Resurrection

Vhok and his Scourged Legion were beginning to withdraw, fighting retreating actions through the caverns east of the fungus gardens. No doubt the tanarukks would flee back to their warrens under Hellgate Keep with their hides, if not their dignity, intact. Horgar and his ridiculous duergar forces would not be so fortunate. The duergar had left the rock of Tier Breche a pockmarked, melted, blackened waste, but they had failed to break through-Melee-Magthere,

Arach-Tinilith, and Sorcere all remained in the hands in the Menzoberranyr. The battle there continued still. Explosions and blasts of magical energy denoted the ferocity of the ongoing fight.

Nimor knew it to be futile. Lolth had reawakened; the opportunity to conquer the city had passed.

The Spider Queen once again answered the prayers of her priestesses, and when Arach-Tinilith spat out her daughters and they bolstered the Menzoberranyr forces with their newly regained spells, the duergar would be routed. Few of them would ever leave Menzoberranzan. Unlike

Vhok, Horgar was too blind or too stupid to see it.

Nimor let his eyes linger long on the high plateau of Tier Breche, in particular on the soaring spires of Sorcere. Somewhere within, he knew, was Gromph Baenre. Thinking of the Archmage caused Nimor's blood to seethe. Gromph had destroyed the lichdrow Dyrr- the bazaar was still a smoking ruin from their spell battle-and had been instrumental in thwarting the entire invasion.

Nimor both hated and respected him.

Nimor beat his wings and looked to his right, to the great spire of Narbondel. Its base glowed red in the darkness, a defiant beacon proclaiming to the whole of the Underdark that

Menzoberranzan remained standing. Nimor wondered if Gromph Baenre himself had lit the beacon's fires.

With startling suddenness, Nimor's emotional control slipped. An unbearable wave of frustration washed over him. He clenched his fists and swallowed down the roar that threatened to escape his throat.

He had fought well, schemed his best, and nearly-within a rothe's hair-conquered the most powerful drow city in the Underdark. The trophy of Ched Nasad would have paled in comparison to the jewel of a conquered Menzoberranzan.

Of course, he knew that nearly was insufficient, almost a paltry substitute for success, both for him and for the Jaezred Chaulssin. Nearly won him nothing. Nearly had lost him his place of honor as the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin.

That was the lesson the patron grandfather had wanted him to learn in returning-Nimor was to taste of failure, to gag on its flavor so much that he would never allow it to happen again. A tiny amount of humility took root in him and tempered his habitual arrogance.

You promised to cleanse Menzoberranzan of the stench of Lolth, Patron Grandfather

Mauzzkyl had said to him. Have you done that?

Nimor had answered truthfully-he had not done it. He had only nearly done it, and the bitter taste of nearly had all but choked him.

There will be other opportunities, Patron Father Tomphael had promised. If you learn wisdom.

Lesson learned, Tomphael, Nimor thought.

He fixed his gaze on Tier Breche, where the battle still raged, on the quiet Donigarten, where drow soldiers prowled amongst the giant mushrooms. He thought of Horgar, of the little princeling's failings. .

Nimor had a lesson of his own to teach. Horgar would be his student.

With his mind made up, he looked down upon Menzoberranzan a final time. He stared at the soaring, elegant spires, the tall towers, the twisting architecture of the great manor houses-all of it a silent testimony to the unbearable arrogance of the Menzoberranyr. Perhaps they too had learned to temper their arrogance with humility.

Or perhaps not.

Nimor looked down on the city and offered it a grudging nod of respect.

It had beaten him.

This time.

With a minor exercise of will, he moved into the bleakness of the Shadow Fringe.

The chwidencha shaft dropped down a spearcast before ending in a round chamber from which a wide horizontal tunnel extended. Old webs covered the walls, and the dried husks of dismembered spiders lay cast about here and there, no doubt the remains of the chwidenchas'

meals. Jeggred kicked at them absently. The dry air stank of must and decay.

Pharaun lowered himself to the ground beside Quenthel. Her whip flicked its tongues at him.

Danifae and Jeggred stood apart, eyeing them. Danifae ran her fingers over her holy symbol.

Pharaun could not help but think that not all of them would be returning to the surface. As a precaution, he still held the piece of flakefungus hidden in his palm.

To Quenthel, he said, "The tunnel is sealed above us, Mistress."

She nodded, looked down the horizontal tunnel, and said, "We will continue on for a bit longer. Find a more suitable spot to rest."

No one protested, and Quenthel started down the tunnel. The rest of them fell in beside her.