Braelin watched the fight from a perch on a stalactite hanging down from the cavern holding Menzoberranzan. The armies swarmed like insects hundreds of feet below him, the air crackling with lightning bolts and fireballs that erupted like blossoming flowers on a surface field.
He watched the Baenre forces gain ground, driving the demons and Lolthians before them to the south and east, around the tip of the Westrift, and thought that Jarlaxle would be pleased.
But then came the ferocious counterattack: He smelled the ozone and smoke filling the air, felt the tingle from black bolts of Abyssal energy. Heard the screams, so many screams, the agony of the dying and the terror of those soon to die.
He couldn’t deny his own horror, his breath coming in gasps, the smells of burned flesh—demon and drow and the many unfortunate enslaved peoples of other lineages thrown into the fray—wafting up to fill his nostrils, but neither could he deny that he wanted to be down there, wanted to be in this fight.
Only his duty stopped him. His duty held his bow across his lap when the chasme flew just below him—how easy it would have been to pick off the trailing demon!
But that was not his mission.
So he watched.
In particular he saw the spectacle of one fight—even from this distance, Braelin thought that it must be Malagdorl Armgo.
Whoever it was the weapon master was fighting, the victory against that particular opponent brought a great cheer from the Lolthians.
But that, in turn, brought a fierce counterattack by the Blaspheme and their allies, pressing fast and far enough to retrieve some of their fallen and then retreat.
Braelin knew that the outcome, the victory, for whichever side, would be costly and muted with wounds, and he knew the clear implications of this battle. No more was this a game of fast fights and faster flights, a back-and-forth of feeling out their opponents, drawing lines, and coaxing allies from the enemy ranks.
No, now the war for Menzoberranzan was on in full, and if half the drow in the city were killed, that would not exceed Braelin Janquay’s expectations.
They were fighting for their lives, and more than that, for their afterlives, all of them.
Giving quarter was not in that equation.
The rogue closed his eyes and composed himself. Where was Jarlaxle? If he did not get here, and soon, then he would have little role left to play, however he chose to roll his die.
Which meant Braelin needed to get to the Oozing Myconid, to share his information, and help Jarlaxle place his bet, and—if he knew the rogue—load the dice in his favor.
He scaled around to the far end of the stalactite cluster and peered carefully all about before he made himself vulnerable. He had no fear of chasmes, not when he had solid ground beneath him, at least, but there were greater demons in the city than those—he had heard rumors of a balor joining the Lolthian side, a rumor he had no desire to see proven true.
The battle raged far below, but up here seemed calm and empty of enemies.
He had to hold faith.
One last look, and he took three running strides along a ledge and leaped out, plunging toward the ground.
Before he lost the momentum of his leap, still moving east, Braelin called upon an enchantment from a ring.
Instead of falling, then, he was gliding down, drifting ever eastward and down, toward the Stenchstreets of Menzoberranzan.
“You have already lost.”
“I have,” Azleah answered.
“And you are glad of that.”
“Of course, it is . . . you are, wonderful.”
A smile came to Kariva, who now looked exactly like Azleah, even down to the little mole just below the left edge of the woman’s rather thick nose. She wore an identical blue outfit: a blue-and-white-patterned wraparound dress that swept down from the left shoulder, off the right shoulder, around low on the back, then back low over the left hip, revealing the woman’s—and the succubus’s—tightly muscled belly. The knee-length hem was frilled, enhancing every movement with sweeping grace, and was slitted up the front of the right leg. Or the appearance of this leg, at least, for all of this disguise, down to the mole, was an illusion.
“This is his favorite gown?”
“It is!” Azleah answered, giggling.
“Of course it is,” Kariva said lightly to her new best friend. “You are so pretty! I am so thrilled to be as pretty as you.”
Azleah smiled widely, but it melted a bit and she suddenly wore a look of concern, as if something wasn’t quite right about that statement, or about any of this.
“It is just a game,” the succubus assured her, and kissed her, strengthening the charm. This one was no easy mark, she reminded herself. It had taken Kariva and her two friends a long while to finally get this Azleah creature under their willpower. “Just to make him laugh, and then, of course, I will leave you two alone. And look at me! I am Azleah to any unsuspecting patrons who might come in, and so I can keep them engaged and happy while you and your lover take your well-deserved rest!”
The woman’s smile returned and Kariva breathed a little sigh of relief. This was becoming quite tedious, and she didn’t need the added tension of danger.
Not against this next target, who had so easily obliterated a hezrou.
He is on the street, approaching through the shadows, Kariva heard in her mind, the telepathy of Uvillia.
“Say not a word,” she told Azleah. “Just a smile and a sweeping turn to let this beautiful gown fly wide and spin about you like a cyclone. Remember: you are the eye of that storm your lover so desires.”
“Are you sure?”
“My dear Azleah, I have long perfected this game of ours.”
“But you don’t know him.”
“I know that he is like Jarlaxle, and I know that one all too well,” Kariva lied.
Azleah frowned again, and Kariva wondered if she’d gone too far with this comparison. “Braelin is different. Jarlaxle is the master of games.”
Another kiss, another assurance. “Not all games, my dear Azleah. There are some things that even Jarlaxle, like your consort, simply cannot control and simply cannot resist.”
He approaches.
“Now go, and be quick,” Kariva told the tavern keeper. “His favorite drink from his favorite person.” As Azleah went for the door, Kariva lifted a finger over pursed lips to remind her to say not a word yet again.
The Stenchstreets were quiet, eerily so, but that was understandable with the large battle raging over in the western sections of the city. Still, Braelin took his time and kept to the shadows as he made his way toward the Oozing Myconid.
He knew that the Lolthians would be investigating the deaths of the Vandree nobleman and particularly of the Hunzrin priestess, to say nothing of the loss of a hezrou demon. That was a blow worth knowing more about.
As he turned down the last lane, the Oozing Myconid at its far end, he considered whether to sneak all the way or walk openly. If there was going to be trouble, perhaps it was better to get it over with, after all.
He thought better of that, though, for however it might make him feel, Braelin’s responsibility was more than just to himself. He had learned quite a lot regarding the rapidly declining situation here in the city and of the battle lines, and of the rumors that an unexpected and important prisoner had been taken by the Lolthians from the ranks of the Blaspheme. Included in those whispers were hints that Matron Zhindia would make of this prisoner a drider publicly, as a warning to all those who would oppose the Spider Queen, particularly to those who had been relieved of the Curse of Abomination to become living drow once more.
So instead of the door, the scout went up onto the rooftops, picking his way carefully. He wasn’t afraid of any fight—in fact, he wanted one!—but this wasn’t about him. It was about Jarlaxle’s vision and the many who depended upon it, most especially the woman tending to the tavern he was now approaching.
He went to the roof of that building, spider-crawling down the front behind the giant mushroom to the left of the main door, then dropped down, glanced around, and moved inside.
To Braelin’s surprise, the place was empty of patrons. It was early in the day, but still . . . he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the tavern deserted.
No, not deserted, he noted, seeing Azleah over at the bar, giving one last wipe of a cloth before tossing it aside and pointedly lifting a glass onto the counter.
She wore his favorite outfit.
She gave him a coy smile, and moved toward the door to her private quarters.
Braelin wasn’t sure what to think, but he surely knew what he felt.
Had Azleah emptied the place in anticipation of his arrival? He thrilled at the idea . . . but how could she know?
She didn’t glance back at him until she reached the door, where she gave him a mischievous little grin and a wink of her pretty eye, pausing there on the threshold.
Braelin went to the bar and the drink she had placed on the bar.
Indeed, his favorite.
“Where is—”
She put her fingers to her lips—those perfect lips—and shushed him. Then she walked away, not glancing back at him.
Grinning, Braelin went over the bar with a flourish, scooped up the glass, and moved to the door to Azleah’s room, where he was met immediately with a great hug and a passionate kiss, the woman immediately fumbling with his weapon belt.
He returned the kiss wholeheartedly, but with some further surprise, for it was unlike any Azleah had ever offered. Forceful and even with a bit of biting—something seemed to have stirred his lover in ways he had not known before.
He wasn’t opposed to the change at all, and kissed back with even more fervor.
She held the kiss, backpedaling and taking him with her toward the bed, and he took care not to trip over his fallen belt and sword.
He opened his eyes, still locked in a kiss and a hug that was growing tighter and tighter by the step, almost painfully so.
And there, sitting on the edge of the bed, peering at him from around the footboard canopy, he saw . . . Azleah.
Stunned, confused, Braelin reached up to grab the arms of the woman clenching him, but found her grip only tightening more. He tried to pull back, to pull his lips away, but she would not let him, and kissed him even more tightly.
The pain in his lips from the teeth was nothing compared to the weakness he was experiencing. It felt as if his very life force was somehow being sucked out of him. He twisted and pulled, and there, along the right-hand wall, he saw . . . another Azleah.
Panic hit him when he felt another set of hands grab him on the left side. Confusion tore at him when he saw a fourth Azleah!
All dressed exactly the same.
All looking exactly the same.
He thought of a mirror-image spell Gromph had often used, but no, this was no such thing, for the duplicates were not mirroring moves, but acting independently.
It made no sense.
And then he felt soul-wrenching pain, and he knew for sure it was indeed his life force being drawn into this woman . . . or whatever it was.
And he thought that a good thing.
But how could it be a good thing?
His legs went weak. The woman from the right-hand wall was up beside him, grabbing at him.
He felt a cord going about him, his arms being tugged down and tightly bound.
But it was okay. These were his friends. These were his lover . . .
All of them?
Braelin shook that notion away and fought back against the kiss, finally breaking free and gasping for air.
The kisser pulled back from him. Her hair lengthened and became red. Her skin tone changed before his eyes.
She was whispering to him, but he couldn’t hear the words.
He just knew, somehow, that he liked those words more than anything he had ever heard.
It was a mistake, even trying to listen, but as the magical barrage of charming continued, and in his weakened state, Braelin could only resist it for so long.
He had to get free and flee. He had to embrace the woman—the not-Azleah—and give in to her sweet words.
Azleah stood up from the bed—the true Azleah? he wondered—telling him that it was all right, that these were their new friends.
He didn’t know what to make of that.
Braelin shrugged and twisted, and found that he was surely stronger than the two holding him. But not stronger than the cord they had put around him, a magical cord that tightened with his every twist.
The woman before him, no longer Azleah, he was certain, sprouted red wings shaped like those of a bat . . . and came forward and caught him again with a kiss.
The last thing he saw was Azleah—was it really her?—looking at him with a strange grin on her face from the side of the bed.
Strange and unthinking, the grin of a simpleton.
His last thought as he felt his life force draining away his consciousness was that they had Azleah, too.