by Ed Greenwood
The runes on the tall dark doors became white blazing beacons, hurling light into the tumult that Talonnorn had become.
In their radiance he stared at what now was bursting up out of the solid stone cavern floor, to rear up beyond the gates of the Rift, even taller than they soared: a huge dung-worm, tall and dark and malevolent as it peered about.
Thorar, if it noticed him …
That fear was still kindling in Orivon as he stared at the distant Eventowers, now brightly lit by the awakened white glows of their wards, and saw three—three!—more dung-worms, truly giant deepserpents that seemed now not sluggishly mindless but full of keen-witted malice. They were rearing up over the towers and turrets of the proud Nifl castle, surging forward.
And then they were crashing down, jaws agape, gnawing and slamming at stone. And the Eventowers were rocking and crumbling, one turret leaning out to begin the long, rumbling plunge to oblivion.
Orivon shook his head in astonishment.
Thorar, it seemed, had answered his prayers at last.
6
War Comes to Talonnorn
We’ll drown in hot blood and leave widows forlorn
Earning bright glory when war comes to Talonnorn.
—from the ballad
“War Comes to Talonnorn”
They were well into the chant, face-down and shivering as they embraced the great dark slope of ice, when Lolonmae threw back her head and screamed.
It was a scream that broke off into wild, uncontrolled shakings and tremblings, so that the scandalized disgust of her fellow novices and underpriestesses turned to alarm—and for some, swiftly hidden delight at an excuse to rise from the frigid ice, all bare, wet, blue, and shivering as they were, and bundle the moaning, unseeing, still-writhing Lolonmae down the long, dark hall to a certain door.
A door that wasn’t answered, even when their tentative knockings turned to fearful hammerings—until Exalted Daughter of the Ice Semmeira dared to do what was never done. She flung the door wide, and led the way in.
Temple spells that had been old before the Revered Mother was born made the darkness glow blue-white around the wet, anxious priestesses as they hurried, bare wet feet slapping on smooth stone. Down a shorter, narrower passage to a small round room where the Revered Mother should have been kneeling alone before her private altar of ice …
But was instead sprawled spiderlike on the floor, writhing in the same manner as the stricken novice Lolonmae.
“Revered Mother?” Semmeira cried, rushing forward.
Pain-filled yet wryly amused eyes looked back up at her from the floor, and then past her to what swayed in the grasp of a knot of priestesses. “Ah,” the aged high priestess croaked, her voice raw from screaming. “Lolonmae. Of course.”
Semmeira knelt to help the still-trembling Revered Mother to her knees. “‘Of course’?” she dared to ask.
“She felt it, too. Great magic, unleashed—spells strong enough to shake the Ice itself.”
“Are we … under attack?”
The Revered Mother shook her head. “No. At least, not yet. The spells are too distant for that.”
She thrust herself up to her feet, swaying, as the priestesses stared at her. “Yet not so far off that we should not be gravely concerned.”
Semmeira swallowed. “How concerned?”
The Revered Mother gave her a long, thoughtful stare. “We should probably all be wetting ourselves. Not that doing so will be much help.”
A watch-whorl burst into an inferno of whirling sparks, hurling a headless, blackened crone back in her seat, to slump into eternal silence. Someone screamed, and Maharla and Orlarra snarled in unison, “What’s happening?”
“Olone preserve us,” Galaerra whispered hoarsely, staring into the watch-whorl she’d hastily backed away from, but hadn’t dared flee—nor, to tell the truth, had been able to resist staring into. They could all see what she was staring at: the great heads of dung-worms rearing up to overtop the lesser towers of the very castle they were sitting in.
And plunging down, like great living rams, to smash through ancient stone walls and shake the chamber around them. Dust and tiny stones pelted down on their heads, and all over the room crones of House Evendoom started screaming.
Every watch-whorl was showing the same scene: the Eventowers beset, three dung-worms—no, more!—rearing their heads once more to strike, lesser towers slowly toppling or gone already, and Talonnorn beyond a scene of devastation, with plumes of smoke billowing up, distant deepserpents undulating and rising up to crash through buildings, and Nifl fighting Nifl everywhere.
“We’re all going to die!” an elven crone shrieked.
Another burst up out of her chair, her watch-whorl collapsing into falling, fading motes in her wake, and raced for the door, crying, “They’re coming! They’ll be breaking into this tower next!”
Orlarra raised a hand, face cold and set, but Maharla was faster. Fires flared from her fingertips, tiny beams of flame that streaked across the chamber—and the running crone shrieked suddenly, clawing at a door that would not open, as her personal ward suddenly flared into visibility around her, beset around its edges by Maharla’s flames … and already shrinking visibly.
Desperately the crone struggled with the door, her hands flaming with emerald fires of her own—but though it burst into roiling green flames under her touch, it held firm.
Crones all over the chamber stared at their eldest, Orlarra, who was standing with one hand raised, palm out in a “halt” gesture. Whenever emerald magic flared across the door, Orlarra’s eyes went emerald too, and her face slowly creased in pain—but the door held, and it was the crone fighting with it who suddenly screamed in agony as her wards collapsed and Maharla’s flames claimed her. She reeled, sobbing, ablaze all over, and then sagged to the floor, becoming her own pyre.
Orlarra winced, but turned to Maharla and said, “That was well done.”
“Yes,” Maharla hissed, “and so is this.”
The gestures she made then were small and swift. The eldest crone easily repulsed her flames, rage rising to join pain on her face—but Maharla’s spiteful smile never wavered, and a jet of flame rose from the burning crone on the floor to race across the chamber and stab the eldest crone of House Evendoom in the back.
Orlarra stiffened, crones gasped and half-rose from their seats all over the room—and a deepserpent head slammed through a nearby wall. The chamber cracked and reeled in a slow thunder of grinding, falling stone and suddenly swirling dust that hurled shrieking crones this way and that.
Orlarra gasped, Maharla’s crimson flames gouting from her mouth—and then her eyes burst into spitting, stabbing lightnings. “Olone!” she whispered, wonder joining sobbing pain in her voice. “Oh, Perfect One!”
Her body flared into golden flame that sent Maharla staggering back in surprise and alarm, and she whispered, “Of course. Use me, please!”
And she was gone, only empty air and silence where golden tongues of fire had swirled a moment before.
A sudden hush fell upon the tower, even as dung-worm heads reared up again, looming large and darkly terrible in the watch-whorls.
That golden calm held as dark, mottled monster heads larger than the crones’ lofty tower-top chamber raced right at every watch-whorl, the crones frozen at them slack-jawed in terror, watching death rushing to claim them …
They heard the blows of those great heads, faintly, but felt nothing. And in every watch-whorl, dung-worms writhed in agony, rearing back into the air trailing plumes of golden lightning, twisting and shaking from side to side, seeking to be rid of the pain they could not escape …
Vast and sluggish they fell back, coiling and thrashing, their great loops crushing loping pack-snouts and running servants and flattening the walls of the Eventowers gardens—and then the gardens, too.
More than one crone laughed in triumph, peering into her watch-whorl, but that mirth was short-lived. The golden glow in the room faded
slowly, bringing down a darkness lit only by the bright eyes of the whorls.
Eyes that were now showing other, larger dung-worms surging out of ruined Talonnorn into the Evendoom grounds, swaying and slithering, gliding through wards that should have crisped them … wards that no longer seemed to be there.
“No!” Galaerra gasped. “How can Olone let this happen?”
“Fool!” snapped old Baraule. “Forget never: Olone tests us always! Those who prevail win brightness in Her eyes!”
Maharla stood alone in the center of the chamber, watching these new menaces, ruby fires dancing and flickering around her clenched fists.
Over the feebly moving coils of the burned dung-worms the new deepserpents came, purposeful, moving forward together. Heading straight for this tower, this chamber …
“All of you!” Maharla snapped. “Look at me, think of me—open your minds to me! I need you with me!”
And she spread her hands and whispered a Word.
The air itself tingled, every hair in the chamber standing on end, sword-stiff and straining.
Maharla said another Word, and the tingling air went very dark, only the frightened faces of the crones glowing faint and pale as they stared at each other. More than one of them looked enraged.
“How dare you! That, Maharla, is only to be used when all else has failed, and the end of our family is upon us!”
“I’m glad you remember the rules so well, Klaerra.” Maharla’s eyes glittered in the gloom like two dark flames, blazing without brightness. “A pity you’re too wan-witted to understand that all else has failed—yes, just this swiftly!—and if I don’t use it, you and I will be sharing in the extinction of House Evendoom!”
It was a sickening feeling, this jostling of minds. Suspicions and dislikes seethed like acid, searing, and more than one crone moaned or mumbled prayers to Olone.
Deepserpent heads towered dark and massive in the lone watch-whorl that was still bright, the one floating nearest to Maharla.
“Now, sisters of Evendoom!” she snapped. “Work with me now, or we are all undone! Strike!”
Her own mind was full of roaring flames—a flood of conflagration that plucked at those of the other crones, seeking to tug them into the quickening flow, bearing them along to …
“Raaaaaah!” Involuntarily they cried out together, wordlessly, shouting their rage and fear and pain … and, slowly unfolding, their exultation as bolts of flame snarled out, searing the air, to strike dung-worm after dung-worm, darting into parted jaws to cause great heads to burst, or splashing over snouts and sending fire raging around serpent heads.
The huge monsters flailed about, headless and convulsed, or swayed and burned, seeking to scream but managing only a vast, wet hissing.
Crones slumped all over the chamber, weeping or clutching at their heads. Maharla stood triumphant, arms crossed, watching the dung-worms die.
It had cost the wits of several in the chamber—and she had seen to that. It had stripped the Evendoom wards of much of their power, snatched away from within; even now, she could feel wards all around Eventowers fail and fall in tatters.
Yet the deepserpents were all gone—and so was Orlarra. And anything that left Maharla the foremost crone of House Evendoom, no matter what else happened, could be counted nothing less than a great victory.
The senior Watcher of Ouvahlor turned from his whorl with a gleeful hiss. “They’ve done it!”
Aloun had never seen Luelldar this excited; his eyes glittered like sword blades catching firelight. “Their wards are down! Send in our blades!”
For once in his life, Aloun sprang eagerly to cast a farspeaking spell.
As she left the balcony behind, Taerune’s mind was awhirl. Down the stair she sprinted, scabbarded sword in hand, the buckle of its belt flailing her arm at every step, and plunged into the mad tumult of the armory hall.
It was every bit as crowded as she’d expected, as she ducked and dodged her way through the hastily arming Nifl of House Evendoom, furiously snarling warblades, aging uncles, and young Hunt braggarts among them.
Jalandral was laughing, of course, when she caught sight of him, clapping warblades on their shoulders and spitting swift orders into their ears, directing them to this gate and that hall in a manner that could only be deemed gleeful.
“Ha-ha, little sister!” he cried, catching sight of her hurrying toward him. “Blood! Blood at last!”
“And much of it Evendoom blood! Our walls are breached, Dral! Breached! And this makes you laugh?”
“But of course!” Jalandral’s eyes danced with delight. “I’ve something to do at last! Something important! Something that matters!”
“Your death will matter to Ravan, yes, and no doubt please more than a few crones, but—Olone forfend!”
Taerune’s angry words rose into a shout as she pointed. At the far end of the hall, gorkul were lumbering forward, sweating, fearful humans, right behind them. Nifl were at their backs, urging them on with whips and goads. Weapons bristled in every hand, and some of the goads crackled with angry lightnings that shed flickering light enough for Taerune to see eye patches and scars among the Nifl. No disfigured dark elf rampant of Talonnorn would be commanding warriors; these were strangers—Ravagers, or Nifl of a city that did not revere Olone.
With shockingly casual ease the foremost gorkul thrust their long-claws deep into Evendoom warblades, hurled the dying Nifl aside and shook them free, then stuck their bloody blades into the next House defenders.
Taerune wasn’t the only one shouting and pointing by then, and warblades alerted in the din spun around to fight no matter how little harness or blades they had ready.
“How did they get this far?” she snarled, to no one in particular. “Who’s guarding our gates?”
It was then that a heavily armored Nifl came reeling down a side passage, drenched in blood. Not recognizing him, Taerune drew her sword and almost slashed open his face before she saw it was Ravandarr.
“Brother!” she shrieked. “What—?”
He struck her sword aside wearily with one armored forearm, and stumbled past, gasping, “The East Tower’s down, and all the rest back to the Hall of Helms is lost to us! Hansur’s dead, and Doualaur, and Malavvan …” He shook his head. “So many coming at us …”
“Ho, Ravan!” Jalandral called cheerfully. “I need you here—can’t let them seize this hall, and use all our weapons against us! To me!”
Ravandarr shook his head, face a loose mask of despair under all the blood, but turned and started back across the room, hefting a notched and bent sword as he staggered.
“They’re pouring in from the back tunnels!” a warblade shouted, bursting out onto a balcony above.
Jalandral looked up, nodded eagerly, and turned his head to snap, “Ryskraun! Naernar! To the Long Hall!”
Raising his blade to the warblade on the balcony, he roared, “Wait for me, Orsyl! I’m coming!” Taerune saw him run three steps before he spun around, pointing with his sword back across the room and almost slicing open Ravandarr’s breast in doing so, and bellow, “Laskal! Take all of the Hunt you can find and get down to the front, to rally our House blades there! Evendoom forever!”
“Evendoom forever!” rampants roared, up and down the hall, and suddenly everyone was rushing, helms and weapons clanging and clattering in dropped haste, and the enemy gorkuls and humans were shrieking and dying, a flashing forest of Evendoom blades thrusting them through. The Nifl who’d commanded them fell back, and with a ragged roar the Evendoom warblades pursued them.
The armory hall emptied with astonishing speed, leaving Taerune momentarily alone with the sprawled dead. She could hear someone—Raskulor, by the sound of the voice—shouting orders in the inner armory.
No one, of course, had given her any orders. She was of the blood Evendoom, and she was female; in most Houses only rampants fought, and the shes cowered behind guarded doors deep in castles during battle, or attended the crones in the innermos
t, highest, most heavily guarded chambers of all. Her sisters were probably shut away somewhere right now, well supplied with sweet treats and wine, gasping and giggling over old tales of Evendoom victories. Maelree always “adorned” the stories she told, every time—and Nalorne always wanted to hear the gory moments over and over again. The others just giggled. On cue.
Lip curling at that thought, Taerune ducked behind a pillar long enough to avoid being sliced open by errant blades as Raskulor burst out of the inner armory and sprinted off in the direction of the Hall of Helms, Evendoom warblades streaming in his wake. Buckling on her sword scabbard, Taerune hoped they weren’t all racing to their deaths.
Evendoom had never been defeated—or so the crones liked to claim, though she remembered asking once what had caused deep grooves in a wooden sculpture deep in the upper bedchambers, and being told by a low-voiced servant that they were sword scars from “one of the strifes,” and must never be mentioned by her again.
Hmm. Ravandarr had just named three of their uncles dead, which left four, including her favorite, Faunhorn, and the one she loathed, who in turn despised her: Valarn. Would any of them survive this battle?
Would House Evendoom survive this?
Yes, enough dusty history; who was attacking now? Not a rival city House, by what she’d seen of Talonnorn from a high tower window, though then again, a craven House like Oszrim or Oondaunt might be behind this; how else could dung-worms—dung-worms!—have gotten in, without many spellblasts to open a way for them, that would have warned everyone and had the Hunt flying?
And where was Lord Evendoom, who should be leading the veteran warblades and spellrobes of the House in a calm, all-capable defense of the Eventowers? Or was he—were they all—dead?
Olone spit!
Taerune ducked into the inner armory, to see if they’d left anything that might aid her. Amid the warning glows of deadly ward-fields she could see helms—she hated the things, and they were always too large for her, deafening and blinding metal buckets she’d just as soon do without—and … aha!
