Charon's claw

THE WEB OF THE DROW

Ravel moved with all speed, eager to see the completion of this great achievement. They had found a dividing chamber between the main regions of the forge and lower Gauntlgrym and the still-unexplored upper levels. Several nobles had utilized their House insignias to levitate up to the ceiling and had discerned that this place was indeed the key area of division between the two sections of the vast complex, but the long circular iron staircase that had allowed access had been destroyed, and recently, it seemed, likely in the cataclysmic eruption.

The first reports had claimed that it was beyond repair, and some of the craftsmen had estimated that it would take months to build another suitable stair. Drow ingenuity and clever ideas combined with a bit of magic had solved the riddle, though.

Ravel at last came into the chamber, and it was indeed vast, a series of crisscrossing stone walkways going off beyond his vision in every direction and with a ceiling so high that it was out of sight, even though the light was ample, relatively speaking.

With Tiago Baenre and Jearth in tow, Ravel moved out from the entrance toward a group of drow settled behind an army of goblins and orcs. Not far behind him came his sisters and many others. It occurred to Ravel that almost the entirety of his expedition was now there, in that chamber, with only Gol’fanin and a few other craftsmen back in the forge room. That notion unsettled him more than a little.

As he neared the group, Ravel noted the circular stair, climbing from the floor. Beyond it, lines of orcs and bugbears, as well as Yerrininae’s drider forces, pulled hard on ropes that had been hung over pulleys fastened in the ceiling, hoisting a long section of curving stairs high into the air.

“We were able to salvage more of the original stair than we believed,” Brack’thal explained, and Ravel started to nod to his older brother, until he realized that the mage was addressing Berellip, who was standing behind him, and not him.

“Finally,” Ravel intervened, with a tone reflecting as much disgust as relief. He knew that this, like the battles with the elementals in the forge room, would serve his brother’s reputation dangerously well, and so he wanted to establish himself as the leader here, and not let Brack’thal and Berellip speak around him.

Brack’thal stared at him incredulously and started to respond-some impertinent insult, no doubt-when a brilliant flash to the side caught the attention of all, and a resounding retort shook the stones beneath their feet. Following that came a cacophony of avian shrieks of the type one might hear when trying to steal from the nest of a crow.

“The spellspinners engage the dire corbies,” Ravel said, glad that his clique was proving valuable, when indeed much of the stair’s repair had to be credited to the efforts and magic of Brack’thal.

“Now!” Brack’thal cried out, demanding the attention of all, as across the way, bugbears swung heavy axes at the ropes. Magical lights appeared far above, illuminating the ceiling of the great chamber, and showing the suspended section of stairs clearly as its supports broke free. With worker goblins clambering all around it, down it fell a few feet into the waiting arms of the highest reconstructed section. The momentum of the fall drove the stairwell perfectly into place, pushing the joining pins in solidly and deep.

With a great groan, it set there and toppled forward, where the hooked tip of its high end slammed in with a resounding thud and found a secure grasp on the ledge above. Dust and stones fell down from on high, spattering the wide floor, and for a moment, all held their collective breath, fearing that the whole of the top landing would collapse. But it did not and the stairwell held.

A great cheer arose from below, from drow and goblins and bugbears alike.

The poor goblins riding the stair bounced all around, some flipping over the side to grab on desperately or to pitch over and tumble down to their deaths.

Those splattering goblins, too, were cheered, just for the joy of the gruesome spectacle.

“And now we can travel in force to the higher complex,” Brack’thal announced with a victorious bow.

“And enemies can come down from above,” Ravel remarked.

“Not so,” said Brack’thal. “The stair is hinged. We can retract it, by half, and raise it back as needed.”

Another flash off to the side showed that the battle with the dire corbies was hardly at its end.

“How many?” Ravel asked, nodding that way and desperately wanting to change the subject before his clever brother gained too much of an upper hand.

“They are thick in the tunnels,” one of the other nearby drow answered.

Ravel paused to consider that, and behind him, Berellip warned, “If we press on too far and too quickly, we will invite them and other monsters around this complex to slide in behind us and cut our forces in two.”

The spellspinner turned an unappreciative glare on her, and her warning only prompted him to push along more boldly, out of spite if not good tactics.

“Take a sizable force-six hands,” Ravel instructed Jearth, a “hand” being a patrol of five dark elves, “and half of Yerrininae’s driders, Yerrininae included, and go up to map the higher chambers.”

“Spellspinners?” Jearth asked.

“One for every hand,” Ravel replied. He looked to Berellip and Saribel as he added, “And a priestess for every two hands-Saribel will surely enjoy the adventure.”

“As will I,” Brack’thal put in.

Ravel didn’t turn to look at him, but kept staring at his sisters, measuring their intent and curious as to whether Berellip would try to overrule him so openly.

“Since I was instrumental in repairing the staircase,” Brack’thal added.

Ravel turned on him sharply. “You will return to the forge,” he instructed.

Brack’thal’s eyes narrowed, full of hate.

“Any craftsman commoner could have overseen the repair of the stairwell,” Ravel stated. “Your singular talent lies in your strange affinity to these fire elementals, and so the forge, and the forge alone, is where you are needed.”

For a moment, all about Ravel, his sisters, Brack’thal, Tiago and even the other drow, who surely were not as attuned to the power struggles, but obviously understood that something was amiss, stood tense, most hands shifting nearer to weapons or magical implements.

“And what of the iblith?” Jearth said.

Ravel appreciated that reminder of the fodder they had brought along-for himself and mostly for those who would oppose him. For more than any dark elves, more than any dark elven power, in this chamber loomed the hulking specter of the slave multitude, so thick in rank. Ravel controlled them, as Jearth had just subtly, and wisely, reminded them all.

“Take as many goblins and orcs as you deem necessary,” the spellspinner offered.

“Bugbears would move more stealthily through the upper tunnels,” Jearth countered.

“They remain here, to secure the stairwell.”

Jearth nodded and looked to Tiago.

“I believe that I will stand beside Ravel for now,” the Baenre answered that look, and his words resonated on many levels.

Ravel was glad for that, for he understood the argument that awaited him back in the forge area when he returned to face Berellip and Brack’thal. The open hatred with which his brother now stared at him promised at least that.

I did not think you would come, Jearth’s fingers flashed to Saribel Xorlarrin sometime later in the higher tunnels.

Saribel regarded him contemptuously and did not reply.

You could have sent lesser priestesses, Jearth’s hand flashed. Surely you know the danger here.

No more than the danger below, Saribel hastily flashed back. Her fingers continued, but she clamped her fist shut, shutting down the communication. “Do you think I fear battle?” she asked aloud, her voice seeming absurdly loud in the dull silence of the dusty chambers, the volume drawing looks of alarm from Jearth and others nearby.

It is not wise to… the weapons master started to reply with fingers emphatically waggling.

“Enough, Jearth,” Saribel demanded. “If there are enemies to be found, then let us find them and be done with them.”

Jearth motioned for the others to move past and he motioned Saribel aside into a small and broken chamber, one that might have served as an antechamber for a chapel, for through a second, low archway, one nearly crumbled, it connected to a large room that had what appeared to be the remains of an altar at its far end. Glancing through it, Jearth watched a patrol of goblins scurrying along.

He turned to the priestess.

“If you’re so afraid…” she started to say, but he cut her short with an upraised hand.

“Of course I’m not,” he replied quietly. “I wish nothing more than to find some enemy blood to wet my blades. But I wish our conversation private.”

“Plotting?” she asked slyly.

“You see the coming battle as clearly as I.”

“I hope to, indeed.”

“Ravel will win out.”

Saribel scoffed at that.

“You don’t believe it, or you do not wish it?”

“The latter,” Saribel replied with a grin, “and so, doubtlessly, the former will follow.”

Jearth understood her clearly enough. Berellip preferred Brack’thal.

The weapons master shook his head, slowly and deliberately.

“You doubt the priestesses of Lolth?” Saribel asked incredulously.

I do not doubt at all that Berellip could find victory for whichever side she chose. Jearth went back to the silent hand signals, for he sensed someone just beyond the archway and wanted this critical exchange to be truly private. But why would Saribel follow?

Saribel’s superior expression turned to one of confusion, and Jearth knew that he was on very dangerous ground. His fingers moved slowly. If Berellip chooses Brack’thal, Berellip chooses wrongly.

Saribel’s eyes widened and Jearth added, Tiago Baenre stands with Ravel.

Then Tiago Baenre… she started to reply, but Jearth emphatically interrupted her.

If Tiago does not return to Matron Mother Quenthel, House Baenre will wage war on House Xorlarrin, he explained. There is no exception to be found. If Tiago is killed by a corbie or a cave-in, or smitten dead by Berellip, it matters not at all. Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre has assured me of this. It was her way of ensuring that Tiago’s choice would, by necessity, be our choice.

Saribel’s shoulders slumped visibly, dropping under the undeniable weight of House Baenre.

Tiago has made his choice and will not be dissuaded. He stands with Ravel.

Berellip does not, Saribel’s fingers replied. I must go to her. She started to turn, but Jearth caught her by the arm, and when she turned back, outraged that he had dared touch her, he smiled to calm her.

“Why?” he asked aloud.

Saribel looked at him without any sign of comprehension. How had this dolt ever climbed so high among the priestesses of the House? Could it be more clearly spoken? He was offering Saribel ascension. If Berellip sided with Brack’thal, but he and Saribel turned against her, the battle would be short-lived indeed. For all of Berellip’s power, and all of Brack’thal’s newfound prowess, Ravel commanded the spellspinners and had Tiago at his side.

Surely you can justify your decision to Matron Zeerith, knowing that Berellip’s course would have set House Baenre upon us, he dared signal.

So there it was, out in the open. As his hands stopped communicating, Jearth brought them near to his weapons. He could defeat this priestess, he believed, but only if he was quick and his aim true.

For a long while, Saribel’s expression remained impassive.

“If our mission here is successful, it might well create a new hierarchy in House Xorlarrin,” Jearth stated.

“Certainly Ravel would be elevated above the stature of Brack’thal,” Saribel replied, her words sounding as sweet music in Jearth’s ears. “Formally, I mean, for already it is clear that the Secondboy has the favor of Matron Zeerith above the Elderboy.”

“Lolth blesses this expedition, and will heap rewards and stature upon her priestesses who facilitated it, either by the Spider Queen’s side in a place of honor in death, or within House Xorlarrin for those who return,” Jearth said with a wry grin, one that was soon reflected on Saribel’s face.

A cry from somewhere ahead of them told them that battle had been joined.

“For the glory of House Xorlarrin,” Saribel said, and she started away.

“For the glory of the city of Xorlarrin,” Jearth offered, and Saribel glanced back and nodded.

Jearth remained behind just long enough to take a deep breath, and once again he found himself quietly admiring Ravel. For this division of the sisters had been Ravel’s scheme, of course, all planned beforehand with both Tiago and Jearth.

It wasn’t always possible to plot steps ahead of drow females, but it was never very hard to get them to stab each other in the back.

Jearth drew his weapons and started away, now paying attention to these most interesting chambers and corridors around him. This had been the residence region of ancient Gauntlgrym, so who knew what treasures they might find?

It wasn’t often that Berellip Xorlarrin was left speechless, and Tiago Baenre was quite proud of himself for accomplishing that feat.

“There is more to Saribel than you assumed,” he said lightheartedly, to convey that this Xorlarrin intrigue was quite amusing to him. He had just assured her that her sister would not stand beside her against Ravel in the probable duel with Brack’thal, executing the second part of Ravel’s clever plan. Jearth divided the sisters and Tiago happily relayed that truth to the one separated.

“You presume that I will let Ravel and his spellspinners kill my brother?” she said. “You believe I have no choice or say in the matter?”

“I think the consequences give you pause. I think you’re quite intelligent.”

Berellip swept past him, out of the room and down the corridor to the forge area, which was glowing brightly in the distance. When they entered, they found that the anticipated fight might be farther along than they had expected, for Brack’thal stood in the center of the room, a gigantic fire elemental at his side, and several other smaller ones dancing in a circle around him.

Across the way, leaning easily on the cooling pool of an unfired forge, Ravel stood with his arms crossed over his thin chest, an amused expression clear on his face.

“Don’t you feel it, Secondboy?” Brack’thal called with obvious delight. “Of course you do, but you don’t want to admit it. You feel it and you fear it!”

None of the craftsmen, not goblin, bugbear, nor drow, were working, all eyes focused on these two principals in a conflict long-expected.

Berellip glanced around the room, and noted that more than a few of the blacksmiths weren’t craftsmen at all, but were Ravel’s spellspinners, strategically placed. Her young brother had planned well. He had seen this coming-likely had incited it-in a time and place of his own choosing.

But perhaps he had erred, it occurred to her as she noted another elemental burning a line out of a forge and rushing to Brack’thal’s side, for there was no denying that the older Xorlarrin son was finding impressive amounts of power and control. Just then, as if sensing her attention, Brack’thal turned to regard her and Tiago. “He feels it!” Brack’thal explained. “And he knows what it is. Don’t you, spellspinner?” he shouted, turning sharply back on Ravel.

“I feel that you have left your better judgment behind,” Ravel answered flippantly.

“My powers grow ascendant once more!” Brack’thal said. “Where will you be then, spellspinner?” He waved his arms and looked all around, focusing on Ravel’s spies. “Where will all of you be in that event?”

“Alive, at least,” Ravel replied, a clear threat.

Which was more than Brack’thal would be able to say, Berellip knew, for despite his fiery servants, she expected that Ravel and the others would make short work of him. She wondered how to proceed, for it didn’t seem like Brack’thal would listen to any reasoning, and she hated the thought of his demise at that time, both because of the implications to Ravel’s standing and because, on a practical level, Brack’thal’s work with the elementals, however the fool was managing it, was proving quite valuable here at the all-important forge.

Tiago Baenre stepped past her.

“Would that not be a wondrous thing?” he said loudly, commanding attention.

“Ah, Ravel’s rothe makes his appearance,” Brack’thal shouted back.

Tiago laughed it off, resisting the urge to fling his sword into the mage’s forehead-and it would not have been a difficult throw. He walked steadily toward Brack’thal. As he neared, so that only Brack’thal could hear, he whispered, “You cannot win.”

Brack’thal puffed his chest out defiantly.

“Berellip stands with Ravel,” Tiago said, and the mage deflated almost instantly. He looked past Tiago to Berellip, who, understanding what Tiago had just related, nodded solemnly to confirm it.

Brack’thal’s eye twitched, and he licked his lips as he turned his gaze from Berellip to Tiago and then to Ravel, who was slowly approaching, a smile slowly widening. Ravel nodded left and nodded right, and from the shadows came the spellspinners, staves and wands in hand, fingers rolling eagerly around them.

“Not one of those you thought your ally will stand with you against Berellip,” Tiago quietly informed Brack’thal.

The mage spun on Berellip. “Sister!” he implored her.

“Dismiss your pets back to the forges,” she ordered. “We have much work to do.”

“Sister!”

“It is ended!” Berellip roared at him, and she came forward forcefully, even throwing a spell before her, one that smote a minor elemental with a burst of water, and the creature dissipated into a blast of fog with an angry hiss.

“Eight legs?” she asked Brack’thal, and the blood drained from his face, for that particular reference loomed as the worst curse any drow might hear. Berellip had just informed the mage that his fate lay among Yerrininae’s band!

Brack’thal, clearly caught and overwhelmed by the turn of events, held up his hands unthreateningly and began complying, dismissing his pets to the various forges.

By the time Berellip and Ravel reached him, only the largest remained. Brack’thal looked to it, then back to Berellip, and fell on his knees before her.

“Kill me, I beg,” he said.

“It will not be quick,” she promised wickedly, and he accepted that with an eager nod, for better to be tortured to death than to be transformed into a wretched drider!

“Sister,” Ravel intervened, and Berellip, Brack’thal, and Tiago all turned to regard him curiously. “Spare him, I beg of you.”

It seemed like every creature in the room held its breath.

“He is valuable. His work here has been beyond reproach,” Ravel explained to Berellip’s stunned expression.

“Such weakness,” she whispered back, hardly believing her ears. “You would show mercy?”

“Only if Brack’thal declares allegiance to me,” Ravel stated, and he struck a superior pose, towering over his kneeling brother. “Only if this is ended, by decree, by surrender, and I am named here and now the Elderboy of House Xorlarrin, with Brack’thal afforded all rights as Secondboy.”

“I would rather die,” Brack’thal replied.

“Would you rather sprout six extra legs?” Tiago remarked.

“Would you?” Ravel asked, referring to Brack’thal’s claim and not Tiago’s threat. “Then your claim of your powers returning rings hollow in your own ears.”

He said it loudly, so that all around could hear, so that those spellspinners he knew had recently come to consider siding with Brack’thal would hear.

Berellip silently congratulated Ravel. He had played this perfectly, for either way, Brack’thal was caught. If he didn’t agree and was thus killed, he would be admitting that his claims were false, and so Ravel would secure the spellspinners in his entourage once more. And if he did agree, he would be bound by his words. It was not often that drow males flipped their titles, as Ravel had demanded, but it was not unprecedented, and such a pact was surely binding. If Brack’thal agreed, any future action he took against Ravel would be construed as an affront to House Xorlarrin, invoking the wrath of Matron Zeerith.

“Well?” Berellip prompted.

“So be it,” the defeated mage replied, lowering his gaze.

Ravel was to his side in an eye-blink, grabbing him under the shoulder and hoisting him to his feet. “You are a noble of House Xorlarrin,” the young spellspinner quietly said.

Brack’thal stared at him hatefully.

“Go back to the tunnels with your pet,” Ravel ordered. “Continue your important work.”

The mage was more than happy to comply, and he hustled away, and as Berellip and Ravel swept the room with their stares, drow and goblins and bugbears fell all over each other to get back to their tasks.

“Follow,” Berellip demanded of the two males beside her. She led them into the chambers she had taken as her own, and closed the door behind them as they entered, before grabbing Ravel by the arm and spinning him around.

“I have had enough of your subterfuge,” she said.

“I am drow,” he replied with a grin.

Berellip didn’t blink.

“This is ended,” Ravel told her. “And know that I am as weary of looking over my shoulder for you as you are for me.” He turned for the door and Berellip shifted to block his egress.

Now Ravel didn’t blink, and after a few heartbeats, Berellip let him leave.

“He is always full of surprises, that one,” Tiago remarked.

“And you support him.”

“Matron Zeerith supports him,” Tiago corrected. “And Matron Mother Quenthel does so, out of respect for your mother.” When Berellip didn’t immediately reply, Tiago added, “This is ended, and know that I am the weariest of all.”

He stepped past Berellip for the door.

“Mercy,” Berellip said with a disgusted chortle. “He granted Brack’thal mercy, and mercy undeserved.”

“Do not think him weak,” was all that Tiago bothered to reply as he left the room. He glanced back as he stepped through the door. “All of this intrigue has excited me,” he informed her. “I will return to you in short order.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You’re a priestess of Lolth,” Tiago said with a bow. “If you refuse, I will leave.”

“And if I do not refuse, you will be indebted to me,” Berellip said, and Tiago could see the traps being set behind her glowing red eyes. He thought about it for just a moment, then nodded, and with a knowing smile bowed again and was gone.

For indeed, Tiago understood the task Berellip had in mind. Ravel had shown uncharacteristic mercy. Now that she knew of her younger sister’s treachery, Berellip would not.

The Baenre noble caught up to Ravel just beyond the forge area, the young spellspinner sitting by a small table lifting a glass of Slow Spout, a Duergan brew so named because after it swirled around inside the imbiber for some time, it inevitably put the fool on his hands and knees, “spouting” it back up. The thick and bitter ale was more commonly shared among the goblins and kobolds of Menzoberranzan than among the drow, whose tastes and sensibilities were more usually attuned to the finer liqueurs, like Feywine or brandy.

There was no doubt that Slow Spout could accomplish the task, though, if that task was to dull the senses.

“A strange choice of celebratory drink,” Tiago remarked, holding his hand out to refuse Ravel’s offer of a cup. So as not to be rude, the young Baenre drew a small flask from under his coat, unscrewed the top, and took a small swig.

“Why did I let him live?” Ravel asked before Tiago could.

“That is the question most formed by drow fingers at this time, yes,” Tiago replied.

Ravel looked aside, his expression very somber and very sober, despite the libations.

Tiago caught the significance of that look and suppressed the burning urge to prompt the spellspinner as his own curiosity began to bubble.

“Brack’thal’s claims,” Ravel said, shaking his head.

“What of them?”

Ravel looked his Baenre friend directly in the eye. “He was not wrong.”

Tiago tried hard not to reveal his shock, but still he fell back a step.

“I feel it,” Ravel explained.

Tiago shook his head, too emphatically, perhaps. “There is some trick at play here with Brack’thal, some secret item or one old spell returned. His work with the elementals…”

“Impressive work,” Ravel said.

“And you’re fooled by it.”

Ravel took another gulp of Slow Spout. “Let us hope that is the case,” the spellspinner said, and he sounded less than convinced.