Mark Anthony - Realms of the Underdark

A sudden sound, like the cracking of a whip, echoed off the stone walls. At the same moment the strand beneath Zak's feet shuddered, nearly sending him tumbling into the depths below. The web was unraveling. Nearby, another of the ropy strands parted. Like a giant's whip, one of the broken ends hissed past Zak, tracing a line of fire across his cheek. Blood trickled from the wound. An inch nearer, and it would have struck his head from his shoulders. The entire web shuddered as more strands snapped and unraveled.

Thrusting the Dagger into his belt, Zak ran down an undulating thread, somehow managing to keep his balance. A high-pitched groan gave him a moment's warning. He leapt from the thread a heartbeat before it broke. Landing on another strand, he kept moving, toward the thread that passed near the base of the stairway. Three more times he was forced to jump from a thread just as it parted beneath his feet. Clumps of web were dropping into the chasm now. But he was almost there.

Zak paused on the strand, tensing his legs, ready to jump to the stairs. He was too slow. Before he could move, the cord snapped beneath him. Zak tried to leap to another strand, but there were none left. The last remnants of the vast weaving unraveled. Together, web and weapons master plunged into the darkness below.

Instinct summoned his levitation ability, and this time, power flooded through him. Zak rose through the air as the falling web vanished below. He laughed at his own foolishness. Of course! The aura of unmagic had come from the web. When the web had broken, so had the aura, and his magical powers had returned.

Zak landed on the bottom step of the stairs, then started climbing. He had ascended some distance before he heard, faintly but clearly in his sensitive ears, a voice.

"Midnight approaches. The moment has come. Let the fires be lit."

Zak froze. The voice could only belong to one: the archmage. Zak had climbed to the base of Narbondel. By some trick of cracks and crevices, the archmage's words had reached the interior of the column, and their meaning renewed Zak's dread.

Let the fires be lit…

Filtering through the stone, faint words of magic drifted on the air. A spell. Zak did not wait to hear the end of it. With redoubled urgency, he hurled himself up the staircase. He had gone no more than three twists of the stairwell when he heard the roar of fire. Orange light burst up from below, along with a blast of scorching air. Midnight had come. The archmage had cast his spell. The fires of Narbondel were rising.

Zak kept climbing. The parched air burned his lungs and nostrils, and tears streamed down his face. The orange glow brightened beneath him. It would take hours for the magical heat to spread throughout the pillar's stones, but in the meantime the spiral stairwell in the center of the column acted like a chimney. Enchanted flames coursed upward with the terrible speed of dragon's breath.

Zak was faster still. Choking for air, he reached the top of the stairwell. A circle of cool darkness appeared above him. The trapdoor way. He reached for the edge of the opening. The mission was a success. Malice would have her precious Dagger…

Zak halted. Searing light welled up the stairway. A roar filled his ears. The magical fire was mere seconds behind. Despite this, the weapons master hesitated. He pulled the Dagger of Menzoberra from his belt and stared at it, filled with sudden, overwhelming disgust. He had risked his life to gain this relic, and for what? So Malice could please Lloth and win at her wicked little games of intrigue and treachery? The purple jewel in the Dagger's hilt glinted like an evil eye. Zak's lip curled back in loathing. No, he would have no part in gaining Lloth's favor. There was only one thing he could do, and damn the consequences.

"I will do nothing that pleases you, Lloth!" he shouted above the deafening roar. "If you want your precious Dagger, you can go look for it in the Abyss!" With that, Zak hurled the Dagger down the stairwell, into the heart of the rising fire. The relic flashed, then was lost in the roiling crimson flames. Zak's hair began to curl and crisp. Steam rose from his leather clothes. In another heartbeat he would be roasted alive. With a cry of rage and defiance, he heaved himself up through the opening and pulled the circle of stone shut behind him.

Fire and noise ceased. Zak sprawled atop the pillar, pressing his singed cheek to the cool stones. Only after a long moment did he realize he was still alive. With a groan, he pulled himself to his feet. Below, the procession of purple magelights was already winding its way back to Tier Breche. Only the base of Narbondel glowed with heat now, belying the fires that raged within. Zak drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. He stepped off the edge of the pillar and levitated to the street below.

By the time he reached House Do'Urden, Matron Malice was waiting for him.

"I have returned."

Zak drifted over the adamantite balcony and landed on the onyx floor. Malice whirled around, stalking toward him with dangerous grace.

"So I see." Her eyes were half-lidded, her expression unreadable. "Did you gain the Dagger?"

Zak could not hesitate if he was to have any chance of deceiving her. "I fear not, Matron Mother," he said, feigning regret. "The spiderjewel led me to a tomb beneath Narbondel. I have no doubt that it was once the resting place of the Dagger. But the relic was gone. Stolen by grave robbers long ago, I imagine."

Malice slipped her arms around him. Zak stared in amazement. Had she forgiven him so easily? Then she bent her lips to his ear, whispering a single word.

"Liar."

Zak stiffened in shock, stepping backward, fumbling for words. "It is no He, Matron Mother…"

"Silence!" she shrieked, her eyes alight with unholy fury. "I saw everything, you fool. Everything!" She reached a hand toward his shoulder. A small spider scurried up her arm to perch on her own shoulder, many-faceted eyes glistening.

Zak swore a silent oath. So she had sent one of her little spies with him. He should have guessed. Dread was replaced by chill resignation. He bowed his head. "I do not regret what I have done." "You will, Zaknafein," Malice hissed. "You will." She made a sharp gesture. Three forms stepped out of the shadows. Her daughters. Vierna and Maya grasped his arms while Briza bound his hands together with cruel leather thongs. Zak glanced up, hoping to see sorrow in Vierna's eyes. Instead, he saw nothing at all.

"What are we going to do, Mother?" Briza asked, jerking on the bonds to tighten them further. "The Dagger was to bring us the favor of Lloth. Surely this blasphemous act will bring the Spider Queen's displeasure instead."

"We are doomed!" Maya wailed in despair. "Not yet," Malice snapped. "Not if the crime is atoned for properly. Then Lloth will be appeased. Zaknafein must be punished for this heinous act. And there can be but one punishment."

"Death?" Vierna asked, her voice emotionless. Malice shook her head. "Death would not be enough to satisfy Lloth's anger." Her lips curled in a wicked smile. "No," she crooned, "Zaknafein's punishment will be something far worse than mere death."

Zak stared at her in growing horror. What could she mean? But even his darkest fears were nothing compared to the reality of her words.

"For your crimes against Lloth and House Do'Urden, Zaknafein, I sentence you to be made into… a drider!" Zak reeled at this pronouncement. Even Malice's daughters gasped. There was no more terrible punishment known to the dark elves. To be made into a drider was to have one's body twisted into an accursed form that was half drow, half spider, a transformation that could never be reversed.

"Take him to the Cavern of the Lost," Malice commanded. "And let me look upon his face never again!"