Ричард Бейкер - Condemnation

“Not more than an hour, perhaps two,” Pharaun answered.

The wizard waited while the dark elves stood and fell in behind him again. Ryld and Valas, the two who had borne the virulence of the nightwalker’s dread gaze, seemed gray with weariness, hardly able to keep their feet.

“Come,” said Pharaun. “Mantol-Derith is no Menzoberranzan, but it will be the most civilized place we’ve seen in days, and no one is likely to want to kill us.”

“Not right away, at least.”

Nothing more troubled them for the rest of the shadow walk, and they emerged from the Fringe not long after the nightwalker’s attack, returning to the mundane world on the floor of a narrow, subterranean gorge. The walls were marked with various trail signs and messages from previous travelers who had stopped there. It was obviously a commonly used campsite near the trade cavern. The company rested there for hours, warming up from the insidious chill of the Shadow Fringe. After resting, they left the gorge and found their way out into a long, smooth-sided tunnel that bored for miles through the dark, broken by occasional open caverns along the way.

Valas led the company, as he was familiar with their arrival point and the route they found themselves traveling. After the burning skies of the daylit surface and the miserable gloom of the Plane of Shadow, the routine perils of the Underdark felt like old friends. This was their world, the place where they belonged, even those of their number who had rarely journeyed outside their home cities.

After a march of about two miles, Valas called a brief halt and knelt down to sketch a crude map in the dust of the passage floor.

“Mantol-Derith lies not more than half a mile ahead. Remember, this is a place of trade and association with other races. We do not rule Mantol-Derith—no one does—and so it would be prudent to avoid giving offense to anyone you encounter there, unless you’re looking for a fight that may waste our time and resources.

“Also, I have been considering how best to find our way from the trade cavern to the holdings of House Jaelre in the Labyrinth. From here our path must traverse the dominion of Gracklstugh, city of the gray dwarves.”

“Under no circumstances will we approach Gracklstugh,” Quenthel said at once.

“The gray dwarves destroyed Ched Nasad. I see no reason to present myself at their doorstep for slaughter.”

“We have few other options, Mistress,” Valas said. “We are northeast of the duergar realm, and the Labyrinth lies several days southwest of the city. We cannot skirt the city to the south because the Darklake is in the way, and the duergar patrol its waters. Skirting the city to the north would take us at least two tendays of difficult travel through tunnels I do not know well at all.”

“Why did we bother to come this way, then?” Jeggred muttered. “We might as well have returned to Menzoberranzan.”

“Well, for one thing, Gracklstugh still lies between us and House Jaelre, whether we’re in Mantol-Derith or Menzoberranzan,” Pharaun replied. He tapped three points on Valas’s crudely sketched map. “The gray dwarves must be addressed in either scenario. The question is simply whether we dare to pass through Gracklstugh, or not.”

“Could you shadow walk us past the city?” Danifae asked.

Pharaun grimaced and said, “I have never traveled past Mantol-Derith in this direction, and shadow walking is best employed to reach a familiar destination. At any rate, it wouldn’t surprise me to find that the duergar have defended their realm against the passage of travelers on nearby planes.”

“Are we certain that the gray dwarves would object to our presence?” Ryld asked.

“Merchants from Menzoberranzan journey to Gracklstugh often enough, and gray dwarf merchants bring their wares to Menzoberranzan’s bazaar. It’s possible that Gracklstugh had nothing to do with the duergar mercenaries who attacked Ched Nasad.”

“I have heard nothing that suggests to me that we should risk entering Gracklstugh,” Quenthel said. She made a curt gesture with her hand, silencing the debate. “I prefer not to gamble on the hospitality of the gray dwarves, not after the fall of Ched Nasad. We will go around the city to the north, and trust that Master Hune can find us a way through.”

Halisstra glanced at Ryld and Valas. The scout chewed on his lip, worrying at the problem, while the weapons master simply lowered his eyes in resignation.

“We are only a mile or two from this cavern known as Mantol-Derith?” Halisstra asked, pointing at the sketch.

“Yes, my lady,” Valas replied.

“And regardless of which course we choose, we must pass through the place?”

The Bregan D’aerthe scout simply nodded again.

“Then perhaps we should see what we can learn in the trade cavern before we make our decision,” Halisstra offered. She could feel Quenthel’s eyes on her, but she did not look at the Baenre. “There might be duergar merchants there who could shed some light on the question for us. If not, well, we’ll have to provision ourselves there anyway before striking out into the wilds of the Underdark.”

“A reasonable suggestion,” Pharaun remarked. “There are a dozen mercenary companies based in the City of Blades. Is it not likely that the duergar we fought in Ched Nasad were hired by a drow House, and had no special allegiance to Gracklstugh?”

“They did Gracklstugh’s work when they destroyed the city,” Quenthel said darkly. She stood and set her hands on her hips, still staring at the sketch on the floor. She thought for a moment, then angrily swept it out with her foot.

“We will see what we learn in Mantol-Derith, then. I suspect that time is of the essence, and if we can avoid a detour of twenty or thirty days to skirt the city, we should do so, but if we hear anything to indicate that Gracklstugh may be closed to our kind, we strike out into the barrens.”

Valas Hune nodded and said, “Very well, Mistress. I suspect we will be able to arrange passage unless the duergar are openly at war with Menzoberranzan. I’ve dealt with the gray dwarves before, and there is nothing they would not sell for the right price. I will seek out a duergar guide in Mantol-Derith and see what I can learn.”

“Good enough,” said Quenthel. “Take us to the duergar, and we will—”

“No, Mistress, not ‘we’,” the scout said. He stood and brushed off his hands.

“Most duergar have little liking for drow under any circumstances, less so for noble-born drow, and even less for priestesses of the Spider Queen. Your presence would only complicate things. It might be best if I handled any negotiations myself.”

Quenthel frowned.

Jeggred, standing close behind her, rumbled, “I could go along to keep an eye on him, Mistress.”

Pharaun barked sharp laughter at the thought and said, “If a priestess of Lolth makes a gray dwarf nervous, what do you think he’d make of you?”

The draegloth bridled, but Quenthel shook her head.

“No,” she said, “he’s right. We will find a place to wait, and perhaps see what news there is to be had, while Valas takes care of the details.”

They resumed their march, and soon came to Mantol-Derith. The place was much smaller than Halisstra expected, a cavern not more than sixty or seventy feet in height and perhaps twice that in width, though it twisted and snaked for many hundreds of yards. She was used to the immensity of Ched Nasad’s great canyon, and the stories she’d heard of other places of civilization underground usually involved tremendous caverns miles across. Mantol-Derith would have been nothing more than a side cavern in a drow city.

It was also much less crowded than she would have expected. The marketplaces in her home city had always been busy places, thronged by common drow or the slaves of nobles engaged in their various errands. The market of a drow city usually hummed with industry, energy, and activity, even if those qualities were peculiarly distorted to match the aesthetic tastes of drow society.