Forsaken by Shadows Chapter 14: Assassin

~14. Assassin~

Rismyn picked his way carefully over the bed of rubble that stretched before him. It was no easy feat, judging which stones were solid enough to bear his weight and which would punish him with shifting gravel and clouds of dust. Whenever such a cataclysm occurred under his feet, he froze, laying flat against the rock, waiting for the consequences to bite. 

Yet so far, the only other souls he saw since he entered the ruined house compound was the occasional glimpse of the two who had been following him since he left the Clawrift. Mercenaries, he assumed. There to make sure he didn’t run off without fulfilling his end of the bargain. 

He skipped over a piece of the cavern which jutted upwards and sprang onto one of four fallen stalactites, clinging to it like the giant lizards his people used as mounts. The massive stone columns bit into the cavern floor like the fangs of a great beast, as if the manor itself had condemned its family to a black tomb. Rismyn had no idea who once lived here. By drow custom, their names were blotted out of history forever. Kalos hadn’t deemed the information pertinent enough to share, and Rismyn hadn’t bothered to ask. It didn’t matter. 

Yet as he sidled around the stalactite he couldn’t help but recall a memory from his childhood. He’d only just turned ten when Mindra called him out to the balcony with the rest of his family. It was the second time he had seen his mother that he could remember, though she didn’t see him. None of his family noticed him, as they were all too entranced by the light show in the sky. 

Though Rismyn was forbidden to raise his eyes back then, Mindra didn’t strike him when his own natural curiosity made him look up. Streaks of blue light forked through the darkness. Lightning, he later learned. A phenomena which didn’t occur naturally in their city. Only magic could conjure it. The searing sight crackled and crashed and boomed, accompanied by strange color splashes and a quaking in the stones. The whole affair was all together blinding and fantastic, and Rismyn had been awestruck. He hadn’t known then what calamity the lightning brought. 

The show only lasted a few minutes, before all became quiet. Then Matron Xatel turned away with a scornful laugh. “Another House fallen,” she remarked. “I wonder who it is.” Then the gathering dispersed. 

Looking at the once mighty bones of this former stone manor, Rismyn could easily envision lightning crashing into it, sending the house careening down on the heads of the soldiers below. He could almost hear the screams of terror, feel the chaos it must have caused, as casualties from both sides of this hypothetical war stacked higher and higher. Worse, he could see the glee on the soldiers’ faces as they were given the chance to wreak havoc without restraint. He wondered idly if this was the very same House he had witnessed the destruction of so many years ago. But it was unlikely. Ruins such as this were not uncommon in Menzoberranzan. Such was the way of Lolth.

How many drow had died here? How many had discarded their former loyalties and turned their blades on their own House, just so they walk away alive? That was the freedom a commoner had--they could be orphaned and adopted by their captors. Those of the blood would have all surely perished in the skirmish, from the matron to her youngest child. The rules of war demanded it, for if any of the family remained alive to accuse their aggressors, their enemies would be ‘tried’ by the Council and punished to their own total destruction. Rismyn had been trained to know all the safe rooms to hide in when he was a child, should his own family be attacked. Not for the love of his life, but so he could live and exact vengeance if the house fell. 

What a waste, he thought to himself, with a strange sense of solemnity in his heart. In the face of such wanton destruction, his own emotional turmoil seemed small and insignificant. He jumped from the stalactite to a sturdy looking stone, landing lightly on his toes. The ruin sloped steadily downward, towards the largest of the fallen columns which he knew from Kalos was his goal. Below the gargantuan structure was a hole that would take him underground, and that, supposedly, was where his target was hiding. 

He didn’t wonder why the priestess had chosen this place to hide. He wasn’t here to think about it, he was here to execute. He could have easily skipped all this painstaking rock-hopping by levitating over the rubble, but he had already used the spell once today, and he wanted to preserve his innate magic to bring him back to Mazira. 

Those were the only thoughts as he moved on; kill the priestess, get back to Mazira. All of his other, more depressing concerns, had been boxed for now. There was no time to contemplate how she would react when she awoke and saw him, or what it meant that he was one of many dark elves fleeing Menzoberranzan. Part of him had been relieved to learn he wasn’t deranged or damaged, that there were others who shared his sentiments. The rest of him just held on to Pearl’s other wisdom; very few deviants ever found happiness. 

But he couldn’t think of those things now. He was on a mission, and therefore, his only thoughts were for the mission. He’d gotten very good at suppressing wandering thoughts when there was work to be done. Serious contemplations were for the fleeting moments before rest, if ever at all.

A few more minutes of calculated scrambling, and Rismyn was there, beneath the looming blackness of the main stalactite which now punctured the floor below. He moved carefully, for any disturbance here would be sure to alert his target. 

At first he thought he had been misguided, for the giant stone fang had bitten snugly down into the cavern floor. There was nothing but rock against rock. But after a more careful investigation, he found what he had been looking for. 

It was the sound that guided him, a faint trickling of water, which was emanating from a narrow hole in the ground right against the side of the fallen rock. The opening was barely wide enough for Rismyn to fit through. He took one more careful look around his immediate surroundings, and then peeked his head over the ledge. 

It looked to be about a fifteen foot drop, straight into a pool of water. From this angle and without any natural light, he couldn’t judge how deep the water was. It would be safest to levitate down, but he dared not risk using up his magic. 

Rismyn pulled his head from the hole and glanced around him again. He caught a fleeting gleam of ruby pinpricks a little ways off, the glow of infrared eyes watching him before they ducked away. His watch dogs were still heeling him. Smiling ruefully, Rismyn sat with his legs dangling into the hole, then used his hands to sign, ‘Are you coming?’ with only a slight sarcastic twist to his motion. Then he lowered himself the rest of the way, until he hung by the tips of his fingers, suspended in space. 

Then, he dropped.

The splash could have been worse, but fortunately the water was shallow, only rising to the middle of his calves. It soaked right through his soft boots and fine mesh armor, chilling his blood and pebbling his skin. He landed in a carved stone passage, which was probably a hallway once. The water, he surmised, was from a broken cistern that used to supply the family with their drink. 

It was the stench that was unbearable, a combination of mold, moisture, and rot. Rismyn cringed and covered his face with his arm. It smelled like something had died down here, which, he realized, it had. Several somethings, actually. Several someones. As his infravision scanned the many cool-toned hues, he was able to discern the slight difference between water, stones, and bones. 

So many bones. 

He wasted no time moving on, as drow skeletons leered at him from between cracks in the rocks and stared up from under the water. What was left of their armor and weapons must have been looted long ago, for good adamantine work wouldn’t have corroded away. Rismyn avoided looking at them as he moved along, for though he knew there was nothing but mineral left behind, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. And not by his mercenary companions. 

The way behind him was blocked by fallen rock, so he moved forward, taking care to make as little noise as possible in the freezing current. He drew his sword and held it at the ready before him, his eyes watering as the scent threatened to overwhelm him. He was tempted to cut a strip of fabric from his piwafwi for a mask, but as he didn’t own it, he didn’t dare. So he breathed carefully, and after a few moments, grew used to the decay. 

The bones continued down the hall. Sometimes just a hand or foot, sometimes a whole skeleton. He tried not to notice the variation in size of the remains, implying that children had been in these halls when the world collapsed above them. They could have been goblin bones, he told himself. Or other smaller creatures. He wasn’t about to stop to examine them to find out. It wasn’t his purpose, and he didn’t want to know. 

He went on in relative silence for several long minutes. The passage stretched straight ahead, meeting no other hall or door, for which he was grateful. Kalos hadn’t instructed him on where to go once he made it underground, only that he would find the priestess here. After so long of nothing changing, it was an effort to remain on high alert. The feeling of wrongness about this mission kept lurking in the back of his mind, nagging at him to stop and contemplate it. 

At length, the corridor began to turn slightly. Rismyn followed it around, drawing nearer to the inner curve so that nothing would get the chance to see him before he saw it. But of course, there was nothing to see, until the hall straightened out again. 

Rismyn halted. There was a solid wall ahead of him. But rather than the dull blue of stone, this wall glowed a lukewarm purple. Something was heating it. He slowed and raised his blade again, inching closer and glancing every which way. He still saw nothing but bones and water, but that couldn’t be all. There had to be some sort of trap or alarm. Yet he approached the stone unhindered, and he was able to discern more features of the wall. It was not a wall at all, he realized, but a massive pair of double doors, with the likeness of a spider carved into it. 

He’d come to the ruined chapel of Lolth. 

Well, if there was anywhere for a priestess to be hiding, this seemed a likely place. A sense of unease crept over him and his pulse quickened. He didn’t think further than the doors. What lay beyond them would sort itself out. For now, he just had to get through them as quickly and silently as possible. The sooner he got the job done, the sooner he could be out of this wretched tomb.

When he was about a dozen feet from the door, a soft breeze wafted over him, tugging at the freshly-loosened locks of his hair. Rismyn froze, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. Was it his imagination, or had he heard a soft hiss in that breeze? He glanced around, looking for the source of the wind, but saw no holes or cracks to allow a draft to pass through. His flesh tingled as adrenaline sharpened his senses, but still nothing moved, nothing shifted. 

There was nothing to do but go on. 

Rismyn took two more steps, and then the water around him began to bubble and froth. He staggered backwards, unconcerned about the noise, as a sickly green light shone from the roiling water. Then, from its shallow depths, came a creaking and cracking sound, as the bones that littered the passageway began to wriggle and move, conglomerating together piece by piece to form a hideous, skeletous, thing. 

The monster resembled nothing Rismyn had ever seen, and by the time it finished forming it stood twice as tall as him and three times as wide. It was an amalgamation of different bodies, different drow, vaguely humanoid while at the same time hunched and giving an animal-like impression. It turned its multiple eyeless sockets to Rismyn, and its mouth--formed of too many teeth--began to clack together. Had it lungs to hold air, Rismyn imagined it would be laughing at him. 

He drew his dirk as the thing came at him, lumbering with surprising swiftness and swinging oversized, claw like hands. Rismyn ducked under its attack and shot forward, slashing his adamantine blades across its expanded rib cage, shredding through the bone easily. 

The creature didn’t even flinch as its broken ribs splashed into the water below. It merely brought its outstretched arms in, crushing Rismyn against its jagged abdomen. Rismyn grunted, more from annoyance than pain, for his armor protected him from the sharped points he had just sheered. 

Fortunately, the thing was hollow, and apparently stupid, for he merely had to work his arm in between the gap where it’s stomach ought to have been and slash at its spine. He didn’t quite have the momentum he needed to sever the bones, but the impact made the thing rattle and it dropped him. 

Rismyn was up again in a heartbeat, leaping onto the monster’s thighbones, then to its forearm, and finally to its shoulder, where he kept his footing by wedging his feet under the shoulder blade.

Then he went to work, slashing and stabbing at the many-plated skull until it crumbled into dust beneath his fury. By the time he reached the first vertebrae of its spine, the whole enigma gave a violent shudder. Rismyn had just enough time to leap away, rolling in the water and popping back up on his feet, before the whole monstrosity fell apart with a tremendous clatter and splash. 

So much for his silent entrance. 

He stood there for a moment, breathing deeply and shaking the water from his hair. He was shivering now, drenched completely in liquid that had been feeding on corpses. He gagged at the thought, but stuffed the realization away in the box with his other unpleasant contemplations. 

He could be sick later. He had to catch the priestess now, before she escaped. 

Rismyn spun and kicked the door to the chapel open. 

In hindsight, he probably could have salvaged his stealth mission, for the priestess didn’t seem to have had any idea of what had transpired outside her door. She was kneeling with her back to him, before a large column of fire. The room was thick with sweet smelling smoke, her attention entirely rapt on the incantation she had been uttering before Rismyn’s sudden entrance interrupted her.  

The unexpected brightness of natural light seared Rismyn’s vision, but he started for her anyways, his eyes adjusting spectrums as he went. Her cry of fright guided him the few steps he needed before he could see again. She jumped to her feet, kicking over a bronze basin of ashes and something else. Rismyn didn’t care what the something else was, he only cared for the target before him. 

“No!” the woman shrieked, rage twisting her beautiful face into a hideous mask. “Lolth--!”

But that was as far as Rismyn allowed her to go. With deft hands he dropped his dirk and pulled a throwing knife from his belt. He never broke stride as he hurled it, and his aim was true. She dropped to her knees as the thin, poisoned blade sunk into her heart. In another moment, Rismyn was upon her. A quick flash of his blade tumbled her head from her shoulders. 

Her body fell backwards, blood gushing from her severed neck, mixing with the ash she had kicked over. But Rismyn wasn’t watching the body or the blood. He was watching the head as it bounced and rolled to his feet. Her red eyes stared up at him without seeing, but accusing all the same, her mouth agape in a silent scream. As Rismyn stared down into the eyes of his victim, he finally understood what had been so wrong with this mission. 

He didn’t know her. He didn’t know why she deserved to die. 

She might have been wicked and evil. Or she might simply have been a deviant, like him. What made one qualify for Bregan D’Aerthe’s hit list? Why had this priestess been selected to die, whereas he had been given a chance to walk away, despite the sum total of his brother’s hate? 

He now understood why he hadn’t asked these questions earlier. It was because he didn’t want to think about it. The priestess was merely an obstacle in the way of his freedom. He counted her life as valuable as survival gear and a map, and he would have taken it for less. 

But as he stared down into her lifeless eyes, dread twisted in his gut like a writhing snake. Why had she come to this lolthforsaken ruin? What had it meant to her? Suddenly, Rismyn discovered that he very much cared to know. Kalos had been wrong when he said it wasn’t relevant. It was very, very relevant. 

He staggered back, wretching and reeling, but he couldn’t fathom why. This wasn’t the first person he had killed. He had killed Gylas almost instinctively, and his only regret was not doing it sooner. But he knew Gylas. He knew what sort of wicked, spineless cretin he was. Gylas had nearly murdered Mazira just to spite Rismyn. Gylas had needed killing. 

Or was that true? What if Gylas had been like him, trying his best to live in a world that considered him worthless. Who was he, Rismyn, to judge who did or did not deserve to die? He had long ago decided that the deep-thoughts were for other drow to worry about. He was made to take orders and obey, and he was good at that. But now he realized that wasn’t good enough. His ignorance did not absolve him of the blood of the slain. 

How much more did he look like Toloruel, splattered in the priestess’ blood? 

“Mercy,” he whispered, turning back to the wretched woman. “What have I done?” 

But he had done what he had always done--trusted and obeyed. 

---

There was a grappling hook and rope in the chapel with the slain priestess, among other rudimentary supplies. It was clear she had been living there. Rismyn took the rope and then gathered up the fallen head in an oilskin sack he had brought for the purpose. By now, everything he did was automatic, as he left the chapel and the bones behind and waded back to the hole in the ceiling. It only took him one try to toss the grappling hook up and secure it. He imagined the priestess had probably done this numerous times, conserving her magic just as he conserved his. 

He made quick work of scrambling up the rope and pulled himself through the hole to the cavern above. It didn’t feel like escaping a tomb. Rather, he just entered into another chamber of a larger mausoleum. With that morbid thought on his heart, he straightened and turned, and found himself face to face with a pair of mercenaries. 

At least, he assumed they were his mercenary watchdogs. They had a certain look about them, a hardness tempered by wry humor, as if everything was some sort of joke that only they saw the irony of. It occurred to Rismyn that he ought to be wary, but he didn’t have the capacity for it at the moment. Instead, he just stood there, dripping wet and dead inside while he waited for his stalkers to address him. 

He didn’t have to wait long. 

“Well done,” said one, a slight-stature male dressed in flowing clothes. He was holding something glowing in his hand, and it took Rismyn a second to realize it was some type of magic. A second after that he realized he could see a miniature image of himself in the silver sphere. The wizard pinched his fingers together and the little light went out. “We were quite impressed.” 

“Thought for sure that bone flayer would scare the life outta ya,” said the other, who wore more blades than Rismyn cared to try and count. He had a rough voice and a face covered in scars. “But ya didn’t even flinch.” 

Rismyn only nodded, unable to process the praise he was being offered. He had no box for praise, for he seldom received it even when he was proud of what he had accomplished. To hear it now, when he was so disparaged, was too much for him to handle. So, instead he started to walk away. There was no time to bandy about. His job was done, and Mazira needed him. 

“Hold on,” the wizard said, reaching out and clapping Rismyn on the shoulder. “We know a shortcut.” 

As the mage’s hand touched down on his shoulder, Rismyn felt a sudden warmth spread through his body. He shuddered involuntarily, but there was no pain. In fact, within seconds he was completely dry, and he had a distinctly clean feeling that his mind couldn’t rectify with his memory of the putrid chamber below. 

“Like that?” the wizard asked with a wink. “Simple magic, I bet even you could learn it. Come, we’re not supposed to interfere but damn if we don’t feel like walking all the way back to base on foot. This way.”

Before Rismyn could protest, the wizard began chanting, waving his hands and weaving light together. It should have been interesting to Rismyn, for he wasn’t often so close to a mage practicing their craft, but nothing stirred his affections. He just wanted to go home, except that he had no concept of what a home actually was. He just knew it was supposed to be a warm and happy place, according to Mazira, a place where one ought to want to go to be comforted. 

When the wizard finished, a tall, white oval of light twinkled before them. “There we are,” he said. “In you go.” He gestured for Rismyn to step through the light. 

“Where does it go?” Rismyn asked, finally wary. It had just occurred to him that this could quite easily be a trap. He could be getting his wish in the worst way--these mercenaries could be taking him to House Tear. 

“Back to base,” the wizard said, impatiently. “Go on, I have to go last or it’ll fall apart.” 

“Hurry it up, kid,” the fighter said, and he stepped through himself. 

Rismyn hesitated, looking from the wizard to the portal, before deciding to trust them. If they had wanted to turn Rismyn over to his family, they would have done it before Rismyn risked himself getting killed on the mission. It wasn’t as if Bregan D’Aerthe needed him to do this job. 

With a nod of thanks, Rismyn stepped through the light. 

He was instantly in a room he didn’t recognize. It had been worked with tools into its square shape and was furnished with some chairs and a table. Different colored tapestries hung from the walls, with no discernible patterns or images. The only thing he could say for certain was that no room like this existed in House Tear, so he was probably right where the wizard had said they would be. The fighter stood off to the side, waiting.  

The wizard appeared behind him and the light winked out. “There we are, then,” he said again. “Wait here, until the boss sends for you.” 

Then he and the warrior left the room, and Rismyn waited. 

It was awful work. With nothing to distract him, the box of Rismyn’s horrors threatened to burst loose in his mind. He tried to pace the room, but that only seemed to add to his anxiety, so he plopped down in one of the chairs, bouncing his knee on his toe. He stripped the weapons from his belt and laid them on the table, along with the priestess’ head, a misshapen lump in the sack he didn’t want to look at. 

After about a quarter of an hour, the door suddenly burst open, and Pearl walked in, swaddled in her heavy cloak. She looked him over without a word, her lips turned down in a frown. 

Rage sparked in his soul. What right had she to look at him that way, as if he disappointed her expectations? He’d done the job and even came out unscathed, what more did Bregan D’Aerthe want? But just before he opened his mouth to say so, she swept to the table and snatched up the sack. Then, she left the room, and he was alone again. 

By the time the next quarter of an hour passed, Rismyn was in a foul mood. His previous adrenaline rush left him drained and tired, and his heart was aching with the strain of holding back his shame. To add to that, he had been away from Mazira for several hours now. He was anxious to return to her. 

He was sick of waiting. Rismyn got to his feet, re-armed himself, and marched to the door. Just as he was about to grasp the handle, he noticed the knob turning. He jumped back just in time to avoid an embarrassing collision. 

Pearl looked slightly surprised to see him standing at the door, which she covered with a smirk. “Going somewhere?” 

“How long are you going to leave me here?” he snapped, feeling no charity for her at the moment. 

“Well, as tempting as it is to say all night, it’s your lucky break. Kalos wants you.” She turned and glanced over her shoulder. “Follow me.” 

Rismyn gritted his teeth, and the childish side of him wanted to rebel just for the sake of rebelling. But speaking to Kalos was what he wanted, so he followed her. Once in the hall, he realized he had been in this passage before. Going right would take him to the armory, whereas going left would eventually lead him to Kalos’ office.

Though he thought he knew where to go, he did as he was told and let Pearl lead the way. Fortunately, she seemed just as inclined to talk as he was, which was to say, not at all. They walked on in total silence, passing very few others. Finally, they stopped in front of the gray-filmed doorway that Rismyn knew to be Kalos’ office. 

“Come in, Rismyn,” said the mercenary beyond the door. His voice was as close as if he stood just on the other side of the film, but Rismyn could see his silhouette at the desk. 

Pearl gestured for him to go ahead, and Rismyn went. He didn’t care for the strange, searching feeling the enchanted door gave him, as if many hands patted him all over, or held him back from his destination. But the sensation was brief, and after a second or two, he was striding across the office floor towards the desk. Pearl came in at his heels, though she hung back in the shadows of the dimly lit room. 

Kalos looked up from some papers and though he didn’t quite smile, he seemed amused nonetheless. “My men say you did good work,” he remarked. 

“You didn’t warn me that she was a necromancer,” Rismyn spat, which was quite possibly a stupid thing to say. Kalos held his freedom in his hands, which should have tempered his manners, but Rismyn didn’t care. He was already sick of this place and its people. 

The sellsword raised an eyebrow and leaned back, clearly unimpressed with the response. “No? Must have slipped my mind.” 

“Who was she?” Rismyn demanded. “Who did you have me kill?” 

Kalos regarded him for a moment, with that irritating uncaring attitude. “Why does it matter to you?” 

“Because I want to know.” 

“Did she say something to you?”

“I just want to know,” he seethed. 

Again, Kalos watched him, probably calculating a dozen different schemes that Rismyn could barely fathom. He hated drow like this. 

Toloruel was like this. 

But Kalos didn’t seem to care about what Rismyn did or didn’t like. He drummed his fingers on the carved wooden arm of his chair, before finally choosing to speak. “Visra Kilviir,” he said. “First daughter of House Kilviir. Have you heard of them?” 

Rismyn blinked, somewhat surprised to have received an answer. “No.” 

“How about House Olesz?” 

That one, Rismyn had heard of. He nodded. 

“That’s because, as you have witnessed, House Kilviir was destroyed, some thirty years ago now. House Olesz marched upon their gates and called the manor down upon itself.” Kalos never took his eyes from Rismyn as he spoke, his gaze steady and challenging. “Visra was an exceptionally talented priestess, who was said to have high favor with Lolth. So the matron of House Olesz at the time spared her life and adopted her.” 

The words made little sense to Rismyn, for it contradicted what he knew to be true of drow warfare. “But weren’t they worried she would accuse them before the Council?” 

“Of course not,” Kalos said. “The moment Visra accepted the offer, she was no longer a part of House Kilviir. She had no right to accuse anyone. It’s not an uncommon practice for houses to steal children of exceptional skill and make them their own. Did you not know this?” 

Rismyn didn’t want to admit he didn’t, so he just stared. 

“Well, don’t feel bad if you didn’t,” Kalos shrugged. “It’s not often talked about. Matrons don’t want their children tempted to betray them for a higher position in another House.” 

Rismyn was disgusted. How had he lived so long in this society thinking everything was okay? How had the drow been duped into believing this way of life was best? He shook his head, thoroughly ready to cut ties with this underworld of treachery. “Why did she have to die?” he asked.

“Visra? For the crime of murder.” 

“What?” he asked, unable to believe it. The drow murdered as easily as they breathed. 

“She slew her Matron Mother and three of her sisters, not to mention a dozen or so commoners over the last tenday,” Kalos continued. “Carved out their hearts and then fled to the ruins of old House Kilviir. From there we discerned she was attempting to regain the favor of Lolth in order to resurrect House Kilviir. Perhaps quite literally, if her interest in necromancy was any indicator.” 

Which, of course, was probably the greater crime. Not the necromancy, of course, but the audacity to try and bring back a long-dead House. 

Rismyn’s conscience was far from assuaged. Although some part of him was glad to hear he had stopped a murderer, he couldn’t quite swallow the feeling of regret. He hadn’t even let her speak, or asked her what her side of the story was. “Whose paying the bounty?” 

“House Olesz, of course.” 

It was as he thought. He had been a pawn in a game of houses, serving Lolth’s lust for carnage and discord even as he tried to flee her web. He’d heard enough. “Well,” he said stiffly, “I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain.” 

“Indeed you have,” Kalos said, sitting up straighter. “Quite admirably as well, by all accounts. Pearl? Give the boy his payment.” 

The woman stepped forward from the shadows, carrying two heavy rucksacks by the straps. She dropped them at Rismyn’s feet then went to lean against the side of Kalos’ desk. 

Two, though he had only asked for one. A subtle reminder they knew all about Mazira. 

“I think you’ll find we’ve provided you with more useful items than a standard patrol pack would contain,” Kalos said. “Consider it a sign of our abundant generosity.” 

Rismyn knew he ought to be grateful, or at the very least relieved, but he was wary and still in a bad temper. He hoisted one of the bags up and took a quick glance inside. “What about the healing potions?” he asked, when he didn’t see them immediately present. “And the map.” 

“Ah, those would require a bit more work.” 

Rismyn looked up from the pack, taken aback. “You said I performed admirably.” 

“And you did.” 

“So my ‘admirable work,’ wasn’t enough to warrant some common potions and a way out of this hellhole?” He dropped the pack and glowered at the mercenary. “I took that woman’s life for this.”

Kalos was no longer looking amused. “And you’ve done Menzoberranzan a great service.” 

“That’s my concern,” Rismyn snapped, and he instantly regretted it. He could never forget that Kalos controlled his fate. 

But surprisingly, Kalos only smiled. “If you would like to earn more of our charity, we’d be more than happy to give you a room to stay.”

The words took Rismyn so off guard, he forgot to be angry for a moment. “What?” 

“There’s always work to be done,” the mercenary said, “and we’re always in need of capable hands to do it. Contrary to your belief, Bregan D’Aerthe doesn't serve Menzoberranzan. We serve each other, and ultimately ourselves. No one is freer in this city than Bregan D’Aerthe.”

Rismyn stared as the words soaked in. He couldn’t believe it. They were offering him a job. No, more than a job. A lifestyle. A place. A home. Somewhere to belong. 

And yet the idea was as revolting to him as the watery tomb of House Kilviir. 

“No.” 

“It’s easy to fake a death,” Kalos went on, as if he hadn’t heard Rismyn speak. “So far as House Tear will be concerned, you’ll be dead. We’ll even split the bounty with you.”

“No.”

“As for the girl,” he said, meeting Rismyn’s gaze with his strange sapphire stare. “She’d be more than welcomed here. You’ll find our members are less opinionated than other drow, and we have ways to help her blend in. She’ll be as much a part of our family as anyone else.” 

“I said no!” Rismyn snarled, his hands clecning into fists. A small voice in the back of his head warned him that he trod on dangerous grounds, but he silenced it. Mazira belonged on the surface. To even suggest she could be at home among drow seemed like a vicious insult and attack on her character. Anger burned common sense right out of him.“You want me to trade House Tear for your band of thieves and murderers? No, thank you. I am taking Mazira and we are leaving!” 

He felt quite emboldened by his declaration, even more so by the way Kalos and Pearl exchanged surprised looks. His feeling only lasted until Kalos spoke. 

“Mazira?” he said, drumming his fingers again. “A pretty name, for a pretty girl. Did you give it to her?” 

Rismyn could only stare, his mouth agape. He was a fool. Every word he spoke just gave Kalos more power over him, more information to sell back to his family of leeches. He needed to get out of here while he still could. 

If he ever could. 

“I...apologize for raising my voice,” he said, lowering his eyes, though he trembled with rage. “I am grateful for the payment I received. I’d...like to take my leave now.” 

“Just a moment,” Kalos said. That look of amusement had come back, a look that said he knew he was winning. “You haven’t heard the rest of my offer.” 

Rismyn waited, feeling more and more uneasy. 

“I’m aware you might be interested in a bit of a change in scenery,” Kalos said. “And I am willing to arrange it. Our reach extends quite far, as far as the surface, even.” 

This caught Rismyn’s attention, and his anger abated at once. He hesitated, believing it too good to be true. “You...you would arrange for us to get to the surface?” 

“I will escort you there myself,” Kalos said. 

Pearl cleared her throat and shot him a meaningful look.

Kalos grimaced. “Once I’ve arranged proper leadership to take my place here, of course. A few tendays at most.” He gave the woman a wry look. “Pardon my lady, I keep her around for her looks but she seems to think it's her job to keep me honest.” 

“Just saving you the headache later,” she said with a shrug.

“I’m truly grateful,” Kalos said, his words dripping with sarcasm. But there was something unusual in the way he looked at her when he glanced her way. Something that Rismyn had never seen before. He couldn’t identify it for sure, but it seemed, well, warm. Affectionate. It was a look that vanished when Kalos turned his eyes back to Rismyn. “What do you say?” 

“I…” Rismyn began, before trailing off. It was a lot to absorb. Kalos had just offered him everything he wanted. He would not only be able to take Mazira to the surface, but he could do it without even having to struggle. He would have capable warriors to guide him, and all the resources he needed to survive. He wouldn’t bear the burden alone. He wouldn’t have to think, or plan, or strategize. He could trust in the expertise of this much more worldly and experienced drow. 

All for the low, low price of his soul. 

They were mercenaries, after all. Whatever they gave, they expected to receive back tenfold. He thought of the priestess’ head, staring up at him with glazed eyes. A sight he never wanted to see again.

“No,” he said at last. “No, thank you. You’ve been incredibly gracious in ways I don’t deserve. But I’m not going to the surface.” It was a weak lie, compared to his earlier interest, but he hoped it would do. “I would like to take my earnings and go. By your leave, of course.” He bowed low, hoping he hadn’t just signed a death sentence for himself. There was still the price of fire opals hanging over his head. 

Rismyn couldn’t see Kalos’ expression, or Pearl’s. He had no way of knowing what they thought of his words or actions, and he didn’t dare look up to find out. All he could do was wait, until he heard Kalos let out a deep breath. 

“I see, “ the mercenary said. “I won’t pretend I am not disappointed. But I gave you my word. Pearl, see the boy out.” 

“I can see myself out,” Rismyn said quickly. He didn’t want anyone knowing which way he went. He started to unclasp the sword from his belt. 

“Keep the weapons,” Kalos said. “And the armor. As part of your payment.” 

“Thank you,” Rismyn said, and this time he truly meant it. A good sword could make all the difference in the Underdark. He knelt to gather up the packs. 

“Oh,” Kalos said, as though he suddenly remembered something. “You’ll find a time-keeper in one of those packs. I suggest you pay close attention to it, for in two days I will be selling your current hiding place to your Matron Mother. You may want to find some new shelter before then.”

Rismyn’s grip tightened on the bags as he straightened. But he couldn’t resent Kalos for it. He would have done the same in the sellsword’s position. The elf didn’t have to warn him, but he did. “I understand,” he said grimly. “That’s business, right?” 

Kalos merely watched him. Pearl was watching Kalos, and strangely her eyes were blazing as she glared at him. Rismyn found himself wondering what their story was, how they had come to be here and why Pearl allowed herself to submit to a male’s authority, but he set the idle curiosity aside. It didn’t matter, for he was determined to never see them, or any drow, again. 

He was halfway to the door when Kalos suddenly called out to him. “One more thing,” he said, and Rismyn heard the sound of a drawer opening. 

He turned back just in time to catch something that Kalos had tossed to him. It was a pair of dark-glassed spectacles, with small round lenses and spindly arms. He looked up, bewildered. 

“You’ll want those, if you ever wander up to the surface,” the mercenary said. “The sun is cruel to our kind, crueler than our dark mothers and snake-headed sisters. Be careful.” 

Rismyn nodded, though he didn’t entirely understand the meaning of the words. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all. Instead he pocketed the spectacles, bowed low and respectfully again, then hurried out the door.

Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.