Illus. by T. Giorello
INTRODUCTION
Introduction To survive in the wilds of the Underdark, one must not delay when
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the Spider Queen bestows her gifts. For with even the slightest hesitation, the briefest moment of doubt, the Flesh-Carver will snatch back her blessing, depriving her chosen of the wonders of her favor. This was a fact not lost on Vorn. He spent an entire century of his life looking for such chances, waiting for the moment that would propel him toward his destiny, to advance his status and free him from the drudgery of being a lowly common soldier. Thus far, Lolth had been silent—to him at least. He had watched others rise to take their place as fangs or consorts, while he languished as a foot soldier, little better than a thug. Now, of course, was not the time for such idle thoughts, but it was hard to rein in the mind after spending eight hours crouched in a dank cavern. He and a dozen other drow soldiers hid in positions throughout a large gallery in the depths of the shadows, behind draperies and stalagmites, waiting and watching for the first sign of their prey. And then it came. Light shone forth from the mouth of the cavern, piercing the perfect blackness and plunging Vorn’s vision into swollen, shifting spots. Vorn had known it would happen, had tried to ready himself, but he was not prepared for its intensity. He shook his head, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes to clear his sight, but even when the blindness abated he found it hard to focus. Through the painful glow, he looked for his commander, waiting for the gesture to attack. Soon. It would be very soon. The intruders’ fear was obvious, naked on their pale faces. They were of all shapes and sizes: a dwarf, some small figure that resembled a halfling, what Vorn guessed was a human, and an elf maiden. The interlopers fanned out from the entrance, their weapons drawn, casting about for the signs of the enemies they had to suspect were near.
A tense moment passed. And then, like fools, they relaxed. The dwarf uttered something. The intruders laughed, their vigilance dropping. Vorn’s commander made a sharp movement with his hands accompanied by a quick lift of his shoulders. The signal. The time was now. Globes of darkness quenched the light. Ghostly flames of flickering reds and violets limned the forms of the surface dwellers. Crossbow bolts, laden with potent toxins, slashed through the air, and the cries of pain revealed the accuracy of the drow archers. Vorn aimed his hand crossbow, when he realized that his chance, his one opportunity, stood before him. His commander had his back to him, watching the combat unfold. Always careless, this commander. To survive in the Underdark, one must not delay. . . . Vorn fired the bolt, knowing that the poison would make short work of the officer. With one smooth motion, he crossed the gap, pulling his sword from its sheath, to finish the job. Such are the ways of the drow. Bards sing of bold heroes who brave the depths of the earth, who plunder the vaults of ancient peoples, exploring and mapping the endless passages and corridors that honeycomb the Underdark. Although much of this lightless world is empty and devoid of life, it contains terrifying monsters, sprawling alien civilizations, swathes of molds, oozes, slimes, and countless other hazards. But no threat the Underdark conjures compares to the drow. Their name is a curse, their presence a cancer. They are the despised, the exiled, the shunned—and yet they are powerful, and conquer nearly all who come before them. They are the dark elves, cursed by Corellon Larethian, condemned to spend their days languishing in their own corruption.
