Subterrane Ch. 01

When finally I could straighten again, I tried to get my train of thought back then shrugged. The point was that I had to leave. After one more drink of water, I climbed upward and left through the only opening that led from the cavern above the waterline. It was large enough to walk through upright but most humanoids would have to walk single file. This was something else in favor of my not being found until I woke up: only one way in, larger predators could not fit, and it seemed to be above most of their heads anyway.

I found myself at the other end of the tunnel, looking down from the lip an abrupt drop into a wider, barren cavern. There was only one other exit to this one as well, and that, too, I had to climb down, across the basin, and climb up again and out.

By the time I had navigated what amounted to an obstacle course to finally reach a real pathway in the Underdark, I had become intolerably hungry. I had not eaten since before the Red Sister had collected me upon that balcony, and through that entire time— through pure endurance coupling with three different males and the mind-wrenching personal exposure I faced atop Lloth's altar, until I woke to find myself here and climbing through whole valleys to find a road back—I had burned more energy than I had on my most intense day of martial training.

I stood at this path, wondering if this could be so easy as to follow it back to the City, and waited for my senses to tell me which way to go. Lolth's "divine" fuck-me-now hangover obstructed that answer completely.

I cursed under my quivering breath and choose a direction—really there were only two, I picked the one leading downward—at least to begin hunting for edible fungus and small creatures.

A pity I had wasted that spider from before. They tasted unpleasantly bitter, I knew, but one couldn't be choosey in an area without much growth. Or I could have stayed to fish in the pool...a little late now to be having that thought, and again I "thanked" the Priestess for clouding my rational thought.

Dual hungers ate at me for what seemed an eternity as I walked, and this road was empty and quiet. Scuttling flashes of movement usually happened too abruptly for me to think about stalking or pouncing, and I didn't run into anything bigger than my palm in any case. My reflexes and instincts were not at their best, to say the least.

Fortunately, even had I been throttling myself between my legs right then, I'd have heard that pickaxe when I rounded a curve.

Dwarves could never be silent. Whether from their endless array of tools and armor or from their simple plodding on wide feet with heavy bodies, they were not made for stealth.

Ah, but which kind of dwarf would I meet? And why did I hear only a solitary pick jabbing at the stone?

Praying my next mating clutch wouldn't hit me for another few minutes at least while I reconnoitered the scene ahead of me, I crouched lower and padded very softly, watching for loose pebbles or slick moss, testing the ground beneath my bare feet. The focus on a tangible threat helped push my lust back into its proper place for the moment, and I crouched behind a convenient stone I hoped was within my eye's reach but not the dwarf's when I peeked over it.

That was another of the many differences between our races; Drow could simply see farther in the dark. The dwarves being near to the ground, and seemingly near-sighted by all accounts, I had the advantage if my Goddess didn't fuck it up for me.

The dwarf was only barely visible when I chose my moment to look, just on the edge of my vision. He even seemed to flicker and swim in and out of focus as he moved here and there, however I remained able to hear his every step, scrape and tink as he shifted around, studying a lay of stone and working at it as if to release something.

I squinted to take in the detail as it came to me. Dark skin, bald head, and a short, white beard. Not the stockiest dwarf I'd seen, but somewhat more lean and sinewy than the rumbling tanks that lived much closer to the Surface. But I knew what it was.

Duergar.

If there was a race that knew less about enjoying life than the dourest slave, it was the Duergar, the grey dwarves of the Underdark. There was a joke that to see one smile meant only that it had gas.

Grim and bitter and jealous of their ubiquitous cousins closer to the Surface, their only pleasures were to push around those weaker than them and to work their captives to death. Meanwhile, they never ceased toiling themselves; they expected it. They made life harder than it had to be and their measure of strength was seeing how much rock one could move in their lifetime, figuratively and (at times) literally.

There was nothing I respected about them except their notable viciousness and the fact that a few of them had distinct mind-talents which should never be underestimated. One of my favorite cautionary stories at Court had been the one about the Trade Mistress rejecting an offer made by a Duergar and foolishly turning her back on him. The fact that a fist-sized stone flew straight from the ground to the back of her head while the stern-faced Duergar barely moved a muscle... well, it came as a shock and a surprise, because no one had tasted the magic in the air as a warning.

That was because it hadn't been magic as we knew it.

Legend had it that these abilities were introduced to the dwarven body thanks to the Illithids, those hideous, tentacle-faced psionic masters of the Underdark that even the Drow had cause to fear. In fact, it is said that the Illithids created the Duergar almost wholesale, that the squat workers had once been of a common Surface race, dragged down deep as prisoners to serve and obey their psionic masters. They'd since changed.

The Illithids have enslaved more races than has my own kind—which is an accomplishment. The rumors of their experiments, changing and creating new and warped forms of the natural races as they exercised a telepathic grip on their victims, certainly lent itself to explain much of the Duergar philosophy of life:

Work. Dominate. Punish. Work more. Die.

It also provided an obvious insult to the short, grey burrowers...just mention their past slavery to the Illithids in some creative manner. Watch their bald heads explode in bad temper.

So... did this one have such mental talents? Why was he working alone? I had been sitting for enough time by now that if there were any others working in the surrounding caverns, I'd have heard them. I knew Duergar sometimes scouted into our territory looking for gems, and, like a social insect having found a new food source, they would return to bring reinforcements. It was endlessly irritating keeping the poachers out.

I pondered whether to take out this scout before such a thing could happen, but then, looking down at my turgid nipples and lack of any armor or poison or weapon with any range...well, I'm not stupid. For being so short, the grey dwarves were still quick, strong, and did not hesitate to kill. Charging him now and hoping to get the drop on him was not an option.

I could smell his sweat after a time as I sat there, and I was aware of the increase in heat in the area. He hadn't bathed anywhere near as recently as I had, and dwarves in general always had an oily heft to their musk, layered with soot and ash, grit and mineral. They often smelled to me like bags of grease and earth, and this one was no different.

I remained behind the boulder and stewed a moment, then bit down on my lip and squeezed my thighs together as another wave of arousal claimed me. It lasted for several minutes and I chose to hold my breath temporarily and let it out rather than struggle with the husky gasping that tried to escape.

These episodes were not lessening in strength and this was beginning to concern me; I feared that it was indeed a permanent affliction. I would not live much longer if it was. Depending on who discovered it, my death could be a singularly creative one.

No. If this was permanent...my first target would be the Priestess who'd done this. I wouldn't keep the secret forever, but all I had to do was keep it long enough to get to her...

The Duergar's movement paused and he went still as my mind finally cleared somewhat and I tried to catch my breath without being audible. If I'd thought to take him unaware, it was too late; he sensed another presence, though I was willing to bet he would not have been able to see me even had I stood straight up. He'd hear me, perhaps even smell me, but he'd not see me.

I peeked back over the stone, tensing as my body flooded with sensations in addition to randiness, as I prepared to move as my training would do me justice. I had to keep eyes on him from now on, I knew, as more lore of the grey dwarves came to the fore of my mind.

He could literally disappear on me if I wasn't ready.

The Duergar gathered up what I was sure were raw gems just harvested, and he moved over to his pack a few paces away. He added the gems to a pouch tied to the outside of the pack, reached to lift and don a simple steel helmet that had been near his feet. The helmet didn't have a nose or mouth guard and barely protected his cheekbones. Then he stood perfectly still, listening and remaining far more quiet than I'd have been willing to believe a dwarf could manage.

I focused on the pack and saw there was a swollen water skin tied to it, slightly damp with condensation. It was a reasonable leap of logic to suppose there would be food inside that pack as well.

Now I had a much more personal reason to confront him. He was poaching in Drow territory, yes, but I wasn't the Border Guard and it wasn't my responsibility to police it—especially naked with only a blade to my name.

It was, however, much more in my interest to try to take that food and water from him. I wanted it more than he did, even if it was of their deplorable diet. If he was a scout, he could hike back to his troupe and get more. I, on the other hand, was on my own. My only resources, other than the blade, would be what I could find—or what I could claim.

I would have to get closer somehow. In other circumstances, maybe I'd consider bargaining with him, but I truly had nothing to barter away. I would not give up my House's blade, and I hadn't anything else on me.

It might be an obvious joke to suggest killing two salamanders with one stone: to bargain sex for food and take care of my intense need at the same time. I would gut someone for even suggesting it. Yes, apparently I would fuck a Draegloth—remember, they were half-Drow, still. I'd not fuck a dwarf, and any true Squat would not even consider slacking his occasional lust with a Drow.

Simply put: We would kill each other first.

I would just have to try to take the food and water. To do that, I'd have to best him.

"Wrundele, Drowen," he muttered, deep and aggressive, when neither of us moved for full minutes. He was scowling in my general direction but not looking right at me with these blank, milk-white eyes that actually did resemble an Illithid's. "Ichen blikrow."

I smiled and slowly stood up. So guttural; it sounded like the grey dwarves were always hacking and spitting on their own language. I got the gist, though. He was saying that he knew I was here.

"Surely you speak Trade, Duergar."

He seemed to look right at me but, as I had estimated, he couldn't see my exact form or face. He squinted but didn't hold my location for long before his gaze wavered. He was still estimating.

He nodded once, a short, gruff gesture. "I do. Quit hiding, Drow. Come out."

"Mmm, no," I replied with a playful lilt to my voice.

The silence following baffled him and his face grimaced in a very ugly shadow of anger as he gestured with his pickaxe. "You frolicking whores try to slave me, I'll wrench you all open from crotch to neck."

I had to admit, it was a pretty good threat and I believed he would. But he had also revealed that he wasn't sure if I was the only Drow here. I knew I was, and I knew he was the only Duergar.

"Leave your pack, then," I said, projecting a command to my voice in the dark. "Those gems aren't yours. Leave everything here and we will give you a chance to run."

He glanced at his pack, his face hardened further and he shook his head. "You lie, you chase when something runs. I can't outrun you."

"Try," I mocked. "Leave your pack and we'll call it even."

He had a very firm grip on his pack as he scowled even more deeply. Surely he didn't have anything in there for which he wanted to die or become a slave? Was he a fool?

"Leave our territory, scout!" I repeated as my stomach rumbled impatiently. "This is your only chance!"

He kept quiet, and I saw the first bit of doubt cross his face. Damn my hunger, I'd pushed too hard, too quickly and squandered the chance to bluff him and avoid a fight.

"Drow don't give chance," he murmured quietly, hefting his pickaxe and his pack, biceps bulging. "They attack, or they trick. They trick when they don't believe they can win by their own strength."

He grinned, showing wide, blunt teeth as he closed his eyes. He started to vanish before my gaze.

"No, you don't," I growled and sprinted forward to get closer, focusing solely on his fading outline. I drew in my hand then thrust it up, making a specific gesture as I exclaimed, "Faeriluci!"

Calling Darkness wasn't my only inborn talent; I could also Call Light to some extent. A line of harmless, magenta fire outlined the Duergar just as his invisibility spell took complete effect. I could no longer see his face or form or belongings in any way, but I had attached a glowing "Please Shoot Me" ring of faerie fire to his void that would last several minutes.

"ULKHEIN!" he bellowed in rage—I was pretty sure it was an insult—then a stone the size of his fist hurdled toward my chest at incredible speed.

It had my full and undivided attention.

So the Court story had been true.

The stone clipped my sword arm near the shoulder as I dodged to the side, but I kept moving forward as the rock ricocheted against the side of the cavern behind me. My shoulder was beginning to feel numb and I knew had to end this quickly. I was not in a position to toy with him and expect to come out on top.

I planted my feet just out of striking distance for him and waved my hand in front of me. I risked closing my eyes as I breathed, "Lucinitrel."

Three dancing lights bright as candlelight formed between us and I heard him cry out in pain. He'd been looking right at it, and I knew how much it had hurt. I took advantage of his blindness and rushed forward to strike.

In truth, I was just as blind as he was. I knew how to fight blind, even if I needed more practice yet. But I also hadn't had a good look at how his armor was put together before he'd done his chameleon act. To top it off, my favored arm was severely weakened from the glancing blow I'd suffered from the flying rock.

My strike did not kill him as it should have; in fact, I missed anything vital. I can say that I disrupted his spell, easily made him visible again, and knocked him off his feet likely clutching his own arm after I heard the pickaxe drop as well.

I opened my eyes slowly, ready for the sting, and I could see the tears streaming down his face as he grimaced against the hovering lights. I directed them closer to his face so that I could shove the handle of the pickaxe farther away from him with my bare foot. He'd have to scramble to reach it, I thought.

He said nothing, made no sound after that first cry, just gnashed his teeth and trembled in rage, his eyes continuing to water. His arm was bleeding freely as dark fluid dripped onto the rock beneath him, but he was protecting his vital areas and was coiled to strike if I moved against him.

"Give me your pack, poacher," I demanded. "Enough games."

He growled, a bit of froth at the corner of his bearded mouth. "No."

Then he blinked his eyes, and the pickaxe began shifting closer to him as if it had a will of its own.

Uh-oh.

I turned slightly and kicked him with the heel of my foot, connecting with the bridge of his nose and sending him backward onto his pack. Blood spurted across his face, the pickaxe stopped moving. I looked upon the strange sight of a Duergar in repose.

*Hmph. One probably does have to knock them out to ever get them to relax.*

I let the dancing lights fade to spare my own eyes, to let them readjust to darkness, and listened as the quiet returned to the cavern after our scuffle. Had we drawn unwelcome attention? Were his own coming to investigate? I shouldn't waste time.

I kneeled to roll him slightly on his side and to work, yank and shift his heavy pack from his prone body; it was quite a chore that took more energy than it should have. Who knew Duergar were so dense? I fumbled to get the water pack untied as soon as I was able, sniffing the spout and huffing a laugh.

It was water alright, but it was mixed with mushroom ale. Or rather...it was mushroom ale heavily diluted with water, enough to replenish oneself but not without a dull buzz that likely also numbed sore muscles and minor aches. It made perfect sense that this would be the drink an ever-working Duergar would carry.

"Better than nothing," I muttered to his body as I looped the strap across my shoulder to let it rest at my waist (rather than my hip, if I'd been dwarf-height). Then I started unlacing the leather ties that secured his pack.

As I began to pull out items looking for anything edible, I ran across a variety of small, nicked tools that, even if I didn't know what they were for, seemed like the essentials for any scout. They were each wrapped in oiled cloths that repelled moisture and were flecked with rock, earth, and dust, obviously well-used and—where applicable—repeatedly sharpened. He must have been using this same set for years. That or he was not the only one to have used them. I set them aside. They were heavy and I had no interest in excavation tools.

About a dozen raw, unpolished gems were inside as well. Despite what I'd told him about them not belonging to him, I really didn't care about those either and continued my search. Stuffed in a side pocket on the inside was a package that seemed to have some give to it and I lifted that out. Enclosed in an oiled leather wrap this time, I smelled what I'd bet was animal fat and tugged at the string tying it closed.

Inside was a dense, pressed block of something that I presumed was the Duergar's dinner. I could smell under-nuts, mushrooms, salted fish meat, cave berries and an oil of unknown source. It had all been ground up and smashed together into a compact, portal meal.

It was very crude and nothing you'd ever see on the dining plates of the Court but I wasn't going to be choosy right now. Properly rationed, this one block that filled my entire hand from heel to fingertip could last me two days of marching. I took a bite, chewing slowly to taste it first then swallowing more hastily. It really wasn't to my liking, far too musky and heavy, but I could live off it.

I took another few bites, and then a swallow of the ale, careful to not start guzzling that. Slowly my hollow middle ceased its incessant demands and quieted.

I found nothing else of real interest to me after I emptied the pack; he had no weapon that equaled my House blade, I could not wear his boots nor any of his clothes or armor, which consisted mostly of studded leather braces and heavy shin guards, as well as a thick chest piece that would take a sharp blade to stab through it. His single blanket for resting was shabby, coarse, and smelled unbearable. Overall I would say he was poor in matters of wealth when compared to the Noble Houses. He possessed what he most used as a laborer.