R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

“Yes, yes, I know, I know,” Kipper said. “Well, to you all, then, a farewell and a fair road. I hope you find your lost friend.”

He bowed and went back inside, and the companions took turns bidding Penelope farewell, then started off down the hill for the gate to the Ivy Mansion, the road beyond and the trails beyond that.

“There are rumors of giants roaming the foothills of the Spine of the World,” Penelope called after them. Wulfgar grinned.

“Aye,” Wulfgar answered her. “We might have to see to that!”

“What was that about?” Catti-brie asked when they were on their way again.

“Adventure,” Wulfgar replied. “The same thing it is always about.”

" Speak not a word unless you are directly commanded to do so! Tos’un Armgo’s fingers flashed to his daughter Doum’wielle, the two standing side-by-side, as ordered, on marks Berellip Xorlarrin had scratched on the ground.

“Do not move,” she had warned them, the gravity in her voice impossible to miss. Something was going on here, Tos’un understood, and it terrified him. Never had the Xorlarrins been friendly to the House of Armgo, of course, but this was even beyond that measure of animosity.

Berellip, a noble daughter and a high priestess, had been scared when she had ordered them to their spots.

“What do you think …?” Doum’wielle started to ask, but her whisper became a shriek as the heads of four venomous snakes bit into her back one after another. The girl swooned under the burn of poison and the shock that Berellip was still so close nearby. Her legs wobbled beneath her as she slumped to the floor, and she went to one knee. She would have slumped lower, except that a strong hand grabbed her under her upper arm and yanked her back upright.

“Weakling,” Berellip whispered in her ear. “ Iblith! Perhaps I should drag you away and feed you to my driders so that the matron mother will not have to suffer the disgust in looking upon such an abomination as you!”

“She is a noble daughter of House Barrison Del’Armgo,” Tos’un said.

Berellip laughed and roughly shoved Doum’wielle before walking around to stand before the pair once more. “That says so much about the fraudulent Second House of Menzoberranzan, does it not? That they seek the beds of iblith to expand their ignoble family?”

Tos’un’s eyes flashed and Doum’wielle expected him to return a verbal barrage at that, but surprisingly, he stood perfectly quiet and perfectly still, except that his jaw quivered just a bit. Doum’wielle thought that curious and out of character, but then she realized that her father was not looking at Berellip any longer but was staring past her. The younger Armgo sucked in her breath, and despite the continuing burn of the snake bites, forced herself to stand taller.

Behind High Priestess Berellip Xorlarrin came a procession of drow such as she had never seen before, such as she had never imagined before. Male warriors flanked the central figures left and right, marching with precision, in perfect step, arms and armor sparkling with magical power.

Between those ranks, on a floating translucent disk that shined purple and blue, sat a woman bedecked in grand robes, laced and bejeweled with intricate designs of spiders and webs. A five-snake scourge rested across her lap, the serpent heads alive and writhing and clearly aware of the scene before them.

Berellip spun around and fell to her knees, eyes lowered to the floor.

Should she do the same, Doum’wielle wondered? She glanced at her father, who stood perfectly still, his eyes lowered. Her gaze dipped to the floor and she swallowed hard. The sight of her father, so clearly terrified, sweat upon his brow, had further unnerved her.

“Matron Mother Quenthel,” Berellip greeted, but did not look up.

“This is the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo?” Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre asked, stepping off her disc and moving up beside Berellip, waving for the high priestess to stand up as she did.

“Yes, Tsabrak caught him in the tunnels to the east.”

The matron mother turned a curious eye over Doum’wielle, first with intrigue but with her face quickly scrunching up with open disgust.

“What is this?”

“My daughter, Matron Mother,” Tos’un dared interject, and Berellip slapped him across the face.

Quenthel pushed Berellip back, though, and bade Tos’un to look up at her. “Your daughter?” she asked, using the common tongue of the surface.

“Yes.”

“A noble of House Barrison Del’Armgo?”

Tos’un swallowed hard, something Doum’wielle surely did not miss.

“How lovely,” Matron Mother Quenthel said. “Such a thoughtful present you have delivered to me.”

All three-Doum’wielle, Tos’un, and Berellip-looked at the matron mother with puzzlement.

“I wonder how proud your mother will be to know that her line is no longer pure,” Quenthel remarked, her voice like the purr of a contented cat. “Or will it be a secret she will want kept, do you suppose?”

Tos’un swallowed hard and cast a plaintive glance at Doum’wielle, and the young half-drow saw the sudden regret in his eyes. He had erred in bringing her here. They should never have left the Silver Marches.

“Andzrel!” Matron Mother Quenthel called, looking back to her line. A tall warrior rushed forward. “Take her and teach her what it is to be iblith in Menzoberranzan.”

“As I please?” he asked.

“Just keep her alive,” Quenthel instructed. “How much alive, I do not care.”

“No!” Doum’wielle cried, grabbing for her sword, but Quenthel lifted her hand and uttered a single word and the poor girl was sent flying backward.

Khazid’hea, the sentient blade, screamed in her head, telling her to stand down, but the headstrong girl picked herself up from the floor and stubbornly drew out the sword.

“Little Doe, no!” Tos’un cried.

Matron Mother Quenthel laughed wickedly. At her side, Andzrel drew out his two swords and calmly walked toward the poor girl. “Back, I warn!” Doum’wielle said.

The Weapons Master of House Baenre came at her then in a blur of movement, spinning and dodging, his blades flashing brightly as they cut in circles and stabs. Doum’wielle thought herself a fine swordswoman, but never had she seen anything of this tempo and skill. And worse, Khazid’hea would not cooperate, filling her head with doubt and calls for surrender.

Andzrel’s blade slapped hard against her sword, and Khazid’hea sent a charge of discord into her head, dizzying her.

Doum’wielle didn’t know what to make of any of it. She saw her cherished blade go flying out to the side, clanging down on the stone floor. She saw Andzrel stepping in closer, saw the pommel of his weapon rushing to smash her in the face.

Then she saw black spots flitting around her swirling vision. She felt the strong hands of the drow upon her, dragging her back. He was behind her, holding her upright …

Five snake heads danced before her eyes.

Berellip’s whip had hurt her, so she had believed, but compared to the scourge of Matron Mother Quenthel, that strike had been nothing at all.

In moments, Doum’wielle was on the floor, screaming and writhing in agony. Blow after blow descended upon her, viper fangs tearing at her flesh, burning poison streaming into her veins.

“Matron Mother, I beg of you!” Tos’un cried.

The matron mother turned an angry glare upon him. “You have lived on the surface,” she said. “How long?”

Tos’un hesitated, and Doum’wielle paid for his slip with another beating.

“Since the attack on Mithral Hall!” the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo blurted.