R. Salvatore - Archmage

Jaemas and Faelas gawked.

Ravel’s lightning bolt followed, dropping another line of the least demons, and once again swallowed up by Dahlia’s hungry weapon.

Without hesitating, Dahlia rushed forward, leaped into the middle of the pack, and stamped her weapon on the floor, releasing the energy in a mighty circular electrical blast that hurled the manes aside, far from her, where they became easy targets for the three drow wizards with their magic missiles and gouts of flames, and were quickly, summarily destroyed.

Dahlia stood there, then, breathing hard, trying to hold on to the clarity as the worms writhed once more.

“The weapon,” she heard the one called Ravel explain to the others.

“These demons were allowed in here,” said one of the others.

“To destroy your matron mother,” said the other.

And they kept talking, but Dahlia was falling away once more. She felt the drow grab her by the arms and usher her away, still talking amongst themselves, but now seeming far, far distant.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris Armgo was not happy as the reports began to filter out of the Do’Urden compound. Not at all. The fight had ended, all the attacking demons destroyed, banished, or driven from the scene.

Marilith was about the place now, stalking the grounds with her contingent of lesser guards. And so, Mez’Barris understood, Archmage Gromph was not far behind.

And the most recent report indicated that Matron Mother Baenre was there too, along with that wretched Sos’Umptu and all the priestesses of the Fane of the Goddess-indeed, those very priestesses had banished many of the demons sent against house Do’Urden.

Worst of all, Matron Darthiir had escaped unharmed. The iblith abomination lived, and would sit again at the table of the Ruling Council.

“Let me go and slay Marilith once more!” Malagdorl grumbled at Mez’Barris’s side.

“Shut up,” she replied without even bothering to turn and regard him, and in a tone that had even the impetuous and prideful weapons master swallowing hard.

Mez’Barris knew that she had to regroup and quickly. Her alliance-the other noble matron mothers who had agreed to go after House Do’Urden- would not be reconstituted. For all their efforts and plotting, only a handful of Do’Urden House guards had been slain-and half of those had been low-ranking warriors Mez’Barris’s own House had provided.

But Matron Darthiir, this Dahlia creature, had survived.

Terondarg Del’Armgo, one of Mez’Barris’s most capable scouts, rushed back into the room, and on her nod, ran up to her and began conversing with her secretly, shielding his hands with his wide cloak and flashing the matron mother the information in sign language.

Mez’Barris dismissed him with a wave and closed her eyes.

“What news?” High Priestess Taayrul, Mez’Barris’s daughter, asked tentatively.

“Go to Melarn and tell Matron Zhindia that she and I need to parlay,” Mez’Barris replied curtly, and she waved her daughter away.

Her wince was telling, though, and all in the room understood that the spy Terondarg had not delivered welcome news.

All in the room wisely followed Priestess Taayrul out of Mez’Barris’s chamber.

The matron mother of the Second House moved over and flopped into her chair, trying to sort out her next move-any move-that would somehow repair the damage of this day. She had known that the demons would inflict little pain to House Do’Urden with the Baenres and Bregan D’aerthe so near, but the critical point to the assault was to facilitate the death of the abomination, the surface elf posing as a matron mother of Menzoberranzan.

But Dahlia had escaped, and worse, Mez’Barris now had learned that her spies within the Do’Urden compound, the guards to Matron Darthiir Do’Urden who had allowed the demon encroachment to her chamber, had been discovered. Those Barrison Del’Armgo warriors had admitted their crimes.

“The mind flayer,” Mez’Barris muttered under her breath, solving the riddle, for surely the matron mother’s pet illithid had aided in extracting the information. What couldn’t Quenthel Baenre find out? Mez’Barris wondered-and feared.

“She will make a spectacle of it,” Mez’Barris said. Terondarg had told her that the trial would be public, as would the transformation.

The transformation.

Her warriors would be turned into driders in full view of the city, in full view of those who had dared conspire with Matron Mother Mez’Barris to bring about the fall of Matron Darthiir. Those driders, no doubt, would become the core guard for the abomination, a poignant reminder to Mez’Barris and to all who would quietly stand with her of the consequences of going against Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre.

It had not been a good day.

She stayed close to the back wall, alert and ready, but with no weapon in hand, staring across the low-burning fire to the open door across from her. There was movement out in the hall. Doum’wielle could sense it, and Khazid’hea did as well.

Soon, my Little Doe, the sword promised. You will regain your leverage.

The priestesses will interrogate me, Doum’wielle reiterated, the strong fear that had kept creeping into her mind as this pivotal day moved nearer to reality.

I will protect you from their inquisitions. The day is ours!

A black feline face appeared in the doorway, peeking in from the right, and before Doum’wielle could react, the huge panther leaped around the corner and into the room, ears flat, fangs bared.

“Guenhwyvar!” Doum’wielle said, as happily as she could manage. The panther paused, ears coming up.

“Oh, Guen, dear Guen!” the half-elf, half-drow said, clapping her hands together. “You must save me, please!”

She knew this cat fairly well, and recognized that Guenhwyvar, so intelligent, understood most of what she was saying. The panther padded a step forward, silently, sniffing the air.

Then Guenhwyvar whirled when Doum’wielle yelled, “Behind you!” But it was too late, and the stone door slammed shut. The panther hit it hard, clawing and pressing to no avail.

And Doum’wielle slipped out the secret door behind her, and closed that, too, securing the locking bar, trapping the panther in the room. She moved down a side hallway and around a corner to find Tiago, smiling widely, coming to meet her.

“He is mine,” the drow declared, and led the way back toward where they knew Drizzt was scouting.

In a tower in Menzoberranzan, Gromph watched the trap spring. The archmage shook his head, not thrilled with the timing here-too much was at play in Menzoberranzan and the last thing he needed now was more complications.

He tried to imagine how the return of Tiago might help with the situation, but he couldn’t see much to gain, particularly with that wretched half-elf Armgo creature along beside him.

At least House Do’Urden was secure for the time being, and Quenthel would not soon call on him.

Gromph waved his arms and barked out a sharp chant. A few moments later, he disappeared, arriving securely into his prepared chamber in Q’Xorlarrin. He stepped out of the small room to consider the main chapel of the city, across the way and over the primordial pit. Gromph’s second spell created a disembodied orb through which he could see while a third rendered that orb invisible, and off it flew at tremendous speed.

A fourth spell turned Gromph into a floating wisp, ghostly and barely tangible, and a fifth made him invisible. Off he went, passing locked doors as if they were open portals, gliding through the forge room where several drow craftsmean and wizards looked up curiously, sensing something.