Realms of the Underdark - J. Robert King [17]
A low humming reached her delicate, pointed ears. Malice looked up in surprise to see a small disk hovering before her. The metal circle glowed with sapphire light as it whirled in midair. A message disk! But from whom?
She held out her hand, and the disk alighted upon it, warm against her skin. An image appeared, translucent but clear, hovering over the disk's surface. It was the visage of an ancient elf woman, her dark flesh withered, her hair yellowed and scraggly, but her eyes as bright as polished stones. Malice gasped. The image was that of Matron Baenre, leader of the First House of Menzoberranzan. To Malice's further surprise, the image of the dark elf crone began to speak.
"Greetings, Matron Malice." Matron Baenre's spindly voice emanated from the image.
"Greetings…" Malice started to reply, but the image continued to talk without pause; by that, Malice knew she was not really speaking with Matron Baenre. Rather, this was a prefashioned message embedded in the disk itself.
"The Festival of the Founding is nearly upon us," the image of Matron Baenre went on. "As you know, it is the tradition on that day for the nobles of two houses that do not customarily dine together to do so. If House Do'Urden would deign to host House Baenre on this holy occasion, I would be most grateful."
Malice's heart skipped a beat in her chest. Baenre wanted to dine with House Do'Urden on the Festival Day? What marvelous fortune! Malice's plot to win a visit from Lloth had unraveled, but without doubt this was the next greatest honor. Certainly this meant that Matron Baenre favored the recent rise in station of House Do'Urden. And once it was known that House Baenre had chosen to feast with House Do'Urden for the Festival, the status of Malice's clan could rise only further.
"Will Matron Malice accept this offer?" the image hovering above the disk finished.
Though it was phrased as a polite question, Malice knew that it was not really a request, but a demand. To refuse would be suicide. Not that she would ever do so.
Malice stood and spoke in a formal tone. "Please inform Matron Baenre that I am honored to accept her gracious offer."
The image of the crone nodded, then vanished. The disk rose from Malice's hand, then whizzed away to deliver her response to House Baenre.
By force of will, Malice banished thoughts of Zaknafein from her mind. It was better if she forgot him. Besides, she had other matters to concern her now. A smile parted her dark red lips. Defeat had turned into victory. Tomorrow would be a glorious day after all.
Chapter Six
Transformation
They had strapped him to an altar of dark stone, fiat on his back, his hands and feet bound with rothe-hide thongs to the slab's four corners. A scream of utter agony echoed around the dank cavern, underscored by the eerie sound of chanting. Zaknafein craned his neck, straining against his bonds, trying to see what was happening. He was not the only one sentenced to become a drider that day.
It was difficult to see anything. Noxious smoke hung on the air, rising from ritual fires the priestess had lit. The scent of fear was strong and sharp in his nostrils. This was an evil place. The chanting rose to a feverish pitch as another scream was ripped from drow lungs. For a moment, the smoke swirled, thinning, and Zak caught a glimpse of a gruesome shadow play.
To his right, eight priestesses of Lloth gathered around an altar to which was strapped a writhing figure. At the head of the stone slab, hovering in the garish green flames rising from a copper brazier, was a nightmarish form. The thing was a mass of bubbling flesh, snaking tentacles, and bulbous eyes. A yochlol, one of the Handmaidens of Lloth, summoned from the depths of the Abyss to work its evil here. A wave of fear and revulsion crashed through Zak at the sight of the yochlol. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to vomit.
The priestesses