She was to be bred to a spider. A giant, hairy spider whose limbs bore barbs and saw-edges, whose bulk almost crushed her when they'd experimented, lashing its mandibles together with their whips to keep it from beheading or slashing open the pale-skinned victim chained beneath it, slick with sweat and fear, writhing helplessly.
A spider whose spell-twisted brood would have hatched in her paralyzed body and eaten her from within to nourish themselves into life as manspiders-"biddable driders," as one priestess had called them, her face alight with excitement at the thought. Manspiders who could serve as loyal, intelligent fighting steeds for drow warriors paired with them, in a war against rival drow cities deep in the lightless Underdark.
Sharantyr shivered again, recalling days of pain and humiliation, and nights of eerie terror, as the glowing, gelatinous fungi had crept slowly down the stone walls where she lay chained by the throat to a huge ring in the wall, bedded on hard, sharp human skulls, and flowed over her, their translucent pseudopods covering her with glistening slime as they lapped at her wounds and body openings, healing and cleansing her, absorbing her wastes and blood and energy alike, leaving her too weak to work toward any escape.
The touch of jelly or jam on her skin still left her drenched with sweat, and quivering with fear-and excitement.
"Trust me in this, and do as I bid." The voice was musical and assured, almost amused. Shar closed her eyes. "Trust me" had been one of the taunts used by the priestess with the strongest liking for her pale-skinned human prisoner. Trust me.
Shar opened her eyes deliberately, swallowed, and stared at the winking globe of light. "Who are you," she asked softly, "that I should trust you?"
"Mystra," came the soft reply, and it seemed that an echo arose from that softly spoken name and rolled across the chamber to recede into vast distances, as if they stood in an immense void and not a small tomb smelling of damp earth and the roots of the forest above.
Shar shuddered. Sylune, she complained in her mind, what have you gotten me into now?
The wisp drifted closer, and the echoes seemed to roll and thunder again in the distance. "Well?" it asked, its voice a sudden challenge. "This is no drow trick."
Shar shuddered; it must be reading her mind. Oh. A goddess. Of course it could. She could. Shar shook herself, smiled, and stepped forward. "Why didn't you say so?" she asked almost petulantly, as she laid her hands on the cold, crumbling lid and shifted it aside.
Stone grated, and Shar peered cautiously into the darkness within, but the wisp flashed across the chamber to hang where she needed light. The coffin held heaped dust and a wild-weave of cobwebs, but no body that she could see. A scabbarded blade lay in front of her, shrouded in dusty gray webs. Without hesitation she reached in and took it.
A cold tingling ran up her arm, and fear awoke to accompany it. What if the blade turned her into some sort of monster or visited a curse on her? What if- Enough, she told herself firmly, stowing the blade under her arm to free her hands for replacing the lid.
The wisp seemed to bob approvingly again, but as she turned toward the stairs, it flashed through the air to block her path. "Draw the blade," it told her.
Shar nodded and held the scabbard out horizontally before her, drawing the sword slowly. It was a magnificent, gleaming long sword, curved more than was the fashion in the Dragonreach lands. The hilt, grip, and blade seemed to be all of one piece, polished mirror bright and glossy smooth. As it came free of the scabbard, the sword awakened with its own blue radiance, a light that grew and grew until it blazed.
"This is yours to bear, Lady Knight," the wisp told her. Shar turned it slowly, feeling its weight, and replied feelingly, "An honor."
"Indeed." The wisp sounded a little amused. "You may not always feel so. You hold a weapon against the Malaugrym. Return to your camp, and in the morning go down to the bridge that Itharr mistrusted so. There draw this blade, and it will show you a gate that will transport you to the plane of shadows where the Malaugrym dwell. When drawn, this sword will show you all gates nearby, and work them for you if you will it so. Take your companions and go and slay Malaugrym for me."
Shar took a pace away from the wisp to gain room, and swung the blade experimentally. It hummed as it cut the air, and a delighted smile came to her face. What a magnificent weapon! It matched her as if made for her, and its rippling weight made her feel like a dashing young hero, the excited girl she'd once been when she first sought adventure, long before she'd ever seen the endless Underdark… or drow.
Shar laughed, her unbound hair swirling about her as she leapt lightly around one corner of the tomb, fencing with an imaginary foe. The blade felt alive in her hands. Yes! With this, she could rule the world!
At swordplay, at least. She turned to look at the will o' wisp, and asked, "Will I see you again?"
"No," came the flat reply, and to Shar's ears it sounded sad. But when the voice came again, it was calm. "No mortal shall ever see this aspect of me again in Faerun. It is a fading thing I inherited, a shell of ghosts and shadows. I cannot wear it well."
The wisp drifted toward the stairs. "Go now, Sharantyr. Make us all proud of thee."
As she went up into the glade and saw the white glimmering ring that must be the gate to take her home, Shar thought she heard a familiar old voice, a mere whisper behind her. "Well said. Very well said. Ye'll do fine."
Elminster? She was still frowning in excited puzzlement when she came out into the moonlight of Daggerdale and found Sylune waiting for her.
Silverymoon, Kythorn 18
Milhvar's spell tapped into existing gates-or so the sinister, smiling Shadowmaster had told them. Huerbara didn't trust him one whit, but she had no choice but to place herself in his hands, and watch him like a hungry hawk for any sign of treachery.
It would come. Oh, it would come.
Hopefully not on this foray… probably not. The cold truth was that the three of them weren't important enough to be rivals whom the Shadowmaster might want to eliminate. But enough speculation.
Milhvar's whirling magic had just taken them somewhere dark. As the spell-motes of the gate they'd linked into scattered around them, the three cloaked Malaugrym stared around, looking for any sign as to where they might be. Their mission was to find Alustriel, the High Lady of Silverymoon, and attack her. They were to slay her if possible, but the real test lay in finding out how much the cloaks concealed and protected them against her.
First to find her.
Ignoring the startled gasps and hissed warnings from behind her, Huerbara strode across the darkened chamber to the only door she could see. This had better be Alustriel's palace, or Milhvar would soon be hearing about his overblown cleverness.
The door was unlocked. Beyond stretched a short passage whose left-hand wall soon became a row of tapestries, implying a larger room in that direction, Huerbara walked forward without hesitation.
Behind her, the two male Malaugrym exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed.
Voices were coming from beyond the tapestries. Male voices, at ease.
"She never seems to know what she wants to buy, but she always comes back with something. Or rather, a pile of somethings." A glass clinked down on a table.
There was a chuckle. "You can sell more to a woman who knows not what she wants to buy but is restless to have new things in her hands."
There was a snort. "You make her sound like a brothel cruiser, not the lady with the largest collection of once-worn gowns in Silverymoon."