Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [85]
Shaking with excitement, Liriel picked up a large parchment scroll and smoothed it flat. It was a map of the north-lands, and according to Nisstyre it depicted the lands that lay above the Underdark she knew. Her finger found the distant city of Waterdeep and then traced a path across the sea to Ruathym. On that island lived the ancestors of the Rus. And on that island stood Yggsdrasil's Child, the ancient sacred oak tree.
This, then, was her destination. If her journey yielded her the rune she needed, she would cast the spells that would give her permanent possession of her drow magic.
First, though, she would have to carry this magic across the miles to Ruathym. The droplets of water trapped in the sheath had suggested an answer to that problem, for her book of rune lore contained many stories of sacred wells and springs. Water was plentiful in the Underdark and had little potency beyond its common, life-sustaining nature. But Liriel's dark homeland had its own places of power.
"Liriel Baenre, you have finally gone utterly and completely mad!"
This pronouncement, coming as it did from an insane, two-headed purple dragon, lacked some of the impact it might otherwise have had.
"I'm telling you, Zz'Pzora, this will work," the young drow insisted as she chipped away at the wall of the grotto with a small mithril pick. "Just try to hold steady for another minute or two."
"Hold steady, she says," grumbled the dragon's right head, literally talking to herself as she addressed her other head. "What does the drow think we are, a hummingbird?"
The left head's answer was lost in the noise of yet another ringing blow and the thumping whoosh of the dragon's wings as the creature struggled to maintain its position. A warm, strong updraft helped hold the dragon aloft, but hovering in one place was extremely difficult for any dragon under the best of circumstances.
Zz'Pzora's task was complicated by the added weight of the drow who straddled the base of the dragon's dual necks. Liriel was not all that heavy-most deep dragons considered a ninety-pound drow a snack, not a burden-but Zz'Pzora was small for her kind. Nor did the drow balance herself well. She leaned far to the side, and each time she pounded the rock her hold on her dragon mount became just a bit more tenuous. At any moment, the reckless dark elf would take them both crashing to the floor of the grotto.
"Look around you," the dragon's right head begged. The creature dipped dangerously close to the cavern floor, and she beat her purple wings frantically until she had regained her position. "The entire cavern glows with energy! Take something that's easier to get at."
Liriel shook her head and pounded again. A thin crack appeared in the rock, outlined by an eerie blue glow that shone even through layers of magic-dead stone.
"This is the best place, Zip, and you know it," the drow said in a distracted voice. More careful now that the rock had given way, she tapped gently at the wall, slowly enlarging the network of spreading cracks. "The Banshee's Needle holds more magic than any ton of rock in this place."
The Banshee's Needle, a slender bit of glowing rock that seemed to hold and condense the radiations of this hidden cavern, was so named for the banshee-an undead drow female-that had once haunted Zz'Pzora's lair. The banshee was gone long before ZzTzora's time; the dragon's mother had vanquished the undead elfin a horrendous magical battle that may well have contributed to her future offspring's unusual appearance. Whatever the case, the mutant dragon did not like