Matron Baenre slowly nodded in silence, finally realizing what the mercenary came here for; the last elderboy, the male that once was even a master of Melee-Magthere, the drow whom Jarlaxle was more than happy to add to his rogue band after the fall of House Do’Urden. Not that the ex-noble liked the new arrangement, she inwardly grinned reminiscing, but as any drow he compromised everything to live. A true survivor.

The old female heavily sighed; how could it be that such a resilient drow warrior and that cursed, abominable brother of his were raised by the same house, under the same matron? She shook her deceptively delicate head, moving stark-white tresses from face and clearing thoughts – she still had the mercenary to deal with and the male was growing visibly impatient. She’ll have to contemplate and ponder about Lloth’s mysterious ways some other time.

“Agreed.” – she spat out dryly, only confirming what she had already gestured. Although the dead warrior was indeed valuable, she still thought the deal she struck was a real bargain.

Jarlaxle smiled and slightly bowed, never taking vigilant gaze off her. Here one simply couldn’t be too careful, ever. However, the next second mercenary’s smile disappeared as one long, hairy leg showed behind Matron Beaenre’s neck, feeling its way down her delicate collarbone. Another leg emerged. And another. A big black spider slowly crawled out from its warm nest between matron’s neck and her falling hair, moving down to sit on withered skin of her chest as an extremely realistic looking amulet.

Jarlaxle swallowed hard, trying not to show any of the dread that grew in the bottom of his stomach. The matron’s pet was anything but a plain eight- legged creature like those that crawled in countless numbers all over Menzoberranzan. Legs of this one were eerily uneven in size and shape; some were long and hooked, some mere stumps, some as thick as fingers, some so thin and bare they disturbingly resembled probes. Though the creature limped, it seemed far from a helpless cripple. The male licked his lips nervously. He had no idea what the ancient matron had decided to do, but this creature certainly didn’t resemble the dead drow he was asking for. It didn’t even resemble a spider, he thought half-panicky with a mask of well- hidden disgust. The creature, now comfortably lying on the female’s chest, turned to Jarlaxle and, once it got the mercenary in its focus, froze perfectly still. He could see many of its eyes, big and small, fixed on him with malevolent shine.

Matron Baenre seemed completely oblivious of the monster cozily nesting below her chin. She was concentrating with a renewed frown on the withered face. Her thin lips moved soundlessly but quickly and without a trace of hesitation. Jarlaxle wondered how long has it been since she last performed something like this, if ever. Still, she recited secret words of the spell like it was a mere everyday routine, confident like the damned Yochlol herself. Once again, even in spite of all his hatred, he had to admire this old priestess – she truly deserved to be the supreme ruler of this merciless city.

After a minute or two of silent litany, the matron let her wrinkled eyelids fall, frowning harder. Inwardly, the mercenary sighed with relief – a guard! Of course, the deformed creature was a guardian, probably one of Lloth’s practical gifts to Matron Baenre for her loyal servitude. How convenient. Someone, or someTHING, to serve as her eyes while she summoned the undead soul. This old one certainly took no chances. Now that he knew the monster’s real purpose, Jarlaxle casually started examining its limbs and disfigured body. Who knew what it was capable of? Or how much would it be worth in gold? He dismissed the ticklish calculations soon though; the darn thing most probably answered to this old witch’s commands, and her commands only. A real shame – he concluded to himself and concentrated on the female who suddenly started pronouncing sharp sounds, falling deeper and deeper into trance. It took him a moment to realize it was a rhythmic chant in some old, forgotten language, completely unknown to the mercenary. He listened for some time but after realizing he couldn’t understand a single word, he shrugged and adjusted folds of his colorful cape. Nothing to do but wait, apparently.

Elusive forms beneath the stone surface of the matron’s throne now moved faster as if stirred and hunted by some invisible force. Seeing their restless swirling, Jarlaxle couldn’t help but think of animals put into a huge cauldron to be cooked alive; as the water heated up they would desperately try to escape the agony, blindly biting and vainly swimming in circles. Now, on top of a similar, only silent vortex sat the grand matron; slender and small ebon-skinned female with crest of stark white hair crowning her head, appearing more solid and adamant than the rock beneath her body. It was her hand, her mind’s claw that stirred this murky pond of trapped, restless souls. The male looked away, pretending to admire the rich architecture of the chapel, not wanting to look at the unearthly sight of stone awoken to life any longer. Although he tried out many things during his long and rich life, when it came to dealing with the dead, especially the cursed dead, he determinedly drew the line. Not even Jarlaxle dared to meddle with the unholy forces this priestess was trying to tame. He knew his limits, as always.

Eventually, out of cacophony of unintelligible sounds, the female’s unexpected laughter ringed clear throughout the vast hall. Jarlaxle turned to her, anticipating. Who knew, maybe she has finally gone mad. Wouldn’t be the first one to lose sanity trying to venture where the living were not supposed to.

However, she opened eyes, sharp and clear as ever.

“I have found him.” – a sly grin bared her sharp teeth – “Damned and changed by his own sister, his own blood!”

She amusedly laughed, tossing head back in venomous delight. There was nothing Lloth liked more than dark irony.

“Foolish male, serves you right. Especially since. . . ” – her face drastically changed, darkening with every word – “you were too incompetent to destroy your blasphemous brother!”

Jarlaxle uncomfortably shifted, already knowing too well about fits of rage Drizzt’s name provoked among the females of this House every time it came up. He had already made an agreement with himself that if he ever learned anything about that unusual drow’s whereabouts, he’ll personally hunt him down, even on the surface and deliver, dead or alive, to this chapel. He somehow had a feeling matron Baenre would be willing to give up her prized diamond for Drizzt’s head. Maybe even both huge gems. The mercenary wolfishly grinned and, fortunately for him, the female interpreted it as his reaction to the beautiful irony that was the unfortunate elderboy’s life story. She calmed down, forgetting Drizzt for now. She wanted this male standing before out of her sight, her chapel, her family compound as soon as possible. Lloth, how she hated those inferior creatures, no matter how useful they could be at times!

Once again she closed eyes, concentrating. The dark throne became alive again. One of her thin hands started violently shaking, clenching into fist and slowly turning upwards. The tone of matron’s chanting ascended. To Jarlaxle it seemed like she struggled to keep something in fist’s grasp, something strong and stubbornly determined to escape from its five-fingered cage of flesh. After large sweat beads appeared on matron’s forehead, plastering the closest free-flying locks of hear to the black skin, the male involuntarily took a step back. Her slender arm trembled in effort to hold the force she could obviously barely contain. Tendons and veins sprung out indicating the bone beneath was dangerously close to breaking. She was screaming sharp, unfamiliar words now, her face a painful grimace. Knotted long-nailed fingers gave way a bit, starting to spread. In the thin crack that opened between them Jarlaxle couldn’t see warmth of the female’s sweaty palm, bright in infrared spectrum. In fact, he couldn’t see anything. Just like he was trying to bore a hole through the throne’s cold, polished surface with his heat-sensitive eyes. Nothing.

The spider-like creature on female’s chest didn’t react when sweat started trickling down her neck and past it, some streaks even touching tips of its legs, but it responded, fast as death itself, when Jarlaxle urgently rushed forward. The mercenary, forgetting all about etiquette and station, had intended to go to the matron and help her close her fist with his own hands before the mysterious force completely prevailed and opened all Nine Hells right in the middle of Baenre family chapel. The guardian however only raised one impossibly long leg in clear warning and the male couldn’t help it – he had to stop dead, more terrified by the abominable creature than the unknown peril that brooded in the priestess’s hand. She screamed something out again and the words echoed several times throughout the chapel, traveling back and forth between pillars, intensifying Jarlaxle’s dread. He eyed the monster, thinking whether he could kill it in time and whether he could kill it at all, when shaking of Matron Baenre’s hand ceased as abruptly as it begun. She too fell silent. The obsidian stone beneath her was still and motionless once again, as if nothing happened at all.

The great priestess opened eyes, tired but with a grin on wrinkled face.

“Ah, ye of little faith.” – the female taunted, hoping he wouldn’t notice how exhausted she really was. And disturbed; although this was a difficult and tricky procedure, she never suspected she would have so much trouble performing it. She was getting old. . . One more worry-line carved itself deep into her already uneven forehead to stay there forever. To serve Lloth meant to die a little every time you called upon her.

Matron’s thin fingers slowly opened, revealing a perfect sphere that nested in her palm, dark and impenetrable as if it was made out of the throne itself; a black hole in the middle of the warm pool of blood that poured out from fresh, deep gashes in her flesh, inflicted by her own long nails. She nonchalantly tossed the tiny ball to the male, not caring whether he’ll be deft enough to catch it. Her part of the deal was done and now all she wanted to do is rest. . . and think. So much to think about. . .

Jarlaxle confidently caught the ball, his other hand simultaneously taking the exotic hat off the bald head and finishing that single fluid movement in a deep bow. With his uncovered eye he examined the mysterious item, cool and smooth under his knowing fingers and still a bit sticky from the female’s blood. Puzzling indeed - he mused inwardly, trying to remember if he’s ever seen anything like it before.

“How is this. . .” – he started with an arched eyebrow, but the priestess was expecting the question.

“Just break it whenever you feel like reviving him. Now go! Leave!” – the matron impatiently barked out and the male mechanically moved towards the door, still perplexed by the item he was looking at. Somewhere halfway out he remembered he omitted all the necessary empty words of praise and gratitude, but as he turned on heel with horror he saw the matron still sitting as he left her, with palm open and turned upwards. The spider-like creature crawled up along the arm and was now comfortably sitting on top of her hand, its long bared fangs dipped into the cooling blood. It was feeding. The mercenary shivered and shook head in open disbelief.

The last thing he saw before putting the hat back on head and hastily leaving was the expression of Matron Baenre’s face he would never forget; her eyes closed in almost orgasmic-like exultation, whispering something to self. Quietly, the great priestess softly moaned in anticipation. She winced and soundlessly snarled when the unholy creature dug its fangs deep into soft flesh of the inside of her wrist, but her bared teeth were soon hidden by her tongue that slowly emerged and sensually moved across thin lips.

Lloth’s favor was literally paid for in blood.

Letting her head fall back in ecstasy, the old matron smiled at the tingling feeling as her pet mercilessly sucked, draining the very life force out of her. My life for you, my Queen, my life for you! - she repeated in trance.

Jarlaxle never before saw her so genuinely happy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Back in the safety of his secret den, Jarlaxle let his magical boots cling against the stone floor again, enjoying the sound he was deprived of in the grandiose Baenre chapel, all in the name of courtesy. Here, he was the only master. The male sat in his favorite chair, comfortably sinking in the soft pillow and resting both legs on table. He was still holding the obsidian ball, feeling its smoothness and unusual weight for such a small object. No matter how long he held it in hand, it didn’t seem to get any warmer at all.

Strange - the mercenary thought, turning the item in fingers for the hundredth time. If it weren’t for its mass and the sensation of its hard surface between the male’s fingertips, it would be easy to believe that the ball simply didn’t exist at all.

“And now what?” – Jarlaxle murmured, half-aware he was talking to himself. Or maybe he wasn’t completely alone? Maybe the drow warrior was somehow IN this thing, hearing and seeing everything but unable to get out? The mercenary had to smile. If so, maybe he should keep him in there for awhile, just for amusement, and let him out when he needed him. He laughed loudly remembering the barely controlled rage and badly masked contempt on the face of that humiliated ex-noble, an expression Jarlaxle saw and deliberately provoked so many times in the past. It would make him sleep so much sweeter knowing the unfortunate elderboy was helplessly trapped in this tiny prison, foaming in vain, silent wrath.

The exotic mercenary playfully tossed the ball in the air before confidently catching it with his other hand and tossing it back again. If the elderboy really was in there, Jarlaxle was sure he wasn’t appreciating the treatment. Enough of mischief, time for some serious games – he finally concluded, bringing the immaculate ball close to his face one last time.

“The Underdark has waited long enough for you.” – he whispered to it half- grinning, not at all surprised to see his warm breath left no marks on the smooth surface. “Well, here goes. . . “

The moment he let the ball drop to the stone floor a horrifying idea flashed through his brain – what if Matron Baenre had tricked him!? What if, instead of the drow warrior, some nameless horror appears or gates to some other plane open? For a millisecond, naked fear and the realization of his naïve stupidity literally petrified him.

However, nothing of that sort happened; Matron Baenre had kept her word, at least this time.

On the floor, where the obsidian ball smashed to pieces without a sound, now lied a naked male on hands and knees, his back arched and head bent down with forehead resting on the paving stone. Jarlaxle quickly recovered from the initial shock, composing himself and putting on the habitual half- smile. He got up and semi-circled the lying figure with great curiosity and caution, the loud clinging of his boots that followed each step he made being the only sound in the room.

Well, it obviously was a male and by the old scars on his back it was plain to see he had already met the infamous snake-headed whips of the Lloth’s priestesses. That alone, of course, meant nothing – it could have been any male of the Menzoberranzan and since this one’s face was still hidden by thick, falling hair, Jarlaxle had no way of knowing if what materialized here was indeed the drow he wanted. The mercenary lightly shrugged, for now satisfied by the fact it was at least a normal drow and not abominable drider that hatched out.

The male on the floor suddenly shook and gasped, letting out a deep, painful shriek and forcing Jarlaxle one precautions step backwards. The form on the floor inhaled then, its first breath since death, and cried out in agony as the air rushed through dormant lugs, ripping some of the soft tissue apart in its violent penetration. Jarlaxle’s nose curled up in disgust at wet noises coming from the re-born’s mouth; he sounded more like he was drowning than breathing. Eventually, uncontrolled spasms became strong, regular coughs and the mercenary was relieved to see drops of fresh, bright-red blood flying from behind the thick curtain of the other drow’s hair as he was clearing his unused airways.

Good – Jarlaxle thought – he’ll live. . . whoever he was.

Moving closer again, with an unreadable smile already fixed on face, the mercenary put hands on hips and said as confidently as he could: “Why, look who dropped in! It’s been such a long time since I last saw you. . . Dinin!”

The male on the floor stopped coughing and remained still for a moment, before slowly turning head towards the familiar voice. Through tangled white locks he recognized the well-know boots of the mercenary leader he hated so much. He raised head higher, already knowing whose face he’ll see – and there he was; the smug grin beneath that ridiculously wide, feathered hat. Jarlaxle! How long has it been? - Dinin tried to sort out incoherent thoughts and random images that swarmed in his mind. How long indeed?

“Oh come now” – the mercenary broke Dinin’s stern silence with a teasing tone – “I thought you would show at least some gratitude. After all, I did trade my gold for your life. . .”

He abruptly stopped after seeing one big red eye glaring at him from behind the tangled mess of stark white hair. So much hatred, so much rage in one singe look was too much even for the likes of Jarlaxle. At that moment the mercenary seriously considered killing the clearly insane creature since he doubted it fully recovered from the horrific deformation and death it had experienced. Maybe after being turned to a drider, no drow could ever be the same again. Just as he was fingering the secret dagger in his sleeve, determined to take some drastic actions, Jarlaxle heard cracked voice of the drow on the floor.

“For life of slavery. . . again.” – Dinin spat out, moving into sitting position and eyeing the mercenary with the same dangerous gaze. Though surprised, the other drow was mightily relieved to see Dinin was sane after all. Jarlaxle only smiled causing the sitting drow to frown more darkly.

“You are not my slave; you are my khal’ abbil, remember?” – he winked and gave Dinin one of those enigmatic grins. Dinin bitterly snorted at Jarlaxle’s blatant sarcasm but said nothing. What could he say? That he really wasn’t his ‘most trusted friend’ but a desperate, homeless rogue forced to serve Jarlaxle’s whims, just like he once obeyed those of his matron mother? No, even though he was here for mere two minutes, Dinin already knew very well where he stood. The same old story continued; he will live as long as he’s useful. Resignedly, he wiped the remaining blood off his lower lip with the back of a hand and pulled knees closer, resting elbows on them.

Jarlaxle amusedly observed as Dinin flexed rigid fingers and muscles of his hands, their movements knotting otherwise smooth surface of his ebon-skin. Remarkable – the mercenary thought – freshly hatched, the spider is already getting ready to spin his web.

“I kept your old sword” – Jarlaxle remarked casually, taking a seat in his comfortable chair again – “. . . just in case.” He didn’t tell him he kept it just because he simply didn’t find the convenient opportunity to sell it, but by the look on Dinin’s face it was obvious the warrior had guessed the truth. Nothing personal – Jarlaxle added to himself, examining the sitting drow – I know you would have done the same for me, ‘friend’. He took off his exotic hat and absently fiddled with the long feather for couple of seconds, thinking about the future plans for his new-old servant. Yes, he optimistically concluded, the two of us could get very far. He continued chatting merrily like a parrot:

“So, do tell me, after all those unfortunate mishaps that took place. . . “

Dinin froze and looked up, giving the mercenary a cold glare before continuing with brushing his long hair from face, stopping Jarlaxle’s stream of words only for a second, but the resourceful drow promptly continued – “I’ve wondered what little something would make you forget all that happened?”

The mercenary was, of course, talking about the time when he nonchalantly let Dinin’s sister take him out of this secret hideout, Dinin’s new home, by force and into the infamous drider pit where he was metamorphosed into one of those monsters. The warrior felt his heartbeat race at the mere though of that place. Dinin remembered very clearly how his ‘friend’ didn’t move a finger to protect him then. Not a finger.

“My sword” – the warrior replied dryly, without even looking up – “and armor.”

“But that goes without saying abbil!” – Jarlaxle tried to laugh as casually and generously as he could. “Anything beside that?”

After Dinin coldly ignored him for a moment or two, the mercenary mischievously laughed again: “Oh come on! Is it gold? Some new weapon? Ale?” His uncovered eye narrowed down as a sly grin appeared on ebon-face. After a pause he whispered in half-conspiratorially, half-mocking tone: “Females?”

“NO!” – Dinin instantly raised head, his white hair flying through air in the sudden movement, red eyes flashing. The intensity of his voice finally silenced the taunting mercenary. “There IS one thing I want though” – the warrior murmured quietly and dangerously, getting Jarlaxle’s full attention. His voice was sinking deeper and deeper into growl and a cruel grin started to widen on the handsome face, revealing his true nature: “The one thing I’m prepared to die for, the one thing I’m taking whether you’re offering it or not.”

With a serious face now, Jarlaxle carefully examined the seasoned warrior before him who seemed almost bestial due to his bare skin, untamed hair and wild eyes, and than asked as calmly as he could: “And what would that be?”

Dinin lowered head until thick hair was almost covering his expression again, like a black panther preparing for a jump. Behind bent knees and arms folded on top of them, somewhere amid tresses that framed his face and in the dark shadow they created Jarlaxle could only barely make out outlines of the warrior’s white teeth still marred by dark gore and a pair of mean, lurking, blood red eyes. Slowly and clearly, as if he was making a solemn promise, Dinin said a single word, revealing long fangs as he spoke with a sharp undertone:

“Revenge.”

Struggling to just remain impassively sitting with a wary eye on his ‘abbil’, Jarlaxle realized this might not prove to be such a great idea after all.

THE END

Ok, just wanted to add a paragraph that inspired this fic; it’s a bit from ‘Starless Night’ by R. A. Salvatore:

“The throne itself was carved of the purest black sapphire, a shining well that offered an invitation into its depths. Writhing forms moved about inside that pool of blackness; rumor said that the tormented souls of all those who had been unfaithful to Lloth, and had, in turn, been transformed into hideous driders, resided in an inky black dimension within the confines of Matron Baenre’s fabulous throne.”

Thank you for reading :)