R.A. Salvatore - Maestro

Zhindia started for him, but fell back when a young woman strode out of the side room to stand beside the kneeling Sornafein. This creature-Zhindia did not know her-held a rope in her hand, and tugged it casually. Another woman, this one old and emaciated, a battered thing indeed, came crawling out to kneel on the other side of the young one, who dropped a hand and gently stroked the hair of the withered old thing as one might do to a pet dog.

Up came Zhindia’s hands, in the beginnings of a spell.

“Halt!” the young woman demanded, and the weight of the command slapped Zhindia across the face as surely as a heavy punch, and sent her staggering backward several steps.

“I am not your enemy, Matron Mother Zhindia,” the young woman said. “Though you would be wise to never consider me a friend.”

The proud and volatile Zhindia growled and began casting once more, and again, the young woman yelled “Halt!” and magically slapped her across the face.

Again Zhindia staggered under the weight of the magical blow, but this time, she came up in a charge, her snake-headed scourge in hand.

The young woman, so incredibly beautiful, merely smiled.

That alerted Zhindia and she led her charge with another spell, one that wasn’t interrupted, one that would dispel any defenses this impudent young creature had enacted.

Or it should have, at least. Zhindia realized it hadn’t when she was flying backward, thrown by the power of a repulsion spell.

She hit the far wall hard, shocked by the bared might, that she, a matron mother, had been so casually thrown aside by this intruder drow priestess who could not have yet lived a quarter of a century.

Common sense told Matron Mother Zhindia to opt for discussion then, but her outrage would not allow it. She still leaned heavily on the wall, but turned to glare at the intruder and stubbornly returned the wicked grin. She realized that her spell, though unsuccessful, had not been interrupted.

“You have exhausted your commands, I see,” she said, and she launched into another spell.

“Halt!’ the young woman cried, and Zhindia felt that stinging slap across her face.

“Halt!” she said again, and again, and again, and each time brought a painful stinging slap, sending Zhindia into a turn one way and then the other.

It went on for many heartbeats, many incantations, many slaps, and when it ended, it took Zhindia a long while to even realize that she wasn’t being magically slapped any longer.

“I am the favored of Lolth!” she growled, and she clawed at the wall to regain her footing, stubbornly turning to face her adversary squarely-and noted then that the young woman was quietly spellcasting.

Matron Mother Zhindia howled and leaped forward, but too late. The young priestess finished her incantation, throwing one hand out to Zhindia, the other reaching for the kneeling Sornafein.

Zhindia saw her patron go flying aside, his skin erupting in brutal wounds as he bounced to the floor and lay face down, blood pooling around him. Then she too felt the stab of the powerful spell. It slammed her back against the wall, and opened a deep gash from her shoulder, down across her chest to her opposite hip.

She gasped and crumpled to her knees, staring in disbelief.

“I am in the favor of Lolth,” she said, blood dripping with every word.

“Apparently, so am I,” the young woman replied.

“Who are you?”

“Someone you will come to know, I assure you,” the woman replied. “Unless of course, your stubbornness forces me to utterly destroy you here and now. I expect that Kyrnill will not be displeased, at least.”

Zhindia fell to all fours and spat blood onto the floor.

“You are out of the fight with House Do’Urden,” the young woman stated, “by order of Matron Mother Baenre, by order of Lady Lolth.”

There it was, a name to enrage Zhindia once again. Fire burned in her eyes as she snapped her head up to glare at the intruder, but her outrage became confusion as she noted a third drow enter, a naked woman, who smiled at her and addressed her with great familiarity.

“Enough, Zhindia,” she said in a watery voice, one that triggered Zhindia’s recollection. “There is more afoot than you can know.”

“Yiccardaria?” Zhindia whispered.

She saw Yiccardaria turn her attention to the young priestess, who shrugged. The handmaiden scowled and motioned for the priestess to proceed.

With a resigned sigh, she did so, and Zhindia felt waves of healing magic flooding through her. Glorious magic that sealed her wounds, and those of Sornafein, she could tell from the man’s relieved groans.

“Her attitude annoys me,” the young priestess said to Yiccardaria.

“Enough, Yvonnel,” the handmaiden replied, and Matron Mother Zhindia’s eyes widened at the mention of that name. “You are done here.”

“She is out of the fight,” Yvonnel said, pointing to the vanquished Matron Mother of House Melarn.

“She is out of the fight,” the handmaiden agreed. “She will turn her attention to the fallen priestesses in her war room.” She stared directly at Zhindia. “Perhaps Lady Lolth will see fit to grant you some powers of resurrection.”

“Perhaps not,” Yvonnel added with a laugh, and she and the handmaiden retreated into the side room, the withered old woman crawling behind them.

The finality of the slamming door was not lost on the shaken Matron Mother Zhindia.

Their movements were too swift and too coordinated as they careened along the curving corridors of House Melarn. Most of the remaining priestesses had run for the war room, trying to save those not yet quite dead, or were even then banging on the door of Matron Mother Zhindia’s private quarters.

House Melarn was not strong with wizards, and most, like House Wizard Iltztrav, were too concerned with simply maintaining the supporting web structure to focus on the battles Zhindia chose to fight. And all of them, especially Iltztrav, had been wary of going against House Do’Urden from the beginning. It was no secret that the Xorlarrins were infiltrating and dominating the fledgling House, and Tsabrak Xorlarrin had just been named as Archmage of Menzoberranzan.

So that left the warriors, and those drow who encountered Drizzt and his two companions were sent fleeing almost immediately, overwhelmed. Many of the famed Melarni driders were off to House Do’Urden. Many, but not all, and not the newest of them. It was the newest drider, Braelin, who at last stood between Jarlaxle and the others and the exit from House Melarn.

Drizzt and Entreri broke left and right, Drizzt rolling to his feet with Taulmaril in hand, but Jarlaxle, in the middle, was first to act. “Hold your shot!” he ordered Drizzt, and Drizzt nearly paid with his life for complying as the drider heaved a javelin at his head.

A second roll got him clear.

“Braelin!” Jarlaxle yelled. “Oh, Braelin!”

To the left, Entreri sucked in his breath, recognizing the Bregan D’aerthe warrior.

The bigger question loomed, however: Did Braelin recognize himself?

It didn’t seem that way when he charged forward, a heavier spear in hand. He thrust the weapon at Jarlaxle, and the mercenary had to retreat fast, calling to him plaintively all the while.

“He cannot understand you,” Entreri said, moving around to the drider’s right flank, Drizzt coming to Braelin’s left. “It is not Braelin! No more!”

“Take him!” said Drizzt.

“You will be doing him a favor,” Entreri added.

Jarlaxle cast a plaintive stare over his former scout, his former friend. He could not dispel this kind of magic and he could never reach the drow known as Braelin trapped inside the horrible form. To do so would ensure a most terrible death for Braelin. The new identity of a drider was the only defense from memories too awful to be survived.