At a cavern buried far below the streets of Sküllport, the drow priest Henge paced the small chamber where Nisstyre lay in a deathlike stupor. The wizard had improved but little since the night he’d been mysteriously struck down. Every day since, Henge had kept reluctant watch over him.
Nor was he the only one watching. At times the priest sensed an unnerving, malevolent presence, an evil hunger, behind the ruby embedded in Nisstyre’s brow. Someone, somewhere, had reached through that gem and struck down his captain. Had the blow been clean and sure, Henge would have been delighted; this lingering vigil, however, was becoming unbearable. The ships of the Dragon’s Hoard were loaded and ready to sail for the far south, but only the secretive Nisstyre knew the identity of their contacts there. There was nothing to do but wait, and dark elves were not known for patience.
The door to Nisstyre’s chamber swung open, and a tall drow stalked into the room. Henge took in the elf’stattooed face, the patch over one eye, and the livid scar slashed across his throat.
“Ah, Gorlist. Here at last. The cuff of regeneration did its job, I see. Your wounds seem to be healing nicely.”
The younger drow scowled. “But not without scars!”
“Yes, you’re amassing quite a collection of those,” Henge observed, “but considering the location of that throat wound, I should think you’d count yourself fortunate to have come off so lightly. I take it the wench is still alive?”
Gorlist ignored the cleric’s taunts. He snatched up Nisstyre’s travel bag from the bedside table, rummaged about in it, and took out a small, crimson vial shaped like a candle’s flame. “Give him this. Those meddling drow from the Promenade are making inquiries in Skullport. If there’s trouble, we’ll need the wizard.”
The priest balked. “This potion is more likely to kill than cure! You should know that as well as anyone.”
“I survived it. He may, also. You needn’t worry about breaking your blood-bond, or fear punishment if the wizard dies of the potion,” Gorlist said bluntly, getting to the real issue behind the priest’s hesitation. “Nisstyre is my sire; I have the right to order his treatment. You are absolved from responsibility.”
Henge shrugged and uncapped the vial. It was past time for Nisstyre to rejoin the Dragon’s Hoard, and his painful journey back should be most entertaining to observe. If some of the healing agony traveled through the ruby eye to the unseen watcher, so much the better.
In the garrisons and armory of the Promenade Temple, in the streets and hidden places of Skullport, Eilistraee’s followers prepared for battle. At first Liriel was unimpressed by Qilue Veladorn’s forces. The temple guard—a motley collection of dark elves, humans, dwarves, and halflings who called themselves Protectors of the Song—numbered fewer than sixty. In Menzoberranzan most of the lesser noble houses had several times that many soldiers, supported by the magic of wizards and high priestesses. Granted, every priestess of the Dark Maiden was trained to the sword, but the so-called Chosen of Eilistraee had no’slaves to spend as battle fodder, no wizardly weapons of destruction, and virtually no offensive clerical spells. The Chosen trusted in their goddess, in their skill at arms, and in each other. It was, in Liriel’s opinion, a formula for disaster.
Yet as she watched the preparations, the young drow began to understand the true power at work. Every person in the temple was utterly devoted to Qilue and completely focused on the task ahead. No energy was siphoned off in small intrigues. No one seemed concerned about improving her status and influence. Each had a role and played it well, with an eye to the greater goal.
To Liriel, this was a revelation. She herself was beginning to come to terms with her alliance with Fyodor. From their first meeting, despite their vast and innumerable differences, she’d been drawn by the kindred spirit between them. The thing that Fyodor called friendship was an astonishing paradox: each gave, and neither was diminished. To the contrary, together friends stood to become more than the sum of their individual strengths. This flew in the face of everything Liriel had ever learned or experienced,-but she was beginning to accept it as truth. And dawning on the far horizon of her mind, as she watched the Chosen come together in preparation, was the possibility that something similar to friendship could exist on a larger scale. The young drow had no words for such a thing, but she suspected this discovery might also be part of her journey, might become part of the rune she was fashioning with each passing day.
In the meanwhile, Liriel prepared for battle in her own way. The temple had a small library of scrolls and spell-books, and the young wizard committed to memory several spells that might be useful. She also spent time poring over her book of rune lore, seeking a way to adapt the spell she’d devised to store her Underdark magic in the Windwalker amulet.
After two days of frantic activity, Elkantar, Qilue’s drow consort and the commander of the Protectors, called all together in the temple’s council chamber. The spies who’d been dispatched throughout Skullport to gather information on Dragon’s Hoard activities spoke first.
“Nisstyre has not been seen since the day his band entered the port. Word has it he is ill and remains in the merchant stronghold,” supplied a drow soldier.
“That might explain my news,” added a stout, well-armed halfling. “The Dragon’s Hoard merchants have two ships at dock. They’ve been ready to sail for days now. Seems they’re waiting for something.”
“Or someone,” put in a grim-faced human. “Nisstyre’s lieutenant, a tattooed drow warrior called Gorlist, was seen entering Skullport just this day. He has stood in for Nisstyre on other trade journeys, so they might well set sail now.”
Liriel and Fyodor exchanged a dismayed look. “But you killed him!” the Rashemi protested.
“Well, apparently it didn’t take,” Liriel said, throwing up her hands in exasperation.
“We have more important problems,” proclaimed a little-girl voice. This came from Hjrene, a tiny, kitten-soft doll of a priestess. With her elegant gowns and silvery ringlets, the delicate drow seemed the most unlikely of battlemasters. Yet with her first word she commanded the attention of every person in the room. “It is confirmed that a deep dragon—in drow form—walks among the Dragon’s Hoard merchants.”
A murmur of dismay rippled through the room. “We haven’t the numbers to bring against such a foe. How should we fight a dragon?” said Elkantar in dismay.
Suddenly Liriel remembered a promise she’d made not long ago, without much thought or sincerity. With a crafty smile, she turned to the commander. “Give me two hours, and Til show you how! Fyodor, I need the spellbook you’ve been carrying for me, and Qilue, may I have access to the temple’s store of spell components? I need to adapt a known spell to create a new dimensional door. If someone has a spell scroll for a sending, so much the better. It’ll save me a trip back into the Underdark.”
“The Underdark!” The high priestess, leaned forward and fixed a penetrating gaze upon Liriel. “I think you ought to explain.”
The girl smiled into Qilue’s concerned face. “What better way to fight a dragon,” she said slyly, “than with another dragon?”
The city of Skullport was a trading center unlike any that flourished in the light of the sun. There, in a cavern far below the ports and streets of Waterdeep—deeper even than the bottom of the sea—merchants from dozens of races gathered to ply their trade. No race, no matter how powerful or rapacious, was denied access to the city’s ports, and no cargo was considered too illegal, immoral, or risky. Rules of “safe ground” made trade between enemies possible; however, intrigue, even small-scale, outright warfare, was part of daily life. Few denizens of Skullport cared to intervene in the quarrels of others. In the case of the more deadly races—such as beholders, illithids, and drow—the city’s residents were more than happy to look the other way. And if two drow females—one of whom was a purple-skinned, button-nosed elf with round, faintly reptilian eyes—wanted to indulge in a round of wild tavern-hopping, no one felt compelled to comment.
“Slow down, Zip,” Liriel cautioned her companion, eatch-ing the purple wrist while the goblet was still south of the female’s lips. The purple “drow” had downed enough wine to put away an entire battalion of dwarves, and Liriel had little desire to set a drunken dragon loose upon Skullport.
Zz’Pzora pouted, but the sparkle in her round eyes didn’t diminish in the slightest. The dragon-in-drow-form was having a wonderful time in this marvelous cesspool of a city. Gorgeously clad in a gown and jewels borrowed from Iljrene, supplied with coins that bought her an astonishing variety of high-potency libations, the dragon was free to wander at will among races who, in the Underdark, would have either fled from her or tried to destroy her. The deep dragon—mutated by the Underdark’s strange magic, cursed with two heads and conflicting personalities—had lived most of her life in enforced isolation. When Liriel’s magical message came to Zz’Pzora’s grotto, the dragon’s flighty, left-headed persona seized the chance to mingle with other races, to indulge in adventure and revelry; the practical, more traditionally minded right head kept a firm eye on the promised share of another dragon’s hoard. In the hours since she’d emerged from Liriel’s portal into the Promenade, the dragon’s dual voices had spoken as one. Even Zz’Pzora’s drow form, which boasted a single head, seemed to symbolize the creature’s rare unity of mind and purpose.
At the present moment, the dragon and the drow reclined on ale-stained couches in a ramshackle tavern known as the Grinning Gargoyle. True to its name, the taproom boasted scores of the ugly, winged stone statues, .perched on every lintel and rafter. Liriel suspected any one of them could take flight at will. Considering the caliber of patron, she’d almost consider this an improvement. The tavern was teeming with rough-mannered dark elves: commoners, former soldiers, riffraff of all kinds.
Zz’Pzora gestured with her goblet to one of several drow standing near the hearth. “That’s him. The one they’re calling Pharx. Look at his eyes.”
Liriel squinted. The male’s eyes were red, like those of most drow, but when the firelight hit them just so, she could see that the crimson orbs were slashed by vertical, reptilian pupils. “All right, that’s him. Now what?”
The drow-shaped dragon responded with a carnivorous smile. “Now I make the gentleman’s acquaintance.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and rose from the table.
Liriel caught her arm. “Take this gem with you. If you manage to get into the dragon’s stronghold, leave it there.”
“Oh, I’ll manage,” Zz’Pzora said in an arch tone. “Where else could we have the space—and the security—to resume our true forms? Purple or not, I’m the best thing in town! Don’t bother waiting up for me.” The drow-dragon smoothed the folds of her borrowed gown and slinked across the room.
True enough, the “drow” called Pharx seemed delighted by Zz’Pzora’s unsubtle advances. In moments, the pair slipped away through one of the doors that lined the back wall of the Grinning Gargoyle. Liriel lingered in the tavern for a while to watch the dark elves who had been with Pharx, taking note of their number and weapons. When she was satisfied she could learn no more, she returned to the Promenade to study battle spells.
Much later that evening, a smug and sated Zz’Pzora gave her report to a gathering of the Chosen. “There is a hidden tunnel leading from the Grinning Gargoyle to Pharx’s lair. It’s small—barely big enough for an elf to crawl through—but comfortable enough for a deep dragon in serpent form. Pharx has a lovely home. He gave me a tour of the caverns.”
Zz’Pzora smiled and admired her manicure. “It’s been a long time since he’s enjoyed the company of another dragon.”
“The details of your encounter, however entertaining, must wait for another time,” said Iljrene in her little-girl voice. The battlemaster spread a sheet of parchment on the table and thrust a quill at the drow-dragon. “Draw.”
Not even a dragon was immune to the power behind Iljrene’s lilting commands; Zz’Pzora complied without argument. The complex she sketched out was impressive. To the east of Pharx’s lair was a series of tunnels leading to three main chambers. The deepest and best protected was the hoard room, a vast cavern filled with the treasures Pharx had collected over the centuries, as well as the bones of those who’d hoped to claim some of the treasure as their own. Above the hoard were two smaller caverns that served the merchants as living quarters and warehouses. Two tunnels led out of the merchants’ quarters, one up toward the docks and another, an escape route, winding down to some still deeper dungeon.
Iljrene studied the drawing for a moment. “We’ll send two patrols to attack the merchant ships. That will draw their fighters up through this tunnel. When the way is clear, Liriel will open a portal into the hoard room, then find and engage the wizard.”
“She should not go alone,” protested Fyodor. “What if guards remain?”
“That is unlikely. Nisstyre’s people have no reason to suspect we know the location of his stronghold,” reasoned Iljrene. “They will see no further than the attack on the ship. They carry slaves, among other cargo, and they know that this alone is enough to arouse the ire of the Dark Maiden.”
“And why should he post guards, with a dragon in residence?” added Elkantar, leaning close over his battlemas-ter’s shoulder to study the drawing.
“Exactly,” Iljrene agreed. “Which brings us to the dragon, Zz’Pzora, you will ensure that Pharx remains in his lair. Keep him engaged, in battle or otherwise, until the way is cleared and our forces arrive.”
The drow-shaped dragon eyed the battlemaster’s exquisite, silvery gown with open greed. “Lend me that dress, girlie, and it’s a deal.”
“Done. Liriel, are you ready to face Nisstyre?”
The young wizard smiled grimly. “I’d be happier if I had the amulet, but I’m as ready as I can be. Did you leave my gem in Pharx’s hoard room, Zip?”
“Yes, and it nearly killed me to do it,” grumbled the dragon’s right-headed persona, emerging for a moment to mourn the treasure that had slipped through her purple fingers. “A black sapphire!”
“What would you have me do?” asked Fyodor. The young warrior had spent the past few days on the fringes of the group, watching the preparations intently. What he saw reassured him greatly, for the dedicated drow commanders reminded him of the Fangs of Rashemen—the canny chieftains who defended their tiny land against much stronger foes. Still, he was not sure of his place in all this.
Elkantar shook his head. “We could certainly use your sword, friend, but it’s best you remain in the temple, far from battle. If the battle frenzy should come upon you, could you tell one drow from another?”
The Rashemi had no answer for this argument, but his blue eyes burned with frustration as he listened to the drow plan each stage of their attack. Never, not in all the months since his berserker magic went awry, had Fyodor felt so utterly helpless. He searched his storehouse of old tales, hoping to find an answer there. Inspiration, when at last it came, did little to set his mind at ease.
When the meeting ended and those present scattered to prepare for battle, Fyodor beckoned one of their number into a private corridor. As he laid out the terms of his offer, his mind rang with the warning of an old Rashemi proverb:
He who would bargain with a dragon is either a fool or a corpse.
The ships of the Dragon’s Hoard were well guarded. Fully loaded and tied at the dock, they presented a tempting target. Drow mercenaries walked the docks, and dark-elven archers kept watch from the aft castles and crow’s nests of the waiting ships. The merchants of the Dragon’s
Hoard were not unaware that Eilistraee’s drow had expressed earnest interest in their business, and they did not have to think long to understand why. Packed in the hold of one ship was a score of drow children: unwanted males who would bring a fine price as slaves in the far-off cities of the south. The priestesses of the Dark Maiden took a dim view of such things and were foolish enough to attempt a rescue. So far they’d shown admirable restraint, but there was no predicting what the drow of the Promenade Temple might do.
Not far from the ships, far beneath the surface of the fetid water, Iljrene and ten of her fellow priestesses clung to the rocky seabed and waited. According to Liriel’s deep dragon, the tunnel from the merchants’ stronghold ended here, in the solid rock of the harbor’s floor. Each merchant of the Dragon’s Hoard wore a magical pendant that allowed him to pass through the rocky wall at will. It was Iljrene’s task to harvest of few of those pendants.
Armed with short swords and a spell that enabled them to breathe underwater for a short period of time, the priestesses waited anxiously, straining their ears for the sounds of battle above. Iljrene trusted Elkantar—he was her commander and she had fought under him for nearly a century—but this task required precise timing. If Elkantar’s patrol did not strike soon, the lurking priestesses would run out of air. Yet they could not come to the surface, for doing so would alert the Dragon’s Hoard mercenaries and put Elkantar’s people in peril. So Iljrene schooled her thoughts to icy calm, and bided her time.
Under the command of Elkantar, a double patrol of Protectors swam toward the docked ships. They’d come in from the Sea Caves, down the watery gates that transported ships into Skullport’s hidden harbor, and in from the dark water beyond the docks. His forces paddled stealthily toward the ships: a score of drow, their silvery heads covered by tight, dark hoods; six men; and a halfling—all adventurers rescued by Eilistraee’s priestesses and pledged to the Dark Maiden’s service.
As he swam, Elkantar took the measure of the forces arrayed against his band. At least a dozen well-armed drow mercenaries patrolled the docks, and as many walked the decks of each of the two ships. Their ranks were supported by minotaur guards and deadly, dark-elven archers. The battle would be costly, yet Elkantar did not for a moment reconsider his course. Qilue Veladorn was not only his consort, but his liege lady. He had sworn to her; he would gladly do anything—even die—for her. But this task he would have done regardless. The long years fell away as the drow remembered another, similar vessel. That time, Elkantar had been chained in the cargo hold: a warrior-trained youth, nobly born but too rebellious for his matron mother’s liking. What he had endured during his slavery, and how he’d finally made his escape, pressed heavily on him now.
But this was a time for action, not for memories.
The bow of the ship nearest him was pointed away from the docks and was the area least heavily guarded, A lone minotaur paced the deck of the forecastle. Elkantar raised a small, crossbow-shaped harpoon and took aim. The bolt flew silently toward its target, trailing a length of nearly invisible spider-silk rope. The barbed weapon tore into the bull-man’s massive chest. Instantly dead, the creature slumped against the railing, head lolling out over the water. He looked for all the world as if he were a seasick sailor reconsidering his last meal.
Elkantar swam right up to the ship. He tugged at the rope; it held, and he scrambled up the curving hull to the forecastle. Using the minotaur’s body as a shield, he hauled himself over the railing. At once an alarm sounded, and an arrow streaked down from the crow’s nest, missing him but sinking with a meaty thud into the lifeless minotaur. Elkantar returned fire with a handbow, rapidly sending dart after dart toward the archer.
Meanwhile, his band had found the web of ropes alongside the.ships and had swarmed up onto the decks. The ship guards rushed to do battle, and the drow guarding the docks surged up the gangplanks onto the ship, drawing their weapons as they ran. Swords clashed as the drow battled hand to hand.
The Chosen might have held off the fighters, but the archers in the crow’s nests picked off the valiant invaders one by one. Elkantar watched, helpless, as an arrow took one of his fighters through the throat. He turned to his second—a tall, grim halfling who had followed him up the rope—and pointed toward the crow’s nest. The halfling nodded and dropped to one knee behind the sheltering bulk of the mino-taur. The small archer sent arrow after arrow toward the mast, effectively pinning the deadly archer down.
Meanwhile, a small band of priestesses followed Qilue through the dark waters. One of them, supported out of the water by two of her sisters, managed to toss a rope around the bowsprit. Qilue went first, climbing lithely up the rope and leaping onto the ship’s forecastle.
The sight before her stole her breath. Elkantar, her beloved, ran with acrobatic grace up a rope that sloped steeply from the aft castle to the top of the mast. His knife was drawn; he clearly intended to take out the troublesome archer. It was the sort of risky and valiant plan she’d come to expect from her consort, and, considering the storm of arrows raging around the mast, it might well be his last.
The priestess knew a moment of despair. She had loved and lost far too often in her many centuries of life; she could not bear to lose Elkantar, as well. But such choices were not hers to make. So Qilue drew her singing sword and held it high, taking strength as its song—the eerie, haunting tones of an elven soprano commingled with the call of Eilistraee’s hunting horn—leaped forth.
The magical sound galvanized the priestesses who followed her. Five more swords flashed in the faint light, joining in a chorus that rang out pure and strong above the clash of battle and the screams of the dying.
Far below the shipboard battle, Hjrene and her priestesses hugged the harbor floor and watched the hidden portal. Suddenly drow mercenaries, no doubt responding to a summons from the beleaguered ships, burst from the solid stone. The drow fighters rose quickly through the water, intent upon the shadowy forms of the ships.
Iljrene counted carefully as thirty drow swept past her hiding place on their way to battle. From all the information her spies had gathered, it seemed unlikely that more than forty drow remained in the stronghold. The final ten, therefore, were the targets. When these had passed, the battle-master nodded, and each priestess swam quickly toward her chosen mark. The females struck from behind, each of them slicing a drow throat and releasing a magical pendant in one blow. Iljrene had no quarrel with such tactics; this was an ambush, not a duel of honor.
Triumphantly the priestesses swam down to the portal. Clutching the pendants, all ten of them hurtled through the invisible magic door. They rolled, drenched and gasping for air, onto a rocky-floored tunnel.
Right into the path of two-score onrushing guards.
The drow males pulled up short, startled by the unexpected arrival of the Prometiade forces. Iljrene leaped to her feet and brandished a sword, taking advantage of the merchants’ surprise to buy a moment’s time for her equally nonplused priestesses.
Four-to-one, she acknowledged grimly as she faced off against the closest male. Granted, the narrow tunnel gave the females some advantage—no more than four could fight at once—but the mercenaries could replace their slain as quickly as they fell. As she slashed and darted and danced, the tiny battlemaster determined to lower the odds as much as she could before another priestess was forced to step into her place.
Gold coins, a mountain of them, shifted beneath Liriel’s feet. Magic weapons, priceless statues and vases, and exquisite musical instruments were heaped around the base of the golden, gem-studded hill. The drow released a long, silent sigh of relief; she’d gotten into the dragon’s hoard room.
Liriel stooped and picked up the glittering black sapphire at her feet, the gem ZzTzora had planted there. Properly enspelled, the sapphire had been the final ingredient to opening the portal into Nisstyre’s stronghold. But Liriel did not pause to savor this triumph. Cautiously she made her way down the treasure heap, sliding on the shifting coins with each step. Usually the slightest disturbance of a dragon’s hoard brought the fey creature roaring toward battle. The sounds coming from Pharx’s lair suggested Zz’Pzora was tending to her assigned task with unusual vigor and relish. The male dragon was well and truly distracted.
Not wanting to chance too much on the capricious ZzTzora, Liriel made her way quickly through the tunnels that led into the merchants’ quarters. Far above, muted by the stone, she heard the faint sounds of battle, but the corridors were deserted. Then, at the base of one of the closed stone doors, she saw a sliver of light. She crept close, and eased the door open.
In a small chamber sat the copper-haired wizard, wrapped in a shawl and studying the Windwalker by the light of a single candle.
“Having any hick?” Liriel said mockingly. Nisstyre started at the sound of her voice and spun to face her. He was thinner than when she’d last seen him, and his black eyes burned in his haggard face. The ruby embedded in his forehead flared with angry red light. “How does it work?” he demanded, brandishing the amulet. “Its secrets yield to no drow magic!”
“I’ll gladly give you a demonstration,” the girl challenged. “Give me the amulet, then test me in battle!”
“I have no wish to harm you.”
“Afraid to try?” Liriel taunted.
The wizard scoffed and held up his left hand. The gold and onyx ring that had once belonged to Kharza-kzad Xorlarrin glinted in the candlelight. “I bested your tutor. Can the student do better?”
Liriel shrugged. “Look at it this way: you want information, and the only way you’ll get it from me is to kill me and converse with my spirit.”
The gem in Nisstyre’s forehead flared again, brighter this time. He winced, and his face contorted with pain and frustration. He hurled the amulet at Liriel, accidentally knocking over the candle and plunging the room into utter darkness.
“Very well, I’ll fight her!” he shouted. “Watch if you must, but by all the gods, hold your wretched tongue!”
Liriel peered at the wizard. He was not talking to her, but to some unseen person. Someone who could hear what she said, perhaps see what she did. Someone who wanted her dead. Her gaze flickered over to Nisstyre’s ruby eye, and a plan began to formulate in her mind.
Quickly she stooped and picked up the Windwalker amulet. The drow magic captured within—her own magical essence—coursed through her in a blissful tide of power. Dark-elven spells danced ready in her mind; faerie fire and darkness vied for a place at her fingertips. For the first time in many days Liriel felt complete. She dropped a quick kiss on the tiny golden sheath and hung the amulet around her neck. Then, with a quick sweep of her hand, she sent the first of her magic weapons hurtling toward Nisstyre.
A pulse of crackling black energy sped toward the wizard. Nisstyre was faster still. He disappeared, and the magic missile passed through his lingering heat shadow to explode against the far wall.
At that moment the walls of the room began to shudder. Cracks appeared in the ceiling, spreading out like tree branches. The floor beneath LirieFs feet buckled and shook violently, and her ears throbbed with a dull booming roar that sounded as if the very stone cried out in torment.
Liriel’s first impulse was terror and an overwhelming desire to flee. Only once before had she experienced such a tremor, but all her life she’d heard stories of the disasters that occurred when the earth shifted. Patrols lost, tunnels collapsed, whole cities buried. The drow, who spent most of their lives trapped beneath tons of rock, feared nothing so much as this.
Then she remembered the amulet and her restored powers. Summoning her ability to levitate, she rose just above the quaking floor and glided swiftly and calmly toward the doorway. She emerged just as the ceiling gave way. Stone fell with a thunderous roar, sending a cloud of dust into the empty corridor.
But beyond Nisstyre’s chamber, all was calm and still. Liriel took a deep, steadying breath. The “earthquake” had been a magical attack, limited to that one room. She silently applauded Nisstyre for his strategy—the attack was calculated to utterly unnerve a drow opponent—as she made her way back to the hoard room. For what other site would Nisstyre choose for spell battle? And what better warrior to have at his back than a dragon? The wizard anticipated the advantage of overwhelming odds. He could not know a second dragon had entered the fray.
Yet as Liriel sped down the silent corridors, she had little hope Zz’Pzora would even the score. So far the mutant dragon had been unfailingly helpful, but Liriel knew the creature could turn treacherous at odd moments. Their alliance had been built on the assumption that neither could be trusted. To her sorrow, Liriel knew the dragon as well as she knew herself.
Even in his weakened condition, Nisstyre was a formidable opponent. The moment the young drow stepped into the hoard room, she was buffeted by the sweep of giant wings. Liriel dropped and rolled, coming up with a handful of throwing knives ready. She launched three of the weapons at the giant bat—a nighthunter, the largest and deadliest of the Underdark bats—before she realized the creature was merely an illusion. The real danger came from fifty paces beyond. Perched on the pile of golden coins, Nisstyre slowly lifted a wand and pointed it in her direction.
Liriel struck a seductive pose. “I’ve reconsidered ypur offer,” she purred. “If you still desire a consort, I’d be honored to accept.”
As she’d expected, the ruby eye on Nisstyre’s forehead flared with sudden light. The wizard’s hand faltered, and he wove unsteadily, as if buffeted by the force of the unseen watcher’s anger.
“I still have the map you gave me,” Liriel lied sweetly. “In just a few days, we can be together in your forest stronghold. We can share the amulet, as you promised. Think of the power we can wield together! And as I promised, I’ll help rid you of the other.” She pointed to the ruby, which by now was almost vibrating with rage.
“She lies,” whispered Nisstyre, his face contorted with agony. “Yes, yes—I’ll prove my loyalty.” Again he lifted the wand and sighted down his target.
But Liriel had reached for a weapon of her own—a deadly, uniquely drow spell she had never dared try before. She snatched up a tooth from a pile of dwarven bones and hurled it at the wizard. Instantly his outstretched hand jerked into a flexed, tortured claw. His wand fell among the coins, but Nisstyre’s attention was wholly absorbed by his own hideous metamorphosis. His thumb shrank, becoming a rounded head with a greedy, pincer-shaped mouth. His fingers elongated, then divided in half to become eight thin, hairy appendages. What was once a wizard’s dexterous hand was now a hairy black spider. Mindless in its hunger and need, the creature twisted toward its host’s arm and began to feed. For a moment Nisstyre, horror-struck and dumb with pain, merely stared at the death spider eating its way up his arm. He began to stammer out a chant that would dispel the deadly enchantment and restore his hand—if not the flesh already devoured.
Liriel, meanwhile, searched for her next weapon. She knew that wand—it was one Kharza had made—and she knew what Nisstyre’s next attack would be. Frantically she dug through the piled treasure. Zz’Pzora had said there was a mirror—had the treacherous dragon lied?
Now healed, Nisstyre stooped, sliding several feet down the golden pile as he scrambled for his wand. With his undamaged hand he snatched it up and pointed it at Liriel. A gout of flame, hotter than the breath of a red dragon, sped toward the dark-elven girl.
At that moment Liriel found what she sought. Her fingers closed over the gilded frame, and she snapped the mirror up before her at arm’s length. She closed her eyes and turned her head away from the searing light. The dragon-breath spell struck the silvered glass and reflected back toward its sender.
The wizard’s black eyes widened with pure panic as the magical fire struck the golden coins at his feet. Instantly the metal melted, and Nisstyre sank deep into the bubbling, molten mass. His shrieks, as he suffered the agony intended for Liriel, were horrible to hear.
The results of a dragon-breath weapon were spectacular but brief. In mere moments the golden pile had cooled enough to bear Liriel’s weight. She climbed the treasure heap and stooped over the dying drow trapped there. The ruby eye seemed to be rising out of his forehead, and its glow was dimming in concert with the wizard’s ebbing life-force. Liriel plucked out the ruby and smiled into its fading light, as if into the face of the unseen watcher.
“You lose,” she said succinctly. With that, she tossed the lifeless gem into the pile.
Crawling on his belly, Fyodor crept through the tunnel that wound through solid stone toward the dragon’s lair. Zz’Pzora had preceded him in the form of a huge, purple snake. It had been odd, watching the purple drow shapeshift into a serpent. Her current form would no doubt be even more unnerving. Fyodor, for all his travel and his years of fighting, had never seen a dragon. They were not so plentiful in these times as they were in the old tales. Soon he would see not one, but two of the creatures. One of them, he was pledged to kill; the other had pledged to kill him.
It was not the death most Rashemi berserkers would choose for themselves, but Fyodor was content with his fate. Although he was far from his beloved land, he would die in battle, and with honor. It was enough.
Finally he came to the end of the tortuous journey. Beyond “the tunnel was the dragon’s lair, a huge cavern riven with jagged, fanglike stalactites and cluttered with the bones of Pharx’s recent meals. Within the cavern were two dragons, encoiled in reptilian embrace. One of them was undoubtedly Zz’Pzora—a beautiful creature with two heads, iridescent purple scales, and enormous wings the color of amethyst. She was huge—at least fifty feet from the tip of her tail to her dual snouts, but it was Pharx who stole Fyodor*s breath. The male dragon was fully twice Zz’Pzora’s size, armored with dark maroon scales and armed with teeth the size of daggers and claws like curving scimitars. This, Fyodor realized with awe, was the creature he had vowed to help slay.
A faint hiss came from the distant tunnel, and then screams of mortal anguish. Immediately Pharx lifted his head, like a giant hound scenting the breeze. “My gold.” muttered the creature in a rumbling voice. He disentangled himself from the purple dragon and sprinted toward the tunnel in a lurching run, head down to avoid the low-hanging ceiling. “My gold is melting! We must protect it!”
As the dragon neared his hiding place, Fyodor leaped into the cavern and pulled his sword. With all his strength he swung, bashing the creature between the eyes. Pharx pulled up short, shaking his head and huffing in astonishment. The blunt-edged sword had not broken through the dragon’s armor, but for a moment the dragon was dazed and cross-eyed.
Zz’Pzora seized the moment. She spread her wings and leaped at Pharx like a pouncing hawk. Her claws found a foothold on the male’s vertical plates of belly-armor, and her wings enfolded his spiked back. Her two heads dove in for his throat. Nothing but a dragon’s teeth could pierce a dragon’s armor, and Pharx, despite his enormous size, could not shake the smaller female. One head he might have dislodged, but not two. Locked in a deadly embrace, the enormous creatures thrashed and rolled. Zz’Pzora’s wings were pierced, then shredded, by the male’s spiky armor, but still she clung—teeth grinding and two heads tossing violently as she sought to rip through the male dragon’s scales.
Fyodor circled the titanic battle, watching for a chance to strike, but so entangled were the two creatures that he could not hit one without harming the other. Finally Pharx’s tail thrashed out, away from the clinging Zz’Pzora. The Rashemi leaped, hacking at the scaly appendage. It was not much, but perhaps it would distract the beast and give Zz’Pzora some small aid.
Pharx’s enormous maw opened in a roar of rage and pain that shook the cavern. Then the creature lowered his jaw toward Zz’Pzora’s back and exhaled deeply. A noxious, crimson mist flowed from the dragon’s mouth. It clung to the female’s back, and wherever it touched scales melted away like snow in a spring rain. Both of the female’s heads screamed, and Zz’Pzora lost her hold on Pharx’s throat.
The Rashemi stepped in, sword leading. His black blade dug deep into one of the holes Zz’Pzora’s teeth had worried open, and he leaned in hard until the sword struck bone. Fyodor gripped the hilt with both hands and threw his weight to one side, wrenching the sword in a deadly arc through Pharx’s throat. Blood poured from the creature’s fanged mouth, quenching the strange fire that ate through Zz’Pzora’s scales.
The female disentangled herself from her dying mate, and the fierce joy of battle shone in her four eyes. “Let’s go,” she rumbled, leading the way unsteadily from the cavern. “Liriel is in there. No sense letting her have all the fun!”
Slowly and at great cost, Iljrene and her forces made their way down the tunnel toward the hoard room. The tiny priestess had been cut more than once, and her garments were wet with mingled seawater and blood. Yet she did not falter, did not seem to register pain when she was wounded, or when one of her sister priestesses fell. She had a mission and she would fulfill it. Once the ship was breached and the drew children rescued, Qilue would lead a band of drow into the merchants’ stronghold. Iljrene planned to ensure they did not walk into overwhelming odds.
Liriel looked up as Zz’Pzora ducked her way into the hoard room. “Got the wizard, I see,” the dragon’s left head observed in a slurred voice “Pharx is dead, too.”
The drow smiled. “We make a good team, Zip.”
“That we do,” the dragon’s heads agreed in unison. The creature seemed about to say more, but her left head swayed, then drooped, sagging lifeless onto her bloodstained purple scales.
The right head looked down and grimaced. “I was afraid of that,” she said, and plunged down faces-first into the pile of gold.
Liriel’s eyes widened at the horrible wound on Zz’Pzora’s back. The scales had melted away, and the flesh looked as if it had been eaten away by some corrosive acid. The drow darted forward and gathered up the lifeless head of her friend.
“Damn it, Zip,” she mourned.
A flicker of light returned to the left head’s eyes. “My life has numbered more than twenty thousand days,” the dragon said, and her voice was content. “This was the best of them all.” With those words, half of Zz’Pzora died.
The right head stirred and lifted out of the golden pile. “A word of advice,” the dragon added in a rapidly fading voice. “Don’t trust that human of yours. An utter fool! He offered to follow me into Pharx’s lair and help in battle if needed. In return, he offered to let me kill him if he should raise a sword against any of Qilue’s drow. Talk about a win-win situation!” The right head grinned, and not in Liriel’s direction. “You’re on your own now.” With that, the reptilian eyes glazed as the right head followed her counterpart into the darkness.
For a long moment Liriel sat and rocked the enormous head in her lap. So often she’d considered the high price to be paid for trust and friendship, but it had never occurred to her the price might be demanded from another. Then the sound of battle grew louder, breaking through the drow girl’s pain and grief. Liriel realized Iljrene’s forces had met resistance, after all.
The drow gently laid Zz’Pzora’s head down and rose to her feet. She recoiled, for she found herself face-to-face with Fyodor. Suddenly the dragon’s last, comradely words made sense.
“Get out of here!” she shrieked, pushing him toward the tunnel. “Stubborn, stupid… human!”
“It is too late,” Fyodor said in a despairing voice. His gaze turned to the approaching conflict, and his hand closed on the hilt of his sword. Before Liriel’s eyes, he seemed to take on height and power. The battle rage was coming upon him, and it would no doubt be his last.
Liriel’s fingers closed around the Windwalker. For one last moment, she savored her dark-elven heritage.
The ritual to bring on a battle rage! Do it!” she commanded.
Fyodor gave her a startled look, but he was too far beyond his own control to question the order. Witches commanded the Rashemi berserkers, and he had long ago accepted Liriel as wychlaran. So he lifted his deep, bass voice in song, singing in the language of his homeland the hymn of battle to come.
The drow, meanwhile, opened the amulet. She snatched the flask of magically distilled jhuild from Fyodor’s sash. She quickly twisted off the top of the amulet, then unstop-pered the flask with her teeth and tipped it slowly, carefully over the tiny sheath. Liriel had no idea if this ritual would suffice to store and control the berserker magic. If it worked at all, it would be temporary. At least it would buy Fyodor’s life and those of the drow he would slay in his frenzy. No one else, Liriel vowed fiercely, would pay for the choices she had made.
Suddenly Fyodor’s song stopped, and the Rashemi’s eyes turned dull and hollow. Liriel caught him as he fell, not caring that the precious flask of jhuild clattered down among the treasure. The dark hair at the back of Fyodor’s head was parted by a deep gash, and through the swift flow of blood Liriel caught a glimpse of bone.
She looked up. Over them stood Gorlist, a bloodied sword in his hand. “Your turn,” he said with dark satisfaction.
Cold wrath coursed through the drow girl, pushing aside her grief. “Hand to hand,” she challenged, and the fighter accepted with a nod and a smirk. With careful, deliberate movements Liriel stoppered the amulet, locking her Underdark magic firmly into place. She rose and pulled her dagger. The two drow crossed weapons with a ringing clash, and the deadly duel began.
Liriel knew at once that Gorlist’s skills far outclassed her own. At first it was all she could do to hold off his furious, pounding slashes. The male was taller, heavier, and more experienced. But Liriel’s hours of practice told, and she fought with more skill than she’d thought she possessed. Yet she knew she couldn’t outfight Gorlist. Her only chance was to out-think him.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Qilue step through the portal, followed by her priestesses. They did not see her, or hear the sounds of the fierce duel over the clamor of the larger battle just now spilling into the treasure hall. The drow females drew their singing swords and rushed toward the tunnel entrance to intercept the mercenaries that Iljrene herded relentlessly downward.
Suddenly Liriel knew what she must do. Slowly, deliberately, she let Gorlist work her backward toward the invisible portal that led out to the Dragon’s Hoard ships. Qilue’s presence here meant the vessels had been secured, offering safety and escape.
When she reached the portal, Liriel feigned a stumble. Gorlist, triumphant, lunged in for the killing blow. With the speed of thought the girl levitated into the air, whirled, and kicked the fighter through the portal. Gorlist disappeared as if he had never been.
Liriel, still magically aloft, cast the spell that would close the portal and lock out her adversary. When that was done, she floated down and cast a quick glance around the cavern. A few merchants still fought, but most had fallen to the singing blades of the Dark Maiden’s priestesses. At last she was free to go to Fyodor’s side.
She ran to him, stooped down, and found he still breathed. Her arms encircled her friend, and her bright head bowed in the sincerest prayers of her life. Her entreaties did not name the goddess, but Liriel had no doubt who listened and heard.
It was thus that Qilue found her. The priestess placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Liriel looked up, clearly uncertain what the priestess might do now that the battle was over. She clutched the Windwalker, and her golden eyes blazed defiantly. “Nisstyre is dead, the followers of Vhaeraun routed. The Windwalker is Fyodor’s and mine now. We’ve earned it!” she snarled.
The priestess smiled down at the fierce young drow. “Not yet,” Qilue said, “but I strongly suspect that, in time, you will.”