mez’Barris, Malagdorl had shaved the sides of his head and spiked the short top hair in a thick row, like a line of white teeth running from his forehead over his crown and to the base of his skull.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris herself had cooked the rothé udders to fashion the thick hair gel, and had added a bit of enchantment to it, Malagdorl believed, for she had chanted quietly when she had thickly applied it. Subsequently, he knew that it was more than pride that had swelled his already considerable muscles as the unguent had settled on his dark skin.

So, too, had enchantments been placed upon the other baubles given the weapons master of House Barrison Del’Armgo this day, the mithral ring piercing his nose and the gold pins stuck through his cheeks. These were not the same ones that had decorated the face of Uthegental, as those had been lost in the war with the dwarves in Mithral Hall, but Malagdorl didn’t doubt the powers imbued in these replacements. One pin would close his wounds, while the other afforded great biting power to his square jaw, and magical volume to his battle cries.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris had been cryptic about the powers of the nose ring, but Malagdorl held faith that they were considerable indeed. She had promised him that it would prove the most valuable item of all if ever he found himself in dire trouble.

No replacement pieces were needed for the black plate armor and great trident Malagdorl carried this day, for these were the very armor and weapons wielded by Uthegental. How shocked had the young weapons master been the previous night when his matron mother had revealed to him the great prizes. How she had obtained them, how they had ever been recovered after a century or more, he could not begin to guess.

Nor did he much care. He was Malagdorl Del’Armgo now, not merely Malagdorl Armgo, granted the full surname by the matron mother of the House, in accordance with the honors given to Uthegental. Outfitted now with powerful items, he would carry on the tradition and live up to the savage reputation of Barrison Del’Armgo weapons masters.

He reached over the side of his subterranean lizard mount, his great trident held upright, and tapped the butt of the weapon on the floor, signaling for the others to halt.

The six elite guards did, dismounting efficiently and drawing their weapons as they fanned out wide about the weapons master.

Malagdorl commanded a garrison of a thousand well trained and magnificently armed and armored warriors, and among that regiment, these six were among the finest, all handpicked by Malagdorl himself.

He slipped off the side of his disciplined lizard mount and motioned to the drow warrior nearest the door where the sickly male had been.

That Armgo warrior rushed into the hovel, returning just a few heartbeats later with a terrified male, and with another couple of drow, male and female, as well. He herded them over to stand in front of the imposing figure of Malagdorl.

And it was an imposing figure. Uthegental’s armor had not needed alteration to fit this huge and powerful dark elf. Malagdorl stood above six feet tall, and though not quite as thick as Uthegental-yet-he was near to two hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle.

“There are demons about, I am told,” he said to the sickly looking drow who had named him as Uthegental from the doorway.

The poor fellow seemed confused, as did his companions, and he wagged his head about, scanning, then pointing to a chasme demon, like a huge and ugly rot fly, buzzing the rooftops along a nearby lane.

“Something bigger and more formidable!” Malagdorl scolded, and the drow shrank away from him.

Malagdorl started to reach out, thinking to throttle the Houseless fool, but a shriek from nearby stayed his hand and saved the sickly drow weakling. All seven of Malagdorl’s troupe turned as one to regard a large structure in the midst of the rundown region.

The door banged open and out staggered another Houseless drow rogue, stumbling to the hitching post set in front of the inn, tumbling over it to lie twitching on the stone boulevard, thrashing from some internal agony, likely poison.

The sounds of swordplay rolled out of the open door, and more dark elves appeared, stumbling and scrambling to get away.

Malagdorl grinned and nodded at the door, and his troupe set off as one, ready to make their mark, for the glory of House Barrison Del’Armgo.

“A marilith,” Malagdorl whispered as they neared the door and noted the demon wreaking havoc inside, with six arms swinging deadly weapons and that serpentine body slithering about.

Malagdorl reached his left hand into his belt pouch and brought forth fingers dripping with red dye, which he streaked across the left side of his face. He flipped his magnificent trident to the other hand and similarly dipped his right hand into a second pouch, this time bringing it forth dripping with yellow dye.

To the drow around him, all older veterans, he looked even more like the reincarnation of Uthegental. And so they followed him into the inn, into the waiting embrace of the six-armed demon.

Quenthel Baenre glided through the corridors of House Baenre with her chin up and shoulders back, feeling no weight whatsoever from the myriad complaints rolling in at her and about her from the other noble Houses. They could only complain with a modicum of volume, for they all knew that Matron Mother Baenre acted in accordance with the demands of the Spider Queen.

Still, for all her resolve, the matron mother couldn’t begin to manage a smile as she passed the servants and minor nobles. All bowed before her, many even prostrating themselves on the floor as she passed. Her dour mood, though, was not due to the demons but rather the child she now sought.

She moved into Gromph’s private quarters, fearing no wards or glyphs, for he had given her permission to enter at her convenience-she was the matron mother, after all, and if one of Gromph’s wards injured her, the retribution upon the archmage would be swift and deadly. Lolth had demanded no less from him, and as troublesome as Gromph Baenre could be, he would not, Quenthel knew, go directly against the Demon Queen of Spiders, particularly not in this place, House Baenre, where any transgressions would be fast relayed to Lolth’s ears.

Inside the room, she found High Priestess Minolin Fey Baenre, standing at the ready, a spider-shaped dagger in her hand, a look of anguish on her pretty face.

She wasn’t moving. She didn’t even seem to be breathing. She just stood there, the knife held at the ready in an overhand grip, her legs anchored as if she had been moving with speed and intent, but had then been simply locked in place.

A spell of holding, the matron mother surmised.

And there was the child, Yvonnel, sitting on the floor and playing casually nearby, as if nothing were amiss. The sight disturbed Quenthel profoundly, for she knew the true identity of this child. This was Yvonnel, her niece, but so, too, was it Yvonnel, her mother. The illithid had gone to the child in the womb and had imparted the memories and insights of Yvonnel the Eternal, much as Methil had given the same to Quenthel.