Baenre, leader of the First House of Menzoberranzan. To Malice's further surprise, the image of the dark elf crone began to speak.
'Greetings, Matron Malice.' Matron Baenre's spindly voice emanated from the image.
'Greetings…' Malice started to reply, but the image continued to talk without pause, by that, Malice knew she was not really speaking with Matron Baenre. Rather, this was a prefashioned message embedded in the disk itself.
'The Festival of the Founding is nearly upon us,' the image of Matron Baenre went on. 'As you know, it is the tradition on that day for the nobles of two houses that do not customarily dine together to do so. If House Do'Urden would deign to host House Baenre on this holy occasion, I would be most grateful.'
Malice's heart skipped a beat in her chest. Baenre wanted to dine with House Do'Urden on the Festival Day? What marvelous fortune! Malice's plot to win a visit from Lloth had unraveled, but without doubt this was the next greatest honor. Certainly this meant that Matron Baenre favored the recent rise in station of House Do'Urden. And once it was known that House Baenre had chosen to feast with House Do'Urden for the Festival, the status of Malice's clan could rise only further.
'Will Matron Malice accept this offer?' the image hovering above the disk finished.
Though it was phrased as a polite question, Malice knew that it was not really a request, but a demand. To refuse would be suicide. Not that she would ever do so.
Malice stood and spoke in a formal tone. 'Please inform Matron Baenre that I am honored to accept her gracious offer.'
The image of the crone nodded, then vanished. The disk rose from Malice's hand, then whizzed away to deliver her response to House Baenre.
By force of will, Malice banished thoughts of Zaknafein from her mind. It was better if she forgot him. Besides, she had other matters to concern her now. A smile parted her dark red lips. Defeat had turned into victory. Tomorrow would be a glorious day after all.
Chapter Six: Transformation
They had strapped him to an altar of dark stone, fiat on his back, his hands and feet bound with rothe-hide thongs to the slab's four corners. A scream of utter agony echoed around the dank cavern, underscored by the eerie sound of chanting. Zaknafein craned his neck, straining against his bonds, trying to see what was happening. He was not the only one sentenced to become a drider that day.
It was difficult to see anything. Noxious smoke hung on the air, rising from ritual fires the priestess had lit. The scent of fear was strong and sharp in his nostrils. This was an evil place. The chanting rose to a feverish pitch as another scream was ripped from drow lungs. For a moment, the smoke swirled, thinning, and Zak caught a glimpse of a gruesome shadow play.
To his right, eight priestesses of Lloth gathered around an altar to which was strapped a writhing figure. At the head of the stone slab, hovering in the garish green flames rising from a copper brazier, was a nightmarish form. The thing was a mass of bubbling flesh, snaking tentacles, and bulbous eyes. A yochlol, one of the Handmaidens of Lloth, summoned from the depths of the Abyss to work its evil here. A wave of fear and revulsion crashed through Zak at the sight of the yochlol. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to vomit.
The priestesses raised their arms in exultation as their chanting reached a shrill peak. The yochlol extended its tentacles, wrapping them around the head of its victim. The hapless drow female screamed one last time, back arching off the altar. Then, with horrifying swiftness, the change began. Wriggling legs sprouted from the drow's waist as her belly swelled in grotesque distortion. Her scream turned into a weird chittering that was part anguish and part mad glee. The priestesses stepped away, and for a moment Zak saw, in perfect silhouette, a new form standing on the altar where the dark elven female had lain before. The thing was shaped like a drow from the waist up-now neither male nor female-but its abdomen and legs were those of a huge, misshapen spider. Then the smoke swirled once more, and the ghastly sight was lost from view.
Twice more Zak listened to agonized screams and evil chanting as those who had dared to defy the Way of Lloth were punished for their crimes. Then the chamber fell silent. It was his turn now. He strained against his bonds, but the effort was futile. Tensing his body, he waited for the moment of his doom to come.
Before it could, a strange thing happened. A tiny form pulled itself up over the edge of the altar and walked in halting fashion across the stone slab. Zak stared, his fear replaced by puzzlement. What was this creature? It looked like a crude, clay figurine of an elf, no bigger than his hand. Only it was alive.
No, not alive, Zak realized then. Ensorcelled.
With jerky steps, the tiny clay golem approached Zak's right hand. It raised a stiff arm, and green firelight glinted off cold metal. A small knife had been fastened to the thing's hand. Zak's eyes widened as the golem slashed downward. The sharp knife struck the leather thong that bound his wrist, cutting it through save for a small thread of leather.
'We can rest when our work is finished, my sisters,' spoke a voice out of the hazy air. 'Come, let us see to the fate of our last offender.'
With clumsy but surprising speed, the clay golem scuttled into Zak's pocket. Black-robed forms appeared out of the swirling smoke. Cruel smiles cut across dark drow faces. Emerald light pierced the gloom as a fire was lit just behind Zak's head. The flames roared, and something rose from them. Zak arched his head back and caught a glimpse of half-melted flesh and spongy tentacles. Unholy dread turned his guts to water. As one, the priestesses began their chant. A slimy tentacle brushed across his brow. Zak grimaced, feeling the first tug of pain deep inside his body. Now was his only chance.
In a single motion, he jerked his right hand upward, snapping the weakened leather, and snatched a ceremonial dagger from the belt of one of the priestesses. He made a slashing arc with the spider-shaped dagger, taking out the throats of two wide-eyed priestesses, and finished the action by slicing his remaining bonds. Even before the bodies had slumped to the floor, Zak leapt to his feet, standing atop the altar, brandishing the dagger before him.
He found himself facing the yochlol.
The nether being hovered in the magical flames of the brazier, mere inches from his face. It shrieked in fiendish outrage, reaching for him with glistening tentacles, ready to tear him limb from limb. Zak did not hesitate. He lashed out a boot and kicked the brazier, knocking it over. Sparks flew. The yochlol shrieked again, then disappeared in a puff of smoke, banished back to the Abyss as the magical fires that had summoned it were snuffed out.
Zak spun around. The remaining priestesses had recovered their wits. They lifted their daggers and whips, surrounding him. One raised her arms, speaking the words of a spell. Zak kicked out, crushing her jaw before she could finish uttering the enchantment. She fell to the floor, moaning. Another priestess raised a wooden rod that glowed with fell magic, ready to strike him down. Zak lashed out with the dagger, and the rod fell to the ground, still gripped by the priestess's severed hand. She clutched the bloody stump of her wrist and staggered away.
Despite himself, Zak grinned. They had sought to work their justice upon him. Well this was his justice. Again he felt that clarity that came to him only when slaying things of evil. These were the ones who worked Lloth's wicked will, these priestesses of Arach-Tinilith. These were the ones who gave the Spider Queen her power. Maybe he was a killer. Maybe he was no better than they, than any drow. But if he was going to kill, at least let it be creatures of evil, like this.
His grin broadened as he plucked a second dagger from one of the corpses. The hilts hummed against his two hands. These were enchanted blades, wickedly sharp.
Terror blossomed in the eyes of the four remaining priestesses. To them he seemed a fiend, a fey thing, more terrible than a creature of the Abyss. They turned to flee, and two more died as Zak drove a dagger into each of their backs, piercing their hearts. He started to pursue the remaining two priestesses, but was brought up short by a quartet of male soldiers.
The first thrust out his sword. As he did, Zak performed a move he had invented himself long ago. He poised one dagger high, the other low, and both slightly offset. The torque vise, he called it. As the soldier lunged forward, Zak brought the daggers together, catching the other's arm between. Bone shattered with a sound like glass
