Archmage (10 page)

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.