Archmage

CHAPTER 4

Matron Mother Mez’Barris Armgo of the Second House of Menzoberranzan tried not to look shocked when, yet again, major demons entered the chamber of the Ruling Council.

“Is this to be the new normal, Matron Mother?” she dared to ask a very smug Quenthel Baenre when Nalfeshnee-a most horrid beast with a great rounded belly and leathery wings too small to support its great girth-wobbled out of the room, mercifully taking its stench with it. The ridiculousness of the bulky creature’s appearance somehow added to the menace of the beast, as if Nalfeshnee and other demons of his type were intentionally mocking conventions of beauty. “Are we to be entertained by the antics of demons with each meeting, instead of discussing the very real problems we now face in the wake of the disaster in the Silver Marches?” Mez’Barris continued.

“Disaster?” the matron mother replied incredulously. “We scarred the land, sacked a great human city, and left the kingdoms of Luruar in disarray. And all for the cost of a few drow lives. Disaster? Do you think Lady Lolth would agree with, or appreciate, your description, Matron Mother Mez’Barris?”

“I think we gained nothing, nor did the dragons.”

“That is your opinion. To my eyes, our journey to the World Above was well worth the effort and the cost of a few warriors, mostly males.” She paused there and smiled wickedly at Matron Mother Mez’Barris. “And only a very few noble drow.”

Only two, actually, they both knew, and both those fallen from House Barrison Del’Armgo, if the rumors of Tiago’s survival proved true.

“Do the demons trouble you?” Matron Mother Baenre asked. “They are servants of the Spider Queen, are they not? The physical manifestation of chaos itself. We should consider ourselves blessed that so many have chosen to haunt our city.”

Even Matron Mother Baenre’s allies on the Ruling Council bristled a bit at that-except for Sos’Umptu, of course, who sat with the same smug expression as her sister the matron mother, and Matron Darthiir Do’Urden, the surface elf named Dahlia, who sat with the same blank stare that she always brought to council. The demons were growing unmanageably thick about the city, and bringing havoc to every House, even those of the Ruling Council.

Even House Baenre.

In that light, the others all understood that the only one benefitting from the presence of so many demons was probably Quenthel Baenre herself, her position growing more secure with the ever-present troubles distracting any who might plot against her.

But since they were all coming to understand this new reality. .

“They are glorious creatures, gifts of the Spider Queen to us, the priestesses who have the knowledge and power to summon them,” Matron Mother Baenre declared.

“They are summoning their own now,” Matron Miz’ri remarked.

“Minor minions,” said the matron mother.

“A pack of glabrezu marched past my gate this very day,” Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey argued. “A pack! A score of the brutes. They alone could likely topple some of the lesser Houses.”

“They are too undisciplined to so organize,” Sos’Umptu Baenre said from the back of the room. “You need not fear.”

“I do not fear!” Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey retorted angrily, standing and pounding her small fist on the spider-shaped council chamber in a most unexpected and very out-of-character display. She turned to stare hard at the matron mother. “My priestesses ask Lolth for the permission to begin banishing the demons, and the moment the Spider Queen gives her assent, I will make it my duty to cleanse Menzoberranzan of any Abyssal creatures who are not willing to submit to the will of the Ruling Council. Enough, Matron Mother, I beg!”

Quenthel stared impassively at Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey. She leaned forward in her chair, just a bit, and brought her hands up onto the table in front of her, interlocking the fingers. She didn’t lash out, and she didn’t blink, her posture and poise screaming at Byrtyn Fey to continue-and at the same time, warning the diminutive fool that she probably would be much better off doing no such thing.

Byrtyn Fey, who had witnessed the incarnation of Lolth’s avatar at her Feast of the Founding, who had lost her House’s high priestess, her daughter Minolin, to the favored Quenthel and House Baenre, was wise enough not to continue. She quietly slipped back down to her chair.

The matron mother was pleased at that. Quenthel had tightened her grip on the city and the council once again. Even her allies were none too happy. But they were paralyzed, all of them, by the threat of so many demons wandering Menzoberranzan. They were all, even Mez’Barris Armgo, so consumed by trying to keep their compounds secure and their nobles and other notables alive, that they had no opportunity to organize against House Baenre.

Because they knew.

The demons were Quenthel’s doing, mostly, though now the creatures had indeed taken to gating in other creatures from the Abyss on their own.

And if they were Quenthel’s doing, then she had done so with the blessing of Lady Lolth.

They knew.

Quenthel couldn’t suppress her wicked smile.

Malagdorl Del’Armgo, weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo, cut a striking figure among the downtrodden of the Braeryn, the poorest and most crowded district of Menzoberranzan, a place so full of offal, living and not, that it was commonly referred to as Quis’ kenblum, the Stenchstreets.

“Uthegental!” one sickly drow male said from a decrepit doorway, and when the weapons master spun on him, he fell away with a cry and gasp.

But in truth, the weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo smiled upon hearing the name, the name of his great uncle, who, by Malagdorl’s estimation, was the greatest weapons master to ever serve in Menzoberranzan. That very morning, under the guidance of Matron Mother Mez’Barris, Malagdorl had shaved the sides of his head and spiked the short top hair in a thick row, like a line of white teeth running from his forehead over his crown and to the base of his skull.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris herself had cooked the rothé udders to fashion the thick hair gel, and had added a bit of enchantment to it, Malagdorl believed, for she had chanted quietly when she had thickly applied it. Subsequently, he knew that it was more than pride that had swelled his already considerable muscles as the unguent had settled on his dark skin.

So, too, had enchantments been placed upon the other baubles given the weapons master of House Barrison Del’Armgo this day, the mithral ring piercing his nose and the gold pins stuck through his cheeks. These were not the same ones that had decorated the face of Uthegental, as those had been lost in the war with the dwarves in Mithral Hall, but Malagdorl didn’t doubt the powers imbued in these replacements. One pin would close his wounds, while the other afforded great biting power to his square jaw, and magical volume to his battle cries.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris had been cryptic about the powers of the nose ring, but Malagdorl held faith that they were considerable indeed. She had promised him that it would prove the most valuable item of all if ever he found himself in dire trouble.

No replacement pieces were needed for the black plate armor and great trident Malagdorl carried this day, for these were the very armor and weapons wielded by Uthegental. How shocked had the young weapons master been the previous night when his matron mother had revealed to him the great prizes. How she had obtained them, how they had ever been recovered after a century or more, he could not begin to guess.

Nor did he much care. He was Malagdorl Del’Armgo now, not merely Malagdorl Armgo, granted the full surname by the matron mother of the House, in accordance with the honors given to Uthegental. Outfitted now with powerful items, he would carry on the tradition and live up to the savage reputation of Barrison Del’Armgo weapons masters.

He reached over the side of his subterranean lizard mount, his great trident held upright, and tapped the butt of the weapon on the floor, signaling for the others to halt.

The six elite guards did, dismounting efficiently and drawing their weapons as they fanned out wide about the weapons master.

Malagdorl commanded a garrison of a thousand well trained and magnificently armed and armored warriors, and among that regiment, these six were among the finest, all handpicked by Malagdorl himself.

He slipped off the side of his disciplined lizard mount and motioned to the drow warrior nearest the door where the sickly male had been.

That Armgo warrior rushed into the hovel, returning just a few heartbeats later with a terrified male, and with another couple of drow, male and female, as well. He herded them over to stand in front of the imposing figure of Malagdorl.

And it was an imposing figure. Uthegental’s armor had not needed alteration to fit this huge and powerful dark elf. Malagdorl stood above six feet tall, and though not quite as thick as Uthegental-yet-he was near to two hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle.

“There are demons about, I am told,” he said to the sickly looking drow who had named him as Uthegental from the doorway.

The poor fellow seemed confused, as did his companions, and he wagged his head about, scanning, then pointing to a chasme demon, like a huge and ugly rot fly, buzzing the rooftops along a nearby lane.

“Something bigger and more formidable!” Malagdorl scolded, and the drow shrank away from him.

Malagdorl started to reach out, thinking to throttle the Houseless fool, but a shriek from nearby stayed his hand and saved the sickly drow weakling. All seven of Malagdorl’s troupe turned as one to regard a large structure in the midst of the rundown region.

The door banged open and out staggered another Houseless drow rogue, stumbling to the hitching post set in front of the inn, tumbling over it to lie twitching on the stone boulevard, thrashing from some internal agony, likely poison.

The sounds of swordplay rolled out of the open door, and more dark elves appeared, stumbling and scrambling to get away.

Malagdorl grinned and nodded at the door, and his troupe set off as one, ready to make their mark, for the glory of House Barrison Del’Armgo.

“A marilith,” Malagdorl whispered as they neared the door and noted the demon wreaking havoc inside, with six arms swinging deadly weapons and that serpentine body slithering about.

Malagdorl reached his left hand into his belt pouch and brought forth fingers dripping with red dye, which he streaked across the left side of his face. He flipped his magnificent trident to the other hand and similarly dipped his right hand into a second pouch, this time bringing it forth dripping with yellow dye.

To the drow around him, all older veterans, he looked even more like the reincarnation of Uthegental. And so they followed him into the inn, into the waiting embrace of the six-armed demon.

Quenthel Baenre glided through the corridors of House Baenre with her chin up and shoulders back, feeling no weight whatsoever from the myriad complaints rolling in at her and about her from the other noble Houses. They could only complain with a modicum of volume, for they all knew that Matron Mother Baenre acted in accordance with the demands of the Spider Queen.

Still, for all her resolve, the matron mother couldn’t begin to manage a smile as she passed the servants and minor nobles. All bowed before her, many even prostrating themselves on the floor as she passed. Her dour mood, though, was not due to the demons but rather the child she now sought.

She moved into Gromph’s private quarters, fearing no wards or glyphs, for he had given her permission to enter at her convenience-she was the matron mother, after all, and if one of Gromph’s wards injured her, the retribution upon the archmage would be swift and deadly. Lolth had demanded no less from him, and as troublesome as Gromph Baenre could be, he would not, Quenthel knew, go directly against the Demon Queen of Spiders, particularly not in this place, House Baenre, where any transgressions would be fast relayed to Lolth’s ears.

Inside the room, she found High Priestess Minolin Fey Baenre, standing at the ready, a spider-shaped dagger in her hand, a look of anguish on her pretty face.

She wasn’t moving. She didn’t even seem to be breathing. She just stood there, the knife held at the ready in an overhand grip, her legs anchored as if she had been moving with speed and intent, but had then been simply locked in place.

A spell of holding, the matron mother surmised.

And there was the child, Yvonnel, sitting on the floor and playing casually nearby, as if nothing were amiss. The sight disturbed Quenthel profoundly, for she knew the true identity of this child. This was Yvonnel, her niece, but so, too, was it Yvonnel, her mother. The illithid had gone to the child in the womb and had imparted the memories and insights of Yvonnel the Eternal, much as Methil had given the same to Quenthel.

Quenthel suspected that Methil’s work with the baby had been more comprehensive than that which the illithid had given to her.

She stared at the baby playing casually on the floor while a high priestess with clear murderous intent stood frozen in place, helpless against the power the child could wield.

A high priestess!

But no, Quenthel soon realized, Minolin Fey’s enchanted state was not the handiwork of the toddler, for within an antechamber, the matron mother noted some movement, and recognized, too, the source of that movement: a handmaiden of Lolth.

“Well met, daughter of Gromph,” Quenthel greeted the child, who slowly turned to regard her.

“We have met many times, Quenthel,” the child said, and Quenthel had to remind herself to suppress her anger at the lack of respect and the familiarity shown her. This was no ordinary child, no mere niece to the latest Matron Mother Baenre.

“Both in this life, and in mine past,” the child said, and she went back to playing with the rothé bones.

“Your guardian?” Quenthel asked, motioning to the antechamber.

“Minolin Fey’s, more likely,” said the child, never looking up from her game. “Had the priestess continued her stalking of me, I would have obliterated her. Still, I feel for the poor, confused Minolin Fey. I can hardly blame her for her frustration, even her murderous intent. Alas, but I have robbed her of her attempt at motherhood, so it would seem.”

Quenthel’s jaw hung open as she tried futilely to digest that ridiculous speech-especially ridiculous when she considered that this was the virtual reincarnation of Yvonnel sitting on the floor in front of her.

Sympathy? Mercy?

It was all for her, Quenthel realized, all to let her know how comfortably in control this matron mother in toddler’s clothing truly was. Allowing Minolin Fey to live, given her clear treachery, was simply a reminder from this seemingly helpless baby that she was in complete control-at least in her own room. If not for Quenthel’s approach, Yvonnel or her pet yochlol would have very likely destroyed Minolin Fey for her treachery.

Minolin Fey was alive now only because she served as a reminder.

Quenthel stared at the child, who didn’t bother to look back.

But the matron mother continued to stare at her, hating her, wanting nothing more than to throttle the little creature. But she could not, of course, not with a yochlol in the other room, watching carefully.

And where did Gromph fit in to all of this subterfuge? He had once, not long ago, hated Quenthel profoundly, and had even conspired against her. She knew that, and it had been confirmed to her when the avatar of Lolth had shown up at House Fey-Branche in the Festival of the Founding.

But Gromph had been the one to bring Quenthel to Methil. In obedience to Lolth, Gromph had granted her such insight and power-would he have done any such thing if he was still plotting against her?

Now this, though, this little creature sitting on the floor. . Gromph’s child, and one the archmage no doubt hoped would supplant Quenthel as Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan sooner rather than later.

Would the archmage help facilitate that usurpation? No doubt, she realized, if the Spider Queen desired it, and no doubt even if the Spider Queen was not actively opposed to it.

Doubts began to swim in Quenthel’s thoughts. This plan, this infant daughter imbued from the womb with the memories of Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal, seemed suddenly far beyond her, and far above her.

Was there any precedent for her abdicating the throne of Menzoberranzan to one more worthy? Of doing so without being murdered, or turned into a drider? Could she become again a high priestess of House Baenre under the leadership of this newest Yvonnel?

Do not entertain such thoughts! she silently scolded herself. She was the matron mother. She had found the wisdom of Yvonnel and the memories of the early days of Menzoberranzan, when demons, even great and powerful major demons, openly roamed the dark avenues. She had recreated this embodiment of chaos, and that after forcing unity in the city, sublimating Mez’Barris Armgo and stonewalling the plotting of several other Houses. She, Quenthel, had taken control.

“I hold her memories as closely as you,” she dared to say to the child.

The little girl slowly turned her head and stared up at Quenthel with a smile so serene as to mock the matron mother’s claim.

And the child could not be harmed.

But neither would Quenthel fear her. She decided that then and there.

“I am the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan,” she said, and before the child could reply or react, Quenthel turned and left the chamber.

She wondered what punishment little Yvonnel would inflict upon Minolin Fey when she came out of the magical hold spell.

Perhaps Yvonnel and her yochlol would murder. .

“No,” Quenthel said aloud, and with certainty. She looked into the memories of Yvonnel within her to understand the motivations of the Yvonnel in the chamber behind her. Little Yvonnel wouldn’t kill Minolin Fey. Not yet. She wouldn’t even punish the priestess in any serious way.

But Minolin Fey would know hopelessness, a dark pit from which she could never hope to escape. And from this point forward, the cowed priestess would no doubt prove to be a wonderful and attentive mother.

Because she now understood the consequences of failure.

The great demon towered over Malagdorl and the other drow, even from across the open floor of the common room. Like everyone else in the room, the demon had turned at the remarkable entourage crashing through the doorway of the inn, noticing most obviously the startling warrior centering the newcomers, who seemed a reincarnation of mighty Uthegental, in his black plate mail and with that huge trident in hand.

Beside the demon, held off the floor in the squeezing embrace of her serpentine lower torso, a drow commoner grimaced in pain.

The demon took careful measure of the newcomers, saw Malagdorl, and her eyes sparkled with anticipation. In her flush, she squeezed tighter with her tail.

The captured dark elf’s eyes bulged, and he let out a little wheezing sound.

“Have you come to play?” the demon purred. “Such big weapons. Such power and strength. I am overwhelmed.”

“Are you done playing with the rabble?” Malagdorl said.

“Rabble?” the demon echoed. “You fancy yourself above them? What say you?” she asked the others in the room, all shying as much from the drow newcomers as from the demon.

“Oh, so you are a drow of importance,” the demon said, when no reply came.

“I am Malagdorl Del’Armgo, weapons master of the Second House of Menzoberranzan,” the drow proclaimed. “You will soon come to know my name as that of the dark elf who banished you from this plane for a hundred years.”

“Do tell,” she said, her voice taking on a gratingly sharp edge. Her snake tail unwound, spinning and launching the poor captive across the room to crash into the wall, where he slumped and melted to the floor, gasping for air. Each breath brought a soft cry, his broken ribs aching with the simple movement.

The demon’s six arms went to her sides and back, and with the sharp hiss of metal on metal, six weapons came forth: swords and scimitars, a fat khopesh blade and a slender rapier. The weight of each weapon seemed to matter not at all to the huge and mighty demon, possessed of supernatural strength. She spun them about with practiced ease.

“And do you know who I am, Malagdorl Del’Armgo?” the demon purred.

“You are a marilith.”

“No, fool, I am not merely a marilith. I am Marilith!”

Malagdorl puffed out his chest.

“Come, Weapons Master,” Marilith teased. “Come and witness the glory of a true master of weapons.”

The six blades in her hands moved in a mesmerizing dance. Malagdorl’s entourage fanned out around him, three on either side. To a drow, they understood the formidability of this fiend they faced, but these were Barrison Del’Armgo’s elite warriors.

They knew no fear.

With a nod from Malagdorl to left and right, the weapons master led the way. The noble drow warriors stalked in slowly, the commoners in the room all backing to the farthest corners, and Marilith smiling, her snake tail twitching, eager for the fight.

Too eager, Malagdorl thought. He and his entourage were elite warriors, veterans, and they had fought side by side for decades. Surely the demon in front of them knew this. Surely the beast was aware of the reputation of House Barrison Del’Armgo. The weapons master glanced around, expecting other demons-minions of Marilith-to leap from the shadows or crash through the walls.

When he noted nothing, Malagdorl leaped into the fray, stabbing his great trident ahead with a powerful thrust.

In from the sides came his entourage, six drow, twelve swords, rushing and circling, skipping ahead to strike, falling back with great agility.

Marilith’s arms were a blur of motion, her weapons ringing against drow blades, parrying almost every strike. The khopesh swept three swords aside with a single parry, and the rapier darted in behind to drive the nearest foe back. Almost every strike was parried, and those few that got through did little damage against the demonic creature. From the waist up, Marilith appeared as a naked human woman, though gigantic. But her skin was surely that of a major fiend, and even the fine edges of masterfully crafted drow blades could barely dig in.

Her center arms on each side came together in a crossing motion, turning aside Malagdorl’s powerful stab. Back out they went, nearly tearing the trident from the mighty drow’s grasp. He staggered backward a few steps to regroup and secure his grip on the weapon.

And to let his lesser companions bear the brunt of the demon’s initial surge.

Both lines of three became a weave, the drow leaping to and fro, swerving around each other, constantly changing positions and attack angles.

Marilith’s blades worked furiously to keep up, and the ring of weaponagainst-weapon became a continuous metallic screech.

Her tail swept out around her left flank, and the three dark elves leaped straight up and tucked their legs-one, two, three-dodging perfectly, and then again as the serpent tail rushed back and swept all the way around to the right.

The three dark elves on that side similarly began their evasion, but Marilith stopped and swung around, bringing all six of her blades to bear on the three now slightly off-balance on her right side, six swords meeting six, though with the strength of a major demon behind the attacking blades.

Her tail snapped the other way, whipping across, and up went the drow again. This time, though, the demon lashed out at them with a spell. She grabbed a huge table from across the room with magical telekinesis and hurled it at the agile trio.

Normally, they would have easily dodged, but now they were up in the air as the table hurtled at them, their twisting and turning less effective.

One got clipped and was sent spinning aside. A second caught the table under the arm and was taken with it across the room to smash into the far wall. The third, though, landed easily out of a spin and leaped right back in at the demon, his momentum carrying his sword hard into Marilith’s lower side.

Malagdorl marked that soldier’s name-Turven’di-for a later salute.

The demon shrieked and jerked about frantically, all of her swords coming to bear on Turven’di, overwhelming him and slashing him in short order, driving him back like a pathetic field mouse in front of a hungry fox. To his credit, the drow warrior did manage to parry the khopesh and another blade with his right-hand sword, neatly picked off a third blade with his left-hand sword, and partially deflected a fourth, turning the angle of attack so that it merely stung him as it grazed past.

But the fifth, an underhand cut, got him deep in the thigh, and with his lurch, he had no defense at all against the sixth.

An overhead chop from Marilith’s top right arm brought that last weapon, a short, wide-bladed sword straight down into the hollow between Turven’di’s neck and left shoulder. The weight and bite of the blow dropped him to his knees, but there he jolted, caught upright long enough for Marilith to sink the sword deeper and deeper, through flesh and bone, through his lung, tearing the side of his heart. A fountain of blood erupted as the blade disappeared into doomed Turven’di. The wound was mortal, but even worse, the poor doomed drow realized, his eyes going wide, this was an Abyssal blade, a soul-capturing weapon. Marilith let go and the sword transformed into a swirl of blackness that engulfed the dying drow, chasing him down to the floor even as the magic ushered his soul to the hopelessness of the Abyss.

It had all happened in a few blinks of an eye, but in the momentary distraction, the remaining elite guards went right back in. Marilith accepted their first strikes, but then met them, three arms sweeping back to engage those from her right, a fourth going at the warrior who had been clipped by the table, as she swung fully around.

Still back a few strides, Malagdorl saw his opening and in he charged, batting aside Marilith’s last-moment attempted parry and driving his trident in hard between the demon’s breasts. With strength beyond that of any other drow in Menzoberranzan, the nephew of Uthegental crouched forward and bore in, pressing and twisting.

Magical rage burst from the demon-every burning sconce in the room exploded in wild pyrotechnics, more objects came flying in from every angle-and the enraged Marilith sent her swords into purely offensive routines, giving hits to the dark elves around her and accepting strikes without apparent concern. Her tail lashed out left and right, then came forward to snap at Malagdorl, to wrap around him and lift him away.

The coils tightened around him. He felt his bones bending and crunching, but he tightened his great muscles and growled through it, watching his warriors leaping all around the demon, and seeing his trident still stuck deeply into Marilith’s chest.

In a great exhale, Marilith unwound her tail, hurling Malagdorl across the room, where he shattered a table and chairs and crashed through the mushroom-stalk planking of the wall. All the other dark elves flew from her as well, her physical shrug accompanied by a burst of telekinesis and a wild sweep of tail and weapons.

Everything seemed to pause for many heartbeats, with Marilith slowly rotating to look at Malagdorl.

“Does it hurt, son of Barrison Del’Armgo?” she asked, blood pouring from her mouth with every determined word.

“You are banished, demon,” Malagdorl replied, his voice pained. Every breath sent fire through his surely broken ribs. “A hundred years. .”

“Not so long,” the demon roared, and she laughed wickedly and simply melted away, the great trident of Malagdorl falling flat to the floor with a metallic clang.

“I will be waiting for you,” Malagdorl threatened, and the voice of Marilith, the demonic spirit still hovering about the room, responded, “I know,” and laughed again.

Six drow limped out of the common room and onto the Stenchstreets, dragging dead Turven’di to strap him across the back of his lizard mount. They were all bloody, some with serious wounds, Malagdorl so twisted and broken that he could barely hold himself in his saddle.

But he did, and he managed to straighten a bit with every lizard stride back across the city, his pride overruling his pain.

By the time they reached the gates of the city’s Second House, another of the band had fallen unconscious, clearly near death, but the remaining guards and their noble leader spoke only of victory.

They had battled and defeated a major demon, banishing the beast back to the smoke of the Abyss. Indeed was this one a foul beast, especially so in the measure of House Barrison Del’Armgo, because they knew that Marilith served at the pleasure of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre.

Matron Mother Mez’Barris personally greeted the victorious but battered group with spells of healing, and ordered a great feast in their honor, in honor mostly of Malagdorl, whom she proclaimed openly as the greatest weapons master of Menzoberranzan.

“You did not kill the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo?” Lolth asked Marilith when they were together again in the Demonweb Pits.

“He will grimace in pain for many days, whatever spells the priestesses might employ, but he lives,” Marilith assured her. “I killed only the one warrior.”

Lolth nodded her appreciation. “And Malagdorl of Barrison Del’Armgo will be celebrated in many corners not loyal to House Baenre,” she said. “Matron Mother Mez’Barris will be emboldened, surely, perhaps enough to even speak of this at the next meeting of the Ruling Council.”“I wanted to kill them all,” Marilith remarked.

Lolth nodded again, certainly understanding and appreciating that this chaotic creature had stayed her murderous hands, had suppressed that which came so naturally to her, and instead had acceded to Lolth’s requests-no small feat for a major demon in the heat of combat!

“It will not be a hundred years,” Lolth assured her.

“How long?”

“Yes, do tell, Spider Queen of Chaos?” asked a third voice, and the two turned to regard the balor Errtu, striding over to join them. “When the archmage diminishes the barrier of the Faerzress, you will find your freedom,” Lolth promised, looking to Errtu.

“Freedom to kill the weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo,” Marilith said. She cooed, a discordant sound that resembled some strange cross between a purr and a hiss.

“Freedom to crush the son of House Baenre,” Errtu growled. Lolth just nodded and smiled at one and then the other, offering tacit approval. Their tasks would not be as easy as they presumed, she knew.

For as chaos grew in her beloved city, the Houses would grow strong once more, ever on alert. Even creatures as mighty as these would realize in the dark elves formidable enemies-enemies aided, of course, by the blessings of the Spider Queen.

Marilith slithered away, but Errtu remained, and Lolth became keenly aware of his penetrating stare. She turned to him at last and noted his toothy smile.

“What do you know, balor?” she asked.

“You strengthened House Baenre under the matron mother,” the beast replied. “You foiled me, and the plot against her, with my prisoner K’yorl. You gave to Quenthel the memories of Yvonnel the Eternal, and so tightened her grip on the City of Spiders.”

“I needed unity and singular purpose.”

“But now the dragons have failed. And now the Weave is beyond you once more, and so. . you allow your minions to fall back to chaos. Indeed, you coax the city of Menzoberranzan back to a state of nervous chaos."

“Order bores me.”

“Great risk.”

Lolth shook her head and snickered.

“Will your children of Menzoberranzan not need that unity and strength when demon lords stalk the Underdark?” Errtu asked bluntly, and Lolth’s eyes flared dangerously, warning him to silence. The Spider Queen calmed quickly, though.

“For some tasks, the drow are stronger in chaos,” she replied. “And beware, always angry Errtu, for the Houses of Menzoberranzan will not suffer the whims of a balor.”

That set the hulking Errtu back on his heels, and a simmering growl escaped his toothy maw.

“And beware now,” she warned. “I will make of you a demon lord, or I will hang you in a cocoon beside Balor, to be nibbled by spiders until I decide otherwise.”

On eight clicking spider legs, Lady Lolth walked away.

The cheers filtered through the dark and reached the House Baenre compound, where the matron mother and Sos’Umptu stood on a balcony, looking out across Qu’ellarz’orl, the noble section of Menzoberranzan, to the west and the sprawling compound of House Barrison Del’Armgo.

“I liked them much better when they resided in the Narbondellyn,” the matron mother quipped. The Second House’s move to this plateau in the city’s southern reaches was a relatively recent event. “The family Armgo is a collection of peasants, and nothing more.”

“They celebrate the triumph of Malagdorl, whom they fancy as the reincarnation of Uthegental now, apparently,” Sos’Umptu remarked. “Of Malagdorl and a company of elite warriors,” came the fast reminder. “Still, Marilith was no minor foe.”

The matron mother turned slowly to regard her sister, her face locked in a mask of anger. “Would you like to go and join Mez’Barris in her celebration?” The high priestess, Mistress of Arach-Tinilith and seated on the Ruling Council, did not shy away from the threat. “We must acknowledge the implications of this unexpected victory for Matron Mother Mez’Barris’s fighting dog. Was there a greater demon in the city at this time than Marilith? And if so, if Marilith can be so readily banished, then why not the others?"

“Let them spend their time and blood chasing the demons about the shadows,” the matron mother said evenly, her voice low, belying her expressed confidence. “There are other demons awaiting my call.” She turned sharply on Sos’Umptu, before the other could remark that there might be, but now there was one less of this particularly devastating type of demon to be summoned.

“I am surprised by the descriptions we have heard of the fight,”

Sos’Umptu said. “Marilith did not call in any demonic assistance, and her use of magic was limited, apparently. Her pride betrayed her, so it would seem, but still, that one always before seemed more wise than proud."

“Clearly not,” said Quenthel, though she wasn’t really disagreeing with any heart, for she, too, had entertained some level of surprise regarding that very point. A creature of Marilith’s power wouldn’t normally fear a squad of seven drow, but Marilith had known Uthegental in centuries past, and so, too, understood well the power of Barrison Del’Armgo warriors. Across Qu’ellarz’orl, the cheers climbed higher.

Likely there were more drow there than those of House Barrison Del’Armgo, Quenthel knew, and it wasn’t hard for her to imagine what other Houses might have scurried through the dark alleyways to join in the celebration.

The matron mother nodded and reinforced her resolve. More demons, she thought.

Kimmuriel sensed the distraction in his student. He continued to guide Gromph through the mental exercises, holding fast his own mental barrier against which the archmage could throw his blasts of psionic energy.

Until this day, Kimmuriel had noted tremendous gains in Gromph’s control and power, but psionic energies were contingent upon focus, particularly in novice users.

Gromph was distracted. His waves of energy barely challenged Kimmuriel’s mental barriers. Kimmuriel doubted that Gromph could make a goblin stutter in its advance with this pathetic display.

The veteran psionicist didn’t relay that disappointment to the archmage. Quite the contrary, his telepathic responses back to Gromph hinted of growing power and an impressive psionic assault.

Kimmuriel felt the acceptance of those compliments, but knew his time here would prove short.

And so, along with the compliments, he sent a suggestion, just a hint, that the psionic powers could be coaxed to work in conjunction with arcane magic. This would be no foreign concept to Gromph. The archmage had deigned to dabble in psionics with this very hope in the forefront of his thoughts-and why wouldn’t the greatest practitioner of the Art not hope for such an enhancement from his newest “hobby”?

And with that hint, Kimmuriel gave to Gromph the beginnings of the spell he had been taught in the Abyss, the spell he believed would deliver K’yorl back to Menzoberranzan, where she could wreak her psionic wrath on House Baenre.

“Enough!” Gromph shouted suddenly, breaking Kimmuriel from his trance.

Kimmuriel blinked open his eyes and looked at his student, his expression one of puzzlement. “Archmage?” he innocently asked.

“What kind of fool do you take me to be?” Gromph said with deathlike flatness.

A wave of panic rolled up through the normally composed psionicist, and he seriously considered teleporting from that room at once-though of course Gromph would chase him and find him.

“Spare me your false accolades,” Gromph clarified, and it was all Kimmuriel could do to suppress a great sigh of relief. “I know I have failed this day.” He strode away, to the small balcony of his room here at Sorcere, on the elevated plateau of Tier Breche, clenching and unclenching his fist as he went-and alternately producing a magical flame and crushing the life from it, one after another with practiced ease.

It was a minor spell, surely, but still, the notion that Gromph could enact it repeatedly as such an afterthought, like the magical doodle of a great artist, sent a shiver up the psionicist’s spine. He considered again that which he had done in implanting the beginnings of K’yorl’s spell-or Errtu’s spell, perhaps.

Briefly, Kimmuriel thought himself quite the fool for even attempting such a thing.

“Have you seen them?” Gromph asked, pulling open the decorated door-all black adamantine, but worked with the flare more common to an iron grate, with swirls and spikes and rolling designs. “Have you seen them slithering all about the city?”

“The demons,” Kimmuriel reasoned.

“The matron mother’s demons,” Gromph clarified, leaning on the balcony’s railing, limned with purple faerie fire that rushed to engulf his hands as he grasped the bar.

“Can creatures of the Abyss truly belong to any other than their own whim?”

Gromph glanced back over his shoulder to regard the psionicist.

“They serve her simply by going about their business as demons,” the archmage explained. “That is the beauty of the matron mother’s design.”

“Then more glory to House Baenre,” Kimmuriel said, and Gromph snickered but didn’t bother to look back, clearly not in agreement.

“I will return in half a tenday for our next encounter,” Kimmuriel said.

“I will still be distracted.”

“Then I will engage with the illithids before we meet again,” Kimmuriel improvised. “Perhaps I can gain some insights into the ways of demons, perhaps of controlling them. You might gain advantage over the lesser creatures of the Abyss at least.”

This time, Gromph turned to regard the psionicist. The archmage crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on the balcony rail. The faerie fire engulfed him almost fully.

He didn’t flinch. Kimmuriel could sense his intrigue.

“Half a tenday?”

The archmage nodded, and Kimmuriel stepped away, far away, stepped all the way back to the World Above and his private chambers in the city of Luskan along the northern Sword Coast.

Gromph, meanwhile, continued to lean against the rail for a long while in deep contemplation, thinking that perhaps he was beginning to see the greater benefits of this new pursuit of psionic training. The archmage pictured the Faerzress, the source of magical energies within the Underdark, the barrier between the material Underdark and the lower planes that lent this land its dark energies.

Many times before had Gromph pictured this place, and he had visited the Faerzress several times in his long life, and indeed had spent many days there once, when he was adding enchantments to his already fantastic robes.

But now he viewed the Faerzress differently, with a new spark of insight. Now he saw the extraplanar barrier embedded within those glowing stones.

A spark of psionic insight, he thought.

Gromph had not become Archmage of Menzoberranzan, nor had survived as such for centuries untold, by acting rashly, and so he threw aside any foolish notions of incorporating this thought into any such dangerous and formidable spellcasting as that of calling for a major demon.

For now.