My purpose. To die. Even that is fading. They took my memories, remade me completely.
I presented myself to Mistress Mother Fizzri Khaven-Ghell and offered my services as an assassin and master of poisons. She took me in, protected me.
Is that what you really are?
Show me your face, Zollgarza.
No, I am a high priestess of Lolth. I serve none but the goddess. Fizzri is my equal. I know her flesh as intimately as my own.
So many contradictions in your flesh-unremarkable male. Unworthy … lesser creature.
No! Goddess, forgive! Don’t do this.
Too late. I am already lost.
I am Zollgarza.
They call me the Black Creeper. I must keep my head down. I have felt the sting of the snake-headed whip too often.
No!
Yes.
I am Zollgarza.
Zollgarza screamed as the scene faded. Her last sight was of her male form standing in a pool of elf blood, gaze fixed beseechingly on the yochlol’s cold face as the demon stole her memories, filling her with Lolth’s dark power.
The library faded back into focus around Zollgarza. Shadows shrouded the room, and the whispers still hissed from the empty corners.
Show me your face, Zollgarza.
Lost child, helpless male, newly born female.
The voices mocked her. Zollgarza pawed the air as the shadows crept closer, taunting. Was it the seneschal’s books-whispers Zollgarza was too lost to hear? Or was she truly going mad?
Who am I? Goddess, please tell me!
“There’s no hope for questioning her,” Mith Barak’s deep voice drowned out the whispers briefly, but Zollgarza could not see the dwarf’s face. She’d fallen into darkness, and the shadows wouldn’t let her go. “She’s half-mad already. Look at her.”
Show me your face, Zollgarza.
Yes, look at me, Zollgarza wanted to scream. Someone, look at me. Tell me who I am.
During those times in her life when she’d felt lost, Zollgarza had taken comfort from the knowledge that she was strong in her goddess’s love. But that was a lie. Hadn’t she also felt strong as a male, knowing she would one day earn Lolth’s favor?
I am not beloved by my goddess. I am cursed, an abomination ripe for sacrifice.
Dark laughter bubbled up inside Zollgarza.
Goddess, behold your servant. Mother Lolth, behold Zollgarza-smile at your instrument, your broken disciple.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK
28 UKTAR
"You need healing,”Ruen said. “We’ll get you to Joya.”
Trying to be as gentle as possible, he and Sull helped Mith Barak to his feet. The dwarf swayed unsteadily, breathing hard, but he waved off their support. “Don’t worry about me. I’m thinking about that one,” he said, nodding at Zollgarza.
The female drow lay on her back, chest heaving, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Every few breaths, she laughed, a horrible sound that raised the flesh on Ruen’s arms.
Icelin walked carefully up to the drow and spread a blanket over her to cover her nakedness. “Can we leave her like this?” she asked.
“We don’t have a choice,” Mith Barak answered. “If we can’t question her, then we’ll use her as bait. I’ll send the scouts out with a message, see if her mistress wants to parlay for the return of her pet-or whatever this is.” Mith Barak looked at the drow in disgust.
Ruen met Icelin’s gaze. Surely he saw the compassion there and the guilt. He must have known she felt responsible for Zollgarza’s current state. “We have hope for the battle now that we didn’t have before,” he told her. “And she may recover in time. You’ve given her back her true form.”
Whatever reply Icelin might have made was interrupted when Mith Barak succumbed to a fit of coughing. “Are you well enough to fight?” Icelin asked the dwarf, “or even to parlay with the drow?”
“Aye, I think I can manage not to plunge my axe in the mistress mother’s skull while we have a conversation-a short one,” Mith Barak said with a dark smile as he wiped a blood smear across his lips. “Whatever’s amiss inside me isn’t going to be cured quickly. May as well live with it while I can.”
When Icelin stepped out of the hall, she swallowed an awed cry.
The dwarves of Iltkazar had assembled.
Bodies filled the plaza as if again in preparation for a wedding feast. The difference was the light from the glowing lichen that reflected off thousands of swords and axes, and the finest suits of armor in all Faerun, by Icelin’s judgment. Beyond the plaza, they stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the city streets. Banners from the dwarf clans waved when King Mith Barak emerged from the hall behind Icelin. Grim-faced and deadly, Iltkazar’s sons and daughters had gathered for a fight. They awaited only their king.
The master armswoman stepped forward. “The scouts have reported in,” she said. “We know the location of two of their attacking forces for certain-the western and southern walls. They must be planning to break through the magical barriers. The rest of their forces, if there are more, have the advantage in that we don’t know where they will strike.”
“My thanks, Dorla,” Mith Barak said. He turned to the gathered army. Icelin heard him mutter a word under his breath, and a tingling sensation kissed the back of her neck, a momentary flush of arcane power.
“Warriors of Iltkazar!” Mith Barak cried, and his voice carried to the farthest corners of the cavern, amplified by magic. “We knew this day was coming, and now we stand on the precipice. The drow press us from all sides, attacking from the west and the south. They have already desecrated the Hall of Lost Voices, slain thousands of our people in these endless battles, century upon century. We have suffered, bled, but we have not fallen!”
A deafening roar arose from the crowd. Boots stomped and blades pounded on shields, striking sparks in the cold cavern air. Gooseflesh rose on Icelin’s arms at the fervor in the dwarves’ faces.
Mith Barak raised his hands, and the army quieted. “There are those who would have us believe we are a doomed people. They would have us roll over quietly and accept our fate, abandon our city to the shadows.”
“Never!” cried a single voice, and the cry echoed through the crowd like wildfire. “Never!”
Mith Barak raised his hands again for silence. He hesitated, gazing with shining eyes over the army, though only those standing closest to him saw the tremor that passed over his face, the breath of sorrow and joy that seized him. “I have lived long enough to dwell among the greater and lesser races of this world. Along that path, I’ve seen the towering spires of mighty empires and the hovels of the poorest, meanest wretches. I have walked alone and with others at my side. In all that time, I have never claimed a true home or family for myself. Clanless, I called myself, and clanless I remained. Until now.”
Icelin expected shouts and cheers from the crowd, but a hush had fallen over the army. Thousands of dwarf bodies pressed close, hanging on the words of their king, a kind of desperate longing in their eyes. Tears standing in her own eyes, Icelin reached behind her for Ruen’s hand.
Mith Barak bowed his head; then, gazing at those dwarves nearest him in turn, he nodded. A peaceful stillness descended over his weary face. “This day, I say that Iltkazar is and ever was my home, my clan.” He moved forward, passing into the gathered throng.