The Black Thief

Teb’aun hated school.  He hated his teacher, he hated his lessons, and mostly, he hated his peers.  Day after day in the drow fighting academy, Melee-Magthere, the young drow, already short for his age and no brilliant fighter, was forced to endure the smirks and relentless humiliation from his fellow cadets.  Of course, in the trainer’s watchful eyes, all harassment was good for drow warriors-to-be – it “sculpted their skin,” as the instructor was fond of saying.  And any sign of succumbing to the abuse – even the smallest tear of frustration – was a sign of weakness.

And in Menzoberranzan, the city of the drow, weakness was death.

Teb’aun hated every day of school.  Today was no different.  If anything, he had more reason to hate today’s lesson than usual.  It was sparring day – the biweekly exercise that pitted students against each other in the cave-like gym, which itself lay riddled with pillars and pitfalls.  The sparring gym was never a welcome sight to Teb’aun, who was convinced that he had born with, of all things to curse a drow, two left feet.

Oh well.  The lesson would end quickly enough.  He only needed to stay out of the way, and everyone else would eventually, in typical drow dignity, finish each other off with no regards to honor or loyalty.  

The key was not to be caught as a bystander.

Grunting resignedly as he stepped into the gym and pulling out his padded training swords (and silently cursing his parents for placing him here in Melee-Magthere), Teb’aun quickly sought a hiding spot behind a stone column where he usually waited, silently and unnoticed, for an opportunity among unguarded backs.

Almost as soon as he reached the pillar, an instinctive warning shouted in Teb’aun’s head; without really thinking about it, the short drow dove to the side and into a roll as a training mace swept low over where his head had been.

The mace’s owner grinned wickedly as he approached from around the pillar.  “Going somewhere?” he smirked.  Charging toward Teb’aun with his mace to the side, the drow rushed in, his eyes glowing scarlet with bloodlust and infravision.

Adrenaline pulsing through his veins, Teb’aun crouched low, crossing his swords in a sideways blocking cross.  He steeled himself, baring his teeth in what he desperately hoped was an intimidating gesture.

Suddenly, Teb’aun felt a small explosion in his side, and despite the thick training armor, he doubled up immediately, clutching his side in pain.  The charge had been a feint, he realized too late, a feint to expose his unprotected side.

A blue light illuminated Teb’aun’s chest, marking him for the entire gym to see, and he realized the hit had been caught by the trainer.  Sheathing his training blades angrily, Teb’aun limped over to the opposite wall, where he would have to wait until the end of the session.  Granted, he had not even wanted to be in the exercise at all, but nor did he appreciate the throbbing pain in his ribs.

As he walked away, Teb’aun heard his opponent call after him, “You would be better herding kobolds, if they weren’t so deadly with their teeth and claws!” Hoots and derisive snickers followed Teb’aun all the way to the wall.

Truly, Teb’aun hated school.  He hated his peers, he struggled through every lesson, and he loathed his own awkwardness with a blade of any sort.  Small wonder, then, he was so eager to aid in the conspiracy to destroy Melee-Magthere, and every living drow inside.
***
The slender drow wove through several tunnels without making a sound, his robes fluttering out behind him.  Though he was a wizard, he was no fool, and each of his senses was attuned to his surroundings.  His leather-gloved hand clutched a short wand, ready to fling fireballs at any trouble that came his way.  After the years of scrupulous planning and avoiding discovery, the wizard Ghaun’ree was in no mood to be caught, or eaten by a cave fisher or something equally revolting.  He was having too much fun to die.

At last, he reached the agreed rendezvous point, a peculiar pile of rocks that formed an elf’s head, albeit an eight-foot-tall one.  Using his innate powers of levitation, Ghaun’ree floated to the top of the stone pile, resting his feet comfortably on the elf’s nose, and leaned against the adjacent rock wall, waiting.

Ten minutes went by.  Ghaun’ree waited silently, not moving a muscle on his stony perch, the darkness only penetrated by the red glow of his heat-seeking eyes.

The drow heard footsteps.  By the echo and hesitant pace, the newcomer was trying to be stealthy; however, he (or she) wasn’t very good at it – Ghaun’ree made less noise just walking normally.

The passerby was a gray dwarf – a duergar.  He paused by a stalagmite, glancing around furtively.

“You’re late, Muckpuggle,” Ghaun’ree called down.

The duergar glared back up at the impudent elf.  “So what?” the dwarf blustered.  “I’m here, ain’t I?”

The drow wizard floated down next to him, glaring back down at Muckpuggle.  “Business ventures demand punctuality.”

Muckpuggle waved the reprimand away with a mailed hand.  “Whatever.  You got me jewel?”

Ghaun’ree raised an eyebrow.  “You got me brooch?” he retorted in the same tone.  Nevertheless, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a brilliantly cut sapphire, holding it in front of Muckpuggle, whose eyes now shone greedily.

The dwarf reached for the gem, but the drow pulled it away.  “Brooch first, gem second, gray one,” Ghaun’ree chided.

Muckpuggle watched the jewel longingly for another moment, then reached to a satchel on his own belt, grumbling under his breath, “Bah!  Stupid pointy-eared spider-kissing…”  Fumbling with the pouch, the duergar produced a marvelously crafted, eye-shaped mithril brooch.  He tossed it lightly to Ghaun’ree, who caught it with one-handed without breaking eye contact with the dwarf, and pocketed it in his cloak.

The gray dwarf scowled.  “Now, about me gem…”  He held out his stubby hand expectantly.  “As you said.”

Ghaun’ree raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing around his lips.  “Of course…your reward.”  He reached back into his cloak and took out a small, black, gem-encrusted box.  Presenting the box to the gray dwarf, he opened the lid.

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed.  The box looked empty.  He looked closer and saw small lights coming up out of the box.  

The rays of light shone out of the box, illuminating the tunnel a radiant pink. The beams twisted and elongated, forming into arms ending with huge, clawed hands.  The fingers bent around Muckpuggle, pulling him face first into the dimensional gate within the box.

Muckpuggle spluttered, “What treachery is…”  And then he was gone.

***
Ghaun’ree closed the box, a slight smirk on his face.  Simply banishing Muckpuggle to another dimension was certainly easier than paying the dwarf with such an expensive item.  “Oh, Valaste, you do make my life easier,” the drow whispered to the box as he replaced the powerful artifact.  Then, casting an enchantment of invisibility on himself, the dark elf wizard headed back for Menzoberranzan.

***
Watching the transaction – and Valaste – with more than just a passing interest, two young drow males stood behind the great elf-shaped rock, unseen and unheard, wearing broad grins on their faces.

There’s a pretty piece for our collection, eh? one drow signaled to his companion in the hand code of the black elves.

His twin brother nodded his approval.  Naturally, he signaled back.  Lolth herself couldn’t ask for a better weapon.  The first drow, Baltyrr, grinned widely, his amber eyes gleaming behind his curtain of ivory hair.

Durdrin, his brother, smiled quietly, then gestured to his brother, Come along – our invisibility web won’t last much longer.  And now we have a report to make.

Without another word, the two brothers slipped away, still invisible and as quiet as the Underdark itself.
***
Show yourself the beauty of chaos.

Show yourself the chaos of beauty.

Be as a spider, watching and aware.

Bhinylene opened here eyes, her devotional chants to Lolth still echoing in her mind.

Only the drow know the beauty of Lolth.

The drow priestess-to-be inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of the black ceremonial candles of Arach-Tinilith.  The pungent odor of the candle’s components, a mix of various Underdark mosses, fungi, and the blood of sacrificed drow males – would have made her gag seven months ago, as it had when she was just a cleric’s aide.  However, daily and prolonged exposure to the candles, coupled with ever-fervent prayers to Lolth, had toughened her nose as well as her heart.  Now she breathed in the candles’ scent without as much as a flinch, welcoming it as part of her soul.

To be weak is to invite death.

Bhinylene stood up from the worship altar and strode towards a side door leading out into an alley.  Two drow males were waiting for her at the threshold, leaning against the wall on either side.

One of them leered at Bhinylene.  “You’re late,” he remarked, his blue eyes sparkling.

Bhinylene practically bristled, snapping irritably, “You stupid male, females are never late for their appointments.  You would know that if you were as devoted to Lolth as you claim to be.”

Durdrin smirked.  “Lolth knows our hearts are our own.  You, on the other hand, do not.”

Bhinylene nearly leapt forward to slap the impudent male, but Baltyrr stepped between the two.  “Now, now,” Baltyrr chided his brother, “You shouldn’t provoke our lovely compatriot.”

Durdrin grinned.  “Whatever you say, brother.”  He bowed elegantly to Bhinylene.  “My apologies, my dear.”  He made as if to kiss her hand, but the priestess’ handmaiden slapped his hand away.  “You both disgust me,” she scowled.

Baltyrr piped up.  “We disgust everyone who doesn’t have a mind of his own.  But never mind that.  Valaste awaits.”

Bhinylene raised an eyebrow.  “Valaste?”

Durdrin smiled.  “Everything you need –”

“– to earn everything you want,” finished Baltyrr.

Bhinylene eyed them both suspiciously.  “And that would be...?”

“The favor of Lolth,” chorused the twins.

“I want Lolth to see the devotion of her priestesses...” began Bhinylene.

“– and what better way to do that than by removing the sight of lesser worshipers and their pitiful disciplines from Her glorious eyes?” Baltyrr replied, his amber eyes glinting.

“Personally,” cut in Durdrin, “I’m all for...disposing of Melee-Magthere.  Anyone can be a warrior, but it takes someone of special caliber to be a wizard.  Or a cleric,” he added, nodding deferentially to Bhinylene.

Bhinylene’s normally irritated expression melted.  “And when the House of Blades has fallen, so much more clearly can Lolth see the glory of her worship,” she concluded.  Her emerald eyes gleamed.  “I love it.  We only need the box.”

Both males nodded, grinning.  “We knew you’d see it our way,” said Baltyrr.

***
As terrible of a fighter Teb’aun was, he had one redeeming quality.

He was a brilliant hand at concocting poisons.

His self-styled apothecary of venomous insects, herbs, and fungi rested in a small niche in the rock wall of Menzoberranzan, on a ledge some thirty feet from the ground.  After lessons, Teb’aun would frequently retreat to this secret place and experiment with various ingredients and combinations, overseeing his work with the grim, jealous pride of a hunting cat over a fresh kill.  Today, Teb’aun was hunched over a simmering chalice of venom, checking it in nervous, barely-controlled excitement.  If he could finally brew this contact poison, he could finally acquire the fear and respect he always craved...

“...I’m all for disposing of Melee-Magthere,” a voice echoed, almost from nowhere.

Teb’aun’s ears perked.  Blowing out the candles that heated his latest experiment, he peered suspiciously over the edge.  Forty feet away (a distance that drow have no trouble eavesdropping from, especially underground), there stood three drow outside Arach-Tinilith, two males and one female, in an apparently earnest discussion.  The three seemed to agree on this: Melee-Magthere must go.

From his ledge, Teb’aun listened with his full attention.

***
“And where will we find this Valaste?” Bhinylene demanded.

“Ol’ Ghaun’ree has it,” replied Baltyrr offhandedly.  “And I know where,” added Durdrin.  The other two drow looked at him curiously; even Baltyrr didn’t know where Valaste could be found.  The blue-eyed drow continued, “I have an informant.  He tells me that many of Ghaun’ree’s magical trinkets are kept in a hidden room in his quarters.  How to reach this chamber, I don’t know.”

Bhinylene nodded.  “No matter.  If it’s there, it can be found.”  She glanced at each of the brothers.  “Find that box tonight.  I want it.”

Durdrin and Baltyrr nodded.  Bowing deeply (and somewhat sarcastically, Bhinylene thought), they whirled their cloaks and vanished behind a cloud of orange smoke without another word.

***
Even though he hadn’t been invited to join in the conspiracy, Teb’aun heard the final instruction as clearly as if Bhinylene had been addressing him directly.

The young drow turned back to his workshop.  The venom he had been mixing sat quietly in its chalice, now a perfectly clear solution.

This was the result that Teb’aun had been waiting for.  With a small copper spoon, he sprinkled a few drops on a dog-sized rat he kept caged for occasions like this.

Feeling the droplets of still-warm liquid, the rat gave a surprised squeak and scrabbled nervously around its cage for a few moments.

Then it slumped to the ground, fast asleep.

Teb’aun grinned.  Perfect.

***
The young poisoncrafter paid a visit to Sorcere later that evening, his piwafwi hiding him perfectly against the black outer walls of the ancient school of magic.

Teb’aun had been in the Academy of Magic several times previously on house errands, and knew the general layout of the multi-spired structure.  Taking a small flask off his belt, Teb’aun dashed its silvery contents against the wall stones.  Immediately, the stones dissolved wherever the potion had touched them; in seconds, the potion had burned a hole in the wall large enough for the short drow to walk in easily.

The room was empty.  Aside from a wooden table, its wooden legs carved to resemble a spider’s, the classroom was bare.

Teb’aun released a small sigh of relief.  Striding cautiously to the desk, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a battered-looking, leather-bound spellbook.  He placed it quietly on the desk, looking around carefully.

Teb’aun nearly fell backward in shock as the desk’s legs twitched.  He only stared as the table ambled out the door, carrying the book along on its back.  The young drow sincerely hoped that the table couldn’t also speak and so give away his presence.

Teb’aun calmed down a bit, reasonably certain that the headmaster wizard would find the book when he noticed his table had gone for a walk.  He turned and strode out through the hole in the wall the way he’d come.

The potion’s effects wearing off as he passed through the portal, the dissolved stones reshaped themselves and became a solid wall once more.

***
Ghaun’ree was a light sleeper.  He was also a perfectionist.  He maintained Sorcere – a structure he considered his – with a fastidiousness that no other drow in the city, short of a matron, could comprehend.  And so it was both of these qualities that brought him to go for a walk though Sorcere in the middle of the night.

Ghaun’ree liked inspecting the school.  It being an ancient and magical building, nearly as old as the city itself (a proud five millennia), there were many mysteries that the wizard enjoyed mulling over when he had time to spare.  Just last week, he had discovered a porcelain bust that, when touched, would animate, carrying on rambling monologues in High Elven.

Of course, he also just liked making sure everything was positioned just right, every book on its shelf and every bottle capped tightly.

As he was investigating the apothecary, the old wizard paused, an insistent ringing in his mind.  Ghaun’ree’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.  His security enchantments had been triggered.  There was someone trespassing on Sorcere.

The drow wizard charged down the tower, his robes flying out behind him, and a wand drawn in each hand.  The ringing became more urgent – the intruder was near.

There was a scuttling noise in one of the classrooms.  Ghaun’ree paused, then flung himself through the doorway, both wands raised and ready.

The scuttling stopped.  His spider-legged table paused its amble around the classroom, its sculpted eyes looking into the doorway where the elder wizard stood, his eyes darting around the room and his white hair disheveled.

Ghaun’ree nearly laughed out loud.  No intruder at all – just his table.  The drow heaved a great sigh of disappointment all the same; frying intruders of Sorcere was one of his few remaining luxuries these days.

The spider table wandered over to the drow, stopping at his feet like a faithful pet.  Ghaun’ree looked down.  Teb’aun’s spellbook was still resting on the table.

“What have we here?” the dark elf murmured, picking up the book.  He didn’t recognize the title, but Ghaun’ree knew that that didn’t mean anything.  Sorcere’s library of magical tomes rivaled that of the rest of the city put together.

Thinking that he might as well do some light reading as long as he was awake, Ghaun’ree sat at a nearby desk and began to read his newest find.

Halfway through the book, the drow paused.  He studied his fingers suspiciously.  There was a transparent, slightly sticky liquid on them.  He rubbed his hand clean on his robes.

And then he pitched forward face first on the table, fast asleep and snoring soundly.

***
Later that night, two shadows strode quietly up the pathway and into Sorcere, silent and invisible.

Let’s be quick about it, Baltyrr signaled to his brother.  Ghaun’ree won’t like such late visitors.  Remember what happened to the last prowler?

Durdrin allowed himself a faint smile.  Of course, he gestured back.  The professor uses the intruder’s entrails for our lessons in divination.

The two young drow slipped into the shadows of the entrance corridor, Baltyrr behind a bookcase and Durdrin behind a column.

A loud snore made both dark elves jump.  They looked around and saw Ghaun’ree in an adjacent classroom, slumbering soundly, and a line of drool glistening down the professor’s chin onto the spellbook beneath his head.

The two brothers stepped up to him cautiously.  Baltyrr waved a hand in front of the sleeping drow’s face.  No response.

Durdrin was examining Ghaun’ree.  The young drow saw the glistening poison on the book, and then on the professor’s fingertips.  “Contact poison?  It seems we have a friend,” Durdrin remarked.

Baltyrr grinned.  “Good.  It makes our job easier. C’mon.”  The two drow slipped back out of the classroom and headed for the stairs to the professor’s chamber.

Ghaun’ree’s chamber was almost completely bare.  Save for a bed, an ornate desk, and a small bookshelf, the room was far less ostentatious than the drow brothers would have expected for a wizard of Ghaun’ree’s status.  However, as they expected, Valaste was nowhere to be seen.

“C’mon,” Baltyrr muttered, running his hands over the bare stone walls.  “There’s a sliding door or something here, I can feel it.”

Durdrin was examining a small, ornately carved emerald gargoyle sitting on the desk; the gargoyle in turn studied the drow, an expression of polite curiosity etched across its features.  “Password?” it squeaked.

Both drow stared.  The gargoyle blinked twice.  “Password?” it repeated in its high-pitched voice.

Baltyrr watched the animation appraisingly, wondering briefly how much gold an emerald that size would be worth.  “A sentinel?” he wondered aloud.

Durdrin nodded cautiously, likewise not removing his gaze from the emerald figure.  “Open!” he commanded the gargoyle.  The statue did nothing.

Baltyrr smirked.  “Try something more obvious,” he said sarcastically.

Durdrin scowled at his impudent brother, then started flinging every word or phrase he could think of at the gargoyle, which reacted to none of them.

After nearly an hour of fruitless attempts, Durdrin flung up his hands in frustration and hissed at the gemstone figure, “Curse Lolth for your silence!”

Baltyrr stared in shock at the blatant blasphemy.  Even Durdrin seemed surprised at himself. However, the gargoyle statue blinked again, looking up at Durdrin.  However, this time it spoke in a harsh croak:  “Cursed be Lolth, indeed!”  It punctuated this final blasphemy with a huge, shuddering yawn – one that stretched its mouth impossibly wide, until there was enough room in its maw for both black elves to walk inside.  Looking beyond the gargoyle’s exquisitely carved fangs, they found that the statue itself was an extradimensional chamber, lined with countless staffs, amulets, grimoires, and gemstones.  The drow could feel the magical energy tingling around them, brushing past their skin like electricity.

Baltyrr gave a low whistle. The ebony, ruby-crowned box they were looking for looked humble indeed surrounded by so many magnificent artifacts, each resting on its own special shelf or pedestal.

Durdrin strode over to the short, rune-carved bone pedestal that Valaste sat upon, sprinkling some purple dust over the warding glyphs carved on it.  “Dispelling dust,” he explained as he slipped the magical box into his cloak.  “I had to get it from Little Miss Religious a tenday ago.”

Baltyrr grinned back, slipping an onyx ring from its shelf into his pocket.  “Of course.  That’s what we needed her for, right?”

Durdrin led his brother out of the chamber and out of Sorcere, the poisoned professor still slumbering inside.  “Of course,” he echoed, twirling his own newly acquired wand.  “Nothing else.  She was disposable from the first.”

Baltyrr laughed.  “I doubt you’d have it any other way.”

***
Bhinylene had been waiting for twenty minutes, fidgeting in anticipation, when Durdrin arrived in the market square that night, the vicinity unlit by anything other than Narbondel’s dim glow.

The young cleric greeted him with her customary scowl.  “You have it?” she demanded.

Durdrin smiled indulgently, thoroughly enjoying Bhinylene’s impatience.  He flourished his cloak and gave a short bow.  “Of course.”

“Where’s that idiot brother of yours?”

“Right behind you,” a voice whispered into Bhinylene’s ear, as a blade jerked into her spine.  Bhinylene opened her mouth to speak – a healing spell, or more likely a curse – but her mouth only filled with blood.

Baltyrr snapped his dagger out of Bhinylene’s back, letting the dead drow slump to the ground.  He looked over at his brother.  “She was disposable.  And a potential witness.”

Durdrin nodded his assent, agreeing wholeheartedly.  “Disposable, as I said.  I never liked her much anyway.”

After hiding the body beneath the cage of a muted svirfneblin child – to the youngster’s silent horror – Durdrin started off towards Melee-Magthere.  Seeing his brother still behind him, studying the corpse, Durdrin turned and grinned.  “Don’t you want to see the fall of the House of Blades?”

Baltyrr strode along in his brother’s wake.

***
Teb’aun hated school.  He hated everything about it, and he dreaded every day.

Except today.  Today, the young drow knew, would be different.  This morning, he was nearly trembling in anticipation of the event that he knew he’d helped to bring about.

He didn’t even hear the rustle behind his usual hiding spot where no one usually stood.  Nor had he noticed that his mead seemed to taste sweeter than usual at breakfast.  He and everyone else in Melee-Magthere continued their lessons, beatings, and exercises as usual.  

Ten minutes into the sparring, Teb’aun paused.  He only felt a marvelous lightheadedness.  The ground came rushing up to meet him, already having greeted several other students and the professor, who themselves lay sprawled about and snoring contentedly.

***
Baltyrr and Durdrin watched the scene unfold from a high ledge.  Using the power of levitation hereditary to drow, they floated down invisibly into the middle of the gym, surrounded by dozens of snoring students.

Baltyrr looked around at the room with a smirk.  “See, it’s this lack of discipline that we wizards so despise about you,” he chided, though his audience could not hear him.  “You’d think they would check their drinks for poison every morning,” he added, chuckling lightly.

Durdrin stood in the middle of Valaste.  He looked over to his brother.  “Be ready to run,” he said.  He opened the artifact’s lid, and joined Baltyrr in their dash out of Melee-Magthere.

***
Teb’aun hadn’t taken enough of the poison to put him completely to sleep, and he watched through half-drugged eyes as every one of his hated classmates was pulled into the black hole inside Valaste, all of them still slumbering deeply.  He watched in fascination as the walls of the gym were pulled from their foundations and into the vortex, and as the ceiling of Melee-Magthere itself collapsed and was drawn into the maelstrom.

At last, Teb’aun felt the pull of the wicked artifact as well.  He didn’t care.  In his tortured, poisoned mind, he felt only a huge sense of elation.  Justice was served.  He had had his revenge, and no one would ever forget that Teb’aun was the one who…the one who…

Then he only knew darkness.

***
Valaste was much more powerful than Baltyrr and Durdrin knew, for it was not content to simply devour the House of Blades.  That evening, Menzoberranzan itself disappeared into the swirling interplanar abyss behind the lid of Valaste.

Matron mothers were in a panic, watching their houses and the power they had struggled for centuries to accumulate fall to the bottomless hunger of Valaste.  Although the chapel of Lolth was crumbling around them, high priestesses prayed and sacrificed in vain to the Spider Queen, desperate for her to stop this cataclysm.  But if Lolth heard their prayers, she didn’t answer, leaving her city to be devoured by its own magic.

Two drow stood at the mouth of a nearby tunnel, watching the destruction.  One of them shook his head under his wide-brimmed hat.  “Such a waste,” Jarlaxle remarked.  He looked over to the second drow, who watched Menzoberranzan’s fall with an expression of purest amusement.  “You sure you won’t do anything to stop this?” the mercenary asked.

Kimmuriel Oblodra shook his head slowly, still smirking.  “Consider it a last laugh,” the drow psionisict explained.

Jarlaxle understood immediately.  During the Time of Troubles, when conventional magic went awry, House Oblodra sought to exploit its advantage of mental powers, including by eliminating the First House Baenre.  However, when the Time of Troubles turned back against psionics, House Oblodra was eliminated by Baenre with Lolth’s blessing, the rest of Menzoberranzan watching.  

Kimmuriel enjoyed the irony of his revenge.  The same city that watched his family fall would be the same one that he watched be destroyed.

Jarlaxle shrugged, looking out over the ruins of the city.  “A pity.  Menzoberranzan was so profitable.  Well, I suppose I can’t stop you.”  He turned to his psionic lieutenant with a smile on his face.  “There are other places where we might profit from, and other lands to find adventure in.  Come along, my friend.”  The two drow disappeared through an extradimensional portal, leaving the ruins of proud Menzoberranzan in their wake.