Chapter Four
THE UNDERDARK

Only one day, Liriel thought grimly as she lashed her supplies into the long, barrel-shaped craft. The life she knew would end in just one day. But until the moment this day was over, no one—not her father, not Matron Triel, not Lloth herself—would keep Liriel from living the time that remained to the fullest.

The young drow gave her boat one last inspection. It was an odd craft, fashioned of thin, lightweight metal and padded inside and out with air-filled sacks. The sides curved up, the front came to a rounded point, and ropes controlled the position of two short paddles. Next Uriel checked her cargo: the pyrimo, a supply of freshwater mussels harvested from the shallows of Lake Donigarten, and clams brought to the Bazaar from some distant sea. There were also a few magical items of minor value and a festive gown that had been the height of fashion two seasons past.

When all was ready, Liriel took the guide rope and dragged the boat to a small, black opening in the rocky floor. Water trickled into the hole from a crack in the wall, and the distant rush of water sounded from somewhere far below. She pointed the rounded prow at the opening and then threw herself facedown into the boat.

The craft, tipped and then shot down into the tunnel, falling rapidly and gaining speed by the moment. Liriel seized the guide ropes and used the paddles to nudge and bump her way through the twisting tunnel. A spray of water shot up over the boat with each bump, and webs from the low ceiling tangled in her flying hair. The roar of water soon became deafening as the flow grew deeper and faster.

Then, suddenly, the tunnel was gone. Water flowed in from a dozen similar passages and converged into a white-water river of astonishing speed and fury.

Wild, exultant laughter burst from Liriel and was snatched away by the rush of wind and water. Few of her friends enjoyed this sport—it provided little opportunity for intrigue, and there were merely survivors, not winners—but Liriel loved every wet, bruising moment. Water-running required quick reflexes and nerves of ice. For what she had in mind, she would have need of both.

In the water ahead loomed a large black stalagmite, a thick black rock formation that thrust upward to touch the descending finger of an equally forbidding stalactite. Like mirror images, the two stone spears marked the left-hand boundary of the water-running course. Few who’d ventured beyond that marker had survived.

Liriel counted off the seconds. At the last possible moment, she pulled hard on the left-hand rope. The craft swung around hard, and the force of the onrushing water sent it into a roll. Twice, three times the barrel-shaped boat spun before it righted itself. Liriel came up soaking wet and gasping from the cold. She pulled the right oar into position and steeled herself for the jolt to come.

Her boat crashed broadside into the stalagmite and was pinned there by the force of the onrushing waters. Liriel tugged at the right oar rope with all her strength, and the boat pushed slowly away from the rock.

Now came the tricky part. Sometimes it took her two or three runs before she found her secret tunnel. But luck was with her today. Her boat was swept into the hidden undertow that rushed toward a second stone chute. The drow let out a whoop of glee and hung on for her very life.

This tunnel shot down in an almost straight drop. Liriel closed her eyes and braced herself against the sides of the boat with hands and feet, for nothing she could do now would alter her course. Then, suddenly, the tunnel was gone and Liriel’s craft was free-falling through a tumbling spray of water and mist.

Her boat hit the water below in a smooth dive and plunged deep. When her descent finally slowed, Liriel scrambled out of the boat and swam upward. She broke the surface and gasped in air, then swam for the rocky shore with strong, even strokes. She rolled out onto the bank and lay there, exhausted but triumphant: she had survived one more run!

After a few moments’ rest to catch her breath, Liriel sat up and surveyed her surroundings with proprietorial pride. The waterfall ended in a large, icy pond surrounded by the rocky walls of a deeply buried grotto. Caves and alcoves were scattered here and there, begging to be explored. Eerie blue and green light filled the cavern, for the rocks here emitted the strange, radioactive power that was unique to the Underdark. Such sites of power, known as faerzress, were highly prized by the drow and jealously guarded. This one was Liriel’s alone. She earned it anew each time she made the treacherous journey.

A dry, metallic whisper came from the depth of a nearby cave, a sound like that of chain mail being dragged along rock. Then came the rapid click of taloned feet, the angry roar of some enormous creature preparing to oust the invader from its home. Liriel leaped to her feet just as the deep dragon burst from its lair.

Fyodor slumped against the rocky wall of the tunnel, and his eyes drifted shut. Strange, he thought numbly, how the darkness did not deepen when he closed his eyes. He opened and closed them several times and could discern no difference whatsoever. Never had he seen such blackness, not on the darkest winter night. It closed in on him, even more stifling than the narrow tunnels he’d stumbled through, or the knowledge that countless tons of earth and rock loomed over his head. This, then, was the Underdark.

He could hear the faint, fading footsteps of the drow tllieves, but he could not tell from whence the sound came. Sound played tricks down here, bouncing off tunnel walls and echoing through stone. The footsteps were distorted by other noises: the constant drip of water, the rattling tumble of loose rocks and soil, the scurrying feet of small, unseen creatures. So winding were the tunnels, so full of turns and unexpected drops and climbs, that Fyodor could not even tell if the drow were above or below him. He might be a fine tracker in his own land, but he was very, very far from home.

After several moments of internal debate, Fyodor felt around in his pack and took out a stick and a strip of doth. He wound the cloth around the end of the stick, then reached for the flask tucked into his sash. Carefully he poured a little of the liquid onto the cloth. He fumbled in his bag for flint and steel.

The sparks lit up the blackness like flashes of lightning, and the torch easily caught flame. In the sudden flair of light, Fyodor got his first good look at the Underdark.

“Mother of all gods,” he whispered in a mixture of horror and awe.

He was in a cave, larger than any he had imagined possible. The ceiling arched high overhead, and long, twisted spires of rocks stabbed downward. The path he followed had a solid wall of rock along one side, and a sheer drop on the other. Just a few paces from where he stood, the pathway fell hundreds of feet into a gorge. On the far side of the divide was a lacy rock curtain resembling a giant honeycomb. Behind it Fyodor saw more paths winding up along the cliffs sheer walls and openings that could only be more tunnels. Wondrous bridges fashioned of stone and magic spanned the gorge at several levels. This place was a crossroads built throughout countless centuries by alien and unknowable cultures. Its vastness and complexity overwhelmed Fyodor as even the darkness could not.

Yet he set aside such thoughts and pressed on with his search. Dropping to one knee, the Rashemi examined the rocky floor. Finally he found a marker: a single droplet of nearly melted slush. The drow thieves had passed this way.

Fyodor followed the trail of diminishing dampness into a side tunnel, knowing as he did each step took him closer to death. He had no idea where he was and knew no way to return to the surface once he retrieved the precious amulet. He had entered the Underdark fully aware of the danger—indeed, the apparent futility—of this course of action, but what other choice did he have? Without the amulet he would die. Perhaps his time would not come for a year; perhaps it would come tomorrow.

Without warning, a giant insectlike creature darted into Fyodor’s circle of torchlight. Bottle-green in hue and fully five feet in length, the monster looked like some unholy offspring of a spider and a scorpion. It had no eyes that Fyodor could see, but its excited chittering left little doubt it sensed the man’s presence. Long, whiplike antennae groped here and there for its prey, and the enormous pincers on its spine-covered front legs flared and snapped repeatedly with a sound like that of steel traps closing.

Perhaps, Fyodor thought grimly, his time would come today.

Liriel stood absolutely still as the deep dragon stalked toward her. Both of its sharp-fanged maws dripped with hungry anticipation, and its two heads bobbed as it walked. For this dragon was a freak, a rare product of the strange radiation of the Underdark. Smaller than most of its kind—a mere fifty feet from the top of its two horned heads to the tip of its single tail—the dragon was covered with shimmering purple scales that emitted their own weird light.

The two-headed beast began to circle Liriel, like a house lizard playing with a doomed scurry rat. The head on the right wore an expression of weary resignation, the one on the left a sly, if slightly dim-witted, smile.

“Small, she is,” chirped the smiling dragon head, eying the dark-elven girl. “Hardly big enough to bother snaring. I’ll have this one, and you can eat the next drow that happens by, hmm?”

“Don’t be such a dolt,” snapped the right-sided head in a voice that was deep and gravelly, yet definitely female. “We go through this ridiculous game every time she comes. It’s getting old. Eat the drow or don’t, and have done with it!”

“Hello, Zz’Pzora,” Liriel said, addressing both heads and holding out her hands to show she held no weapons. I’ve brought you the usual goodies.”

“And a gown for me?” the left head inquired eagerly. *FU need something to wear at Suzonia’s next dinner party!”

The right head rolled her eyes. “We get out so seldom,” she said with dry sarcasm. “It’s so important we make the right impression.”

Liriel bit back a grin. The dragon was clearly confused, but she was often rather amusing. The two heads had different, distinct personalities that were almost always in conflict. The left head was vain and flighty, and liked to fantasize about visiting the Underdark cities and frolicking on the surface. The right head’s persona was more typical of dragonkind. She loved solitude, treasure, and magical items. This head was the brighter of the two, and had a sharp wit and a sarcastic tongue. While all dragons were dangerous and unpredictable, Zz’Pzora had a little insanity thrown in to make things interesting. Even so, Liriel had come to consider the dragon a friend. A large, dangerous, and unpredictable friend, perhaps, but no more treacherous than any of the young drow’s other associates.

“I’m going to get your things now,” she said, pointing toward the water. The boat had bobbed to the surface and had drifted nearly to shore. Both of the dragon’s heads nodded eager agreement.

It took but a few minutes for Liriel to tow in the boat and unpack her cargo. The dragon quickly devoured the seafood, the two heads arguing all the while over the choicest tidbits. The left head squealed with delight at the sight of Liriel’s cast-off gown and begged her counterpart to join her in The Change. Deep dragons were natural shapeshifters and could change at will into either snake or drow form. Zz’Pzora’s drow shape had but one head, but even this form could not grant the dragon her left-headed longing for society. The drow-dragon had features that were decidedly undrowlike: round, dark eyes; a button nose; and full pouting lips. Her skin retained the bright purple hue of the dragon’s scales and cast the same faint purple light as usual. In any form Zz’Pzora was, to say the least, conspicuous.

Undaunted by such limitations, the drow-shaped dragon wriggled into the gown. Hands on hips, she paced along the shore in a broad parody of a seductress’s slink.

“It’s very becoming, Zip,” Liriel murmured, struggling to keep the mirth from her voice. “Suzonia will be consumed with jealousy.”

With a happy sigh, the drow-dragon flung herself down beside Liriel, ready for some gossip. At ZzTzora’s urging, Liriel told stories about her life in Menzoberranzan: the round of parties, the social intrigue, even the incident with Bythnara Shobalar.

A queasy expression crossed the dragon’s purple, elven face. *^So a wizard died to get me the pyrimo. I wish you’d told me that earlier!” she said in the low, gravelly voice of her right-headed persona. Before Liriel could respond to this, the drow-dragon’s face twisted into a sly smile. “If you’d told me, I would have enjoyed it far more!” put in the left-headed side. “Especially if some of those fish had eaten—“

That was a bit much for Liriel. “I have to get back now,” she said abruptly. “Where are my weapons?”

The drow-shaped Zz’Pzora pointed toward a small cave. Blue light spilled from the low opening, marking it as an especially powerful source of the radiant energy.

Liriel stooped and entered the small cavern, There she found the sack she’d left with the dragon two years earlier. Eagerly she opened it and drew out a small, spider-shaped metal object. The eight legs were perfectly balanced and evenly spaced, and each ended in a sharp tip. She took the weapon by one leg and hurled it at the wall of the cave. The legs bit deep into the stone.

“Perfect,” she breathed. With her lethal aim, a thrown dagger could handle most creatures of flesh and bone; this new weapon could pierce the carapace of many an Underdark monster. The dark elf pried the metal spider out of the rock with her knife, not wanting to lose a single one of her new toys, and then she tied the bag of magic- enhanced throwing spiders to her belt.

Before she left the grotto, she gathered fragments of scales the dragon had broken or shed. The scales of a deep dragon were a rare and valuable spell component, and once dissolved in acid they could be used to make the prized ever-dark ink used by drow wizards. Since Liriel’s allowance did not begin to cover her expenses, she had developed a lucrative trade of her own, These scale fragments would bring her enough gold to fund more adventures, buy more books, and learn more spells.

The elf quickly said her farewells to Zz’Pzora, and the two friends made their way to the far side of the grotto. There, in a small recessed alcove, hung a leather sling. Liriel seated herself and took a deep breath. Above her soared a long, straight shaft. The opening was too far away for her to see, but she knew from experience it would take her to a point very near the entrance to the water run. She and Zz’Pzora had rigged up a series of ropes and pulleys in this shaft. The dragon would pull Liriel up now, and return the boat to its starting point at her leisure.

Still in drow form, Zz’Pzora grabbed the ropes. The dragon’s first tug sent Liriel jerking sharply upward. As the drow rose in a series of quick bursts followed by long teasing pauses, she fervently wished she hadn’t exhausted her levitation spells for the day. There was no telling when the dragon’s sly, chaotic persona might overwhelm the more sensible head, and it was a long way down. At the bottom of the shaft lay the crumpled remnants of old bones, a silent testament to the fate of other creatures who had fallen—or been thrown—into the shaft.

But once again, Liriel made the ascent without incident or treachery. She dropped the three pebbles that signaled the dragon of her safe arrival, then took her new spellbook from her pack and unwrapped the skins that protected it from wear and water. In the book was a spell that would enable her to establish a portal to a familiar spot of her choice. She chose Spelltower Xorlarrin.

With a mischievous smile, Liriel imagined Kharza-kzad’s reaction to her latest prank. Her hands flashed through the gestures of the spell and she summoned the gate easily. Yet she lingered at the lip of the shaft, and her eyes scanned the

Elaine Cunninghara beloved landscape of the wild Underdark. She suspected it might be a very long time before she would see it again.

If there was ever a time when Fyodor needed the strength of his berserker rage, it was now. Yet the familiar heat and fury did not come to the young Rashemi. He had already fought too much for one day. So he drew his sword and slowly, carefully began to back away from the enormous scorpion-spider.

But the creature seemed fascinated by the light of the torch. It made no move to attack, but as soon as Fyodor eased out of range, it skittered forward until it was back in the circle of light. The man tried this escape several times, not knowing what else to do and hoping it might tire of the game.

As it happened, the monster did just that. The result was not at all what Fyodor had hoped it might be.

One of the creature’s antennae furled back, then whipped up toward Fyodor’s face. Reflexively, he raised the torch to ward off the attack; antenna met flame with a searing hiss. The giant arachnid reeled back, but not before its second antenna snapped forward, low and fast. This one hit Fyodor’s ankle, and the end wrapped around and around as though it were a striking whip. So quickly did the second strike come that Fyodor was yanked off his feet when the creature retreated from the torch’s flame. The back of Fyodor’s head hit hard on the rocky floor, and a hundred tiny, brilliant lights burst behind his eyelids.

The painful light flashed and faded in an instant, and Fyodor once again found himself in total darkness. The fall had knocked his torch from his hand. He groped around for his sword; it, too, had fallen out of reach.

Fyodor was not one to be easily discouraged, but he was beginning to dislike his chances in this fight. He drew a knife from his sash and hauled himself into a sitting position. He did not need light to know where one of the creature’s antennae was.

As if sensing Fyodor’s intent, the insect relaxed its whip-like hold. The flow of blood resumed in the man’s numb foot, and feeling returned with a sharp, prickling rush. Perhaps, he dared to hope, the creature had lost interest in him now that there was no more light.

But then there came the quick skittering rush of many legs and a sharp, rending stab as the creature’s small, beak-shaped mandibles found Fyodor’s leg. The man hissed with pain and drove down hard with his knife. The weapon glanced off the creature’s bony shell. He stabbed two more times, with no success. The monster clung, and its side-by-side mandibles began to grind together in an attempt to rip loose a chuck of meat. Fyodor’s next thrust was into the flesh of his own leg.

Using the knife as a lever, Fyodor pried the creature’s beak open. He rolled away from the grasping mandibles, several times and as fast as he could. In his wild retreat he rolled over a hard, familiar shape.

Fyodor’s hand closed on his cudgel and he rose to his feet. The next time the antenna whipped forward to seize his ankle, he was ready. As long as the creature’s antenna held him, he had a good idea where the rest of the body must be. Rushing forward, he began to beat wildly at the arachnid. Many, perhaps most, of his blows rang with the sound of wood on rock, but a good many of them landed on the monster’s shell. Once the creature seized his ankle with a pin-cer; Fyodor thrashed the clawed appendage until it let go. The taut antenna also relaxed, and it seemed the scorpion-thing would release him altogether. Fyodor was not feeling so generous, himself.

The fighter planted a heavy boot on the creature’s antenna, pinning it firmly to the ground. He did not dare let the monstrous insect out of the range of his driftwood club, for fear he could not see or turn aside the next attack. Fyodor redoubled his efforts and smashed with all his strength again and again into the arachnid’s protective shell.

Finally he was rewarded with a cracking sound and the sudden pulpy give that suggested victory was within reach. The man continued to batter at the creature until it was reduced to a sodden mass.

Breathing hard, Fyodor reached for the flask tucked into his sash. His leg burned with cruel heat where the giant scorpion-thing had bitten him, and he knew the pain he felt now would be a pale thing compared to what must come next. He pulled the cork from his flask and tipped some of the liquid onto the open wound.

Some tame later—perhaps a short time, perhaps not—Fyodor came to himself again and found he had been sleeping on a bed of cold rock, For many minutes he lay where he had fallen, piecing together bits of memory until he could recall all that had happened to bring him to this place. The terror that was the Underdark came back to him, with one thing added.

He could no longer hear the footsteps of the drow he sought.