J. King: Realms of the Underdark

At first Zak thought the ancient Dagger of Menzoberra must be hidden in Qu'ellarz'orl. The spider seemed to be leading him toward the plateau on which perched the city's most powerful houses, including that of Baenre, First House of Menzoberranzan. Zak's heart sank in his chest. If the Dagger was hidden within one of the ancient houses, he had no hope of recovering it. He could hardly knock on the gates of House Baenre and ask if he might take a look around. The only answer he was likely to get was a bolt of defensive magic hot enough to roast his heart inside his chest.

Just as Zak neared the edge of the mushroom forest that demarcated the exclusive plateau, the spider scuttled to the left side of his hand, leading him back toward the heart of the city. Zak allowed himself a low breath of relief before continuing on.

He had nearly reached his destination before he realized where the spiderjewel was leading him.

Zak had reached the very center of the great cavern that housed Menzoberranzan. Coming to a halt, he lifted his eyes from the spiderjewel. The enchanted arachnid had aligned itself with a massive stone pillar that loomed before him in the eternal gloom. Narbondel.

Of course. It made perfect sense. Of all the rock formations in the cavern, only one remained in its rough, natural state as it had for millennia, untouched by drow hands or drow magic. It was a monument to the cavern, as it had been when Menzoberra first led her people here five thousand years ago: the pillar of Narbondel. Only here might something have lain hidden so long without discovery.

Zaknafein approached the pillar, creeping along surfaces closest in temperature to his own skin, a feat which rendered him all but invisible to heat-sensing drow eyes. It was not forbidden to draw near to Narbondel, but few ever did. The pillar was the purview of the city's archmage, whose ceremonial duty it was to ignite the magical fires that traveled up the column once per day. Zak doubted Gromph Baenre would take kindly to meddling, and the thought of being on the receiving end of an archmage's wrathful spells was not one Zak relished.

The weapons master clung to a concealing heat shadow at the base of a stalagmite and watched with crimson eyes. The spiderjewel wriggled on his hand, as if anxious to be nearer the relic that drew it onward.

"Patience," Zak hissed, though whether to himself or the enchanted spider he was not certain.

Even as he watched, the last remnants of magical heat faded from the massive pillar. The stone grew cool and dark once more. This was the Black Death of Narbondel. Midnight approached. Now would be Zak's only chance. At this moment the archmage rested in his plush chambers in Sorcere, preparing himself to cast the spell of fire with which he would begin a new day. No gazes in the city would be turned toward the pillar while it was dark. He could move unseen. At least, so he hoped.

Leaving the safety of the heat shadow, Zak crept toward Narbondel. The surface of the pillar was irregular, crazed with cracks and crevices. A small knife could be stashed in any of them. Holding out the spiderjewel, he stalked around the gigantic column, trying to determine where the relic might be hidden. The enchanted arachnid whirled in circles on his hand but did not stop, as if unable to get its bearings. Zak frowned at the spiderjewel. Then a thought struck him. He craned his neck, gazing at the top of the pillar, which scraped the ceiling of the cavern high above. Of course. That was the one direction the spider could not point. Upward.

Zak could have levitated to the top of the pillar in mere seconds. However, using any magic released heat, making him more visible. He couldn't risk that. It would not do for any of the other noble houses to see him and grow curious concerning his actions. Gaining the Dagger would be hard enough without competition. Zak would have to reach the top of the pillar the mundane way.

He did not pause to determine if anyone was watching him. Speed was his only hope. With swift, supple movements, Zak began scaling the surface of Narbondel. He shut his eyes, concentrating, letting touch alone guide his hands and feet to those cracks and protrusions he might use to force his body upward. Soon he was sweating with effort. He clenched his teeth and kept climbing. At last he heaved himself over a sharp edge of stone. For a moment he lay on his back, panting. Then he forced himself to his feet.

Zaknafein stood upon the summit of Narbondel.

A gasp escaped him. Menzoberranzan lay spread out below him like a vast web tangled beyond possibility. Pale faerie fire danced along the edges of the city's countless spires and stairways, emphasizing the darkness rather than driving it back. It was a glorious yet forbidding sight.

"What is this beautiful nightmare we have wrought?" Zak murmured in awe to the dusky air.

Distant specks of light caught the corner of his eye, breaking his trance. He turned to see several tiny blobs of purple magelight bobbing as they descended the long stairway from the academy of Tier Breche into the city. The archmage had left his chambers in Sorcere and was even now making his way toward Narbondel with his entourage. Zak did not have much time left.

Reaching back into his neck-purse, he pulled out the spiderjewel once more. To his surprise, the magical creature crawled to the edge of his hand and jumped to the rough stone at his feet. The little arachnid scuttled across the top of the pillar. Zak followed the winking light of the ruby in its abdomen. Without warning, the red spark vanished. Zak swore, thinking he had lost the spiderjewel. A second later he realized it had scurried into a small hole in the rock.

Kneeling beside the hole, he slipped a hand inside. His fingers brushed a smooth knob of some sort, and it sank beneath his touch. At the same moment, a hiss of dry air rushed upward, along with the sound of stone grating on stone. A circle of rock sank into the top of the pillar and vanished, leaving an opening large enough for an elf to crawl through.

A low laugh escaped Zak's lips. So the spiderjewel had done its work after all.

Ready for anything, the weapons master crouched beside the opening in the pillar. He peered within, but his preternatural eyes met only cool darkness: black, and black again. There was nothing to do but go down. Zak lowered himself into the opening, and his feet met stone steps. It was a staircase. At his feet, a spark of scarlet light glinted. The spiderjewel. He scooped up the gem and slipped it back into his neck-purse.

Alone, he descended the staircase, spiraling deeper and deeper into the heart of Narbondel. With every step, the air grew thicker, more stifling. Walls and steps alike radiated the same uniform coolness, so that all was a featureless blur to his drow eyes and he was forced to make his way by touch alone. Soon he was certain he had descended farther than the height he had climbed. He must have been below Narbondel now. Still, the staircase plunged downward, through solid rock, delving ever deeper into the bones of the world.

Without warning the staircase ended at a sheer drop. Zak barely caught himself in time, teetering on the last step. Beyond was only emptiness and a faint blue phosphorescence, floating on the air. Blinking, Zak forced his eyes to see in the realm of light. A low path escaped his lips.

He stood on the edge of a vast web. Thick, silky strands formed a gigantic net over a bottomless chasm. It was from the cords that the faint glow emanated.

He glimpsed something resting at the very center of the gigantic tangle. A bundle of some sort. No, not a bundle. A cocoon. Purple light pulsed within. Something was inside. Zak had a hunch, but there was only one way to find out for certain.

Concentrating, Zak attempted to levitate, but his body felt strangely leaden. A ward against sorcery lay upon this place. Magic would not work here. He would have to reach the center of the web by other means. One of the web's strands passed within several feet of the last step. Zak judged the distance, then sprang from the staircase. He landed on the thread-no more than two fingers thick-with the ease of an acrobat.