The Drow's Mistress

Chapter 3 Punishment-Teaser

Nidia was like her father in many ways. She was quick to anger and lacked patience. However, she was not blessed with the wisdom of the dragons. The young half-dragon spent her days wandering around, scatterbrained and distraught. Her absent-minded nature was made more evident in the way she dealt with her assassination. Nidia had not killed a humanoid before and was hesitant to do so. The fact that she was now the target of a vengeful drow house left her unsettled and flustered. All she wanted to do was leave.

‘I’ll set up shop elsewhere.’

Having made up her mind, Nidia started packing. She was on her way before the sun was up, leaving the grievously wounded drow behind without bothering to kill him or dress his wounds. He was as good as the leftovers from the night’s dinner, discarded and forgotten.

-

Ysilnod could feel himself fading.

As the first ray of the rising sun spilled across the lands, he curled into himself like a vampire and bore the baking heat of the sun beating down on him silently. The dimmest of candlelight flickering in the dark Underdeep would burn the drow’s sharp eyes for a long time before they grew accustomed to its feeble light. It was no match for the sun, a massive fireball that lit lands and burned like hellfire. Fear swallowed Ysilnod whole. This was his first mission on the surface. Not only had he failed spectacularly, he had sustained severe injuries.

The piercing sunlight was like daggers that threatened to blind him. He tugged his cloak over his head, then waited for the sun to turn him into dust and ashes. That was the fate that the trainers at the academy had told them they would suffer, and yet, hours passed and he remained alive. The dark magic that his cloak had been enchanted with slowly faded before finally dissipating in wisps of gray smoke[2]. No harm came to him as he lay in the sun. In fact, he could feel his body, cold from blood loss, warming up steadily as he basked in the sun.

“How strange,” Ysilnod thought to himself. Had his trainers lied to him? Perhaps he had gone mad.

It took Ysilnod hours before he could bring himself to move again. The drow bore the pain of broken ribs grating harshly against his lungs as he forced himself to breathe. Slowly, he got on his hands and knees and made the agonizing climb toward the mountain nearby where he slowly inched into a crevice, curled into himself again and waited for night to fall.

Ysilnod knew that help was not coming. This was a quest meant for one elf and a simple one too, fit for a young drow fresh out of the academy.

“Your target is an armed merchant, a defenseless adventurer.” That was what Minolene had told him. The matron of House Faeiir was not aware of the mission that he had been given. It was her daughter, Minolene, who had come up with the idea then and there. He had been nothing but cannon fodder.

Ysilnod could not feel his left arm. He had been injured with his own blade. Poison had seeped into his veins and he was bleeding poisoned black blood. The night passed quickly and gave way to yet another excruciating day. Ysilnod knew that he could not lay there forever. Without food and water, death would find him sooner or later—sooner still, if a member of some surface race found him. The drow got on his hands and knees and made the grueling journey back to his target’s campsite. She had forgotten her pot and mess kit. Ysilnod spied bits of dried meat stuck to the sides and bottom of the utensils. He scrapped them off carefully and placed them in the mess kit. Then, he dragged his wounded body into a cave hidden from sight and started to make the arduous trip back to Mynzoberranzan.

The labyrinthine tunnels were home to numerous unknown monsters. Through sheer force of will, Ysilnod crawled his way through endless caves and pools of acid before he finally arrived at Mynzoberranzan’s borders ten days later. His knees and elbows had been scraped raw. Bruises and cuts covered his body. His numbed, poisoned arm and shattered shoulder showed no signs of healing.

The city guard had found him. In accordance with the harsh laws of the drow, nobody offered him any aid. Instead, he was returned to House Faeiir like a lost item that had been found, then banished to the tiny barracks for foot soldiers, where he was subjected to ridicule and mockery by his fellow soldiers.

“I can’t believe you came crawling back. Look at you. You must have failed your mission.”

Ysilnod shut his eyes. Trapped in bed by his injuries, he could do nothing but attempt to turn a deaf ear to the insults and snubs thrown his way. There was nowhere else he could go anyway. These were the cards that the gods had dealt dark elves like him. The oppressed drow would never be able to escape their prison.

“Vermin,” hissed a female drow mage as she entered the barracks. The other male drow fell silent and parted like the sea for the mage. All drow were taught their place since they were born. Any male drow who forgot where he stood would be subject to another lesson with a lashing and a beating. It did not matter that the female mage was the lowliest of all mages. To avoid a painful lesson, Ysilnod struggled off his bed and leaned heavily against the wall as he pulled himself up and bowed.

“Your presence is required at the court. Lady Minolene wishes to see you.” The mage’s voice was laced with malicious glee.

The mere utterance of Minolene’s name sent Ysilnod trembling with a terror that had been seared into his very soul since youth. The third daughter of the matron, Minolene, was tasked with the training of their house’s warriors. Ysilnod had served her as her servant since he was fourteen years old. His years with the tyrant had left him with memories so painful that he had locked them away in the deepest recesses of his mind.

The path to the court felt like an eternity when compared with his journey from the surface back underground. Ysilnod knew what was waiting for him. Punishment.

Enormous doors embellished with metallic spiders swung open to receive a round hall. Thirteen blue faerie fires danced on its rim. In its center stood Minolene. She was nearing three hundred years old, an age the drow still considered young. She was a beautiful drow blessed with a lovely face and alluring curves. Yet, no male drow in Mynzoberranzan dared gaze upon the powerful high priestess.

Ysilnod landed on his knees heavily and cast his eyes on the floor. Male drow were forbidden from raising their heads when they were in the presence of nobility. Usually, he was only allowed the privilege when the mistress wished to bestow him a slap across his face.

“You are useless.” The cleric’s voice sounded sweet and melodic. It fueled Ysilnod’s deepest, darkest nightmares. “I have kept you by my side for so many years for nothing. You failed to accomplish the simplest of tasks.”

“Mistress, the target was a powerful berserker,” Ysilnod said evenly without revealing a hint of emotion. He knew that nothing he said would lessen his sentence. He did not even bother trying.

He was right. Without batting an eye, Minolene uncurled the whip hanging at her waist and flicked it at Ysilnod. The three-headed serpent hissed as it struck his shoulder. Shock rippled through Ysilnod’s body. The next second, he had doubled over and was panting heavily. His trembling elbows barely supported him.

Minolene’s greater serpent whip had been bestowed to her by the Mother Weaver herself. Each serpent was a living, breathing creature with a venomous bite. Its venom was not fatal. Instead, it served the cruel function of keeping its victim awake and amplifying their pain. With another casual flick of her wrist, Minolene flogged Ysilnod a second time before losing interest completely. The sight of his flayed skin gave her no pleasure at all.

“Strip your filthy clothes and stand in front of the stake,” Minolene ordered.