Dark Warrior Rising

by Ed Greenwood

  The sprawled Nifl moaned a little, and moved not at all. The elder spellrobe reached out a tentative hand, not knowing what to do. There was so much blood …

  “Leave him.” Presker’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “He’s beyond fighting, and House Evendoom has urgent, present need for your spells.”

  Raereul looked up at him, shocked, and then down again at the silent Alandalas. “But he’ll die!”

  Presker shrugged. “Olone gathers, as usual. Come, and bring a decanter. We’ll probably all need it ere long.”

  The tip of Orivon’s sword caught one of the spellrobe’s boots, biting deep. The Evendoom wizard shouted in pain, hopping awkwardly in midair—and Orivon sprang high again, swinging his hammer with all his strength.

  He felt the spellrobe’s knee shatter under his blow, even before the Nifl’s shriek of pain smote his ears.

  Abruptly the wizard fell out of the air, that spell broken, his meeting with the ground swift and heavy. He mewed in agony as he bounced, shattered bones jarring—and then stopped his whimperings forever when a hard-swung hammer shattered his skull.

  Orivon pounced on the dark elf, broke the spellrobe’s neck with a quick twisting tug of a Nifl jaw, then rolled hastily away from the dying wizard.

  He was in time to see the two flying blades that had been streaking at his back plunge down to the stones, to skirl and clatter to harmless stops.

  “Beard of Thorar,” he growled, “but that was … too near a thing, by half.” He rubbed at his knuckles where he’d rolled on rough stone, found his feet, and looked around warily, murmuring, “Aye, too near by half.”

  No more foes seemed to be lurking in the cleft. Not behind rocks, not inside the tunnel mouth—where there was an old, massive metal door, standing open and with a plentiful supply of corpses to hand—nor in the air above.

  So, should he just keep going, out into the Wild Dark right now, while Talonnorn was still in an uproar?

  In the air above … the Hunt, or even raudren …

  Orivon shuddered at that thought. No. Not yet. Not without something he could carry to drink and eat, and at least a Nifl cloak, perhaps a helm … as he stood right now, anyone could see from afar he was a human; that had to change.

  But one chance, Orivon Firefist, so do it right.

  With a sigh, he retrieved the tools and weapons he’d dropped and went along the narrowing cleft to its end, far from all the bodies, to hide them. He put on his breeches but added the sword to the cache, leaving himself just the smallwork-hammer, which could be carried thrust through a belt if he found one suitable among all the battle-fallen.

  Orivon was surprised at how hard it was to heap stones over everything and make the heap look natural rather than a deliberate cairn; he was sweating before he was done.

  Aside from rock maggots swarming over the bodies, gnawing busily, the cleft was as he’d left it. He found two baldrics that would serve him as belts, buckled them both on, and stripped the robe, with its Black Flame of Evendoom, off the wizard he’d killed—who considerately hadn’t bled on it.

  It tore a little down the back as Orivon pulled it over his head, but, well, would have to serve.

  Feeling heavily covered indeed after so many years of living naked, Orivon went again to the tunnel mouth with the open door. It looked as if it led back to the Eventowers, to the heaped ruin that had recently been the oldest part of the great castle. So it might well now end in a collapse.

  Yet the alternative was to clamber back up onto the bare stone of the cavern behind the Eventowers, and head for one of the many tunnel mouths yonder. A journey during which he could well be seen by half of Talonnorn, if half of Talonnorn were still alive.

  Orivon sighed, hefted his hammer in his hand, and went through the door.

  “Man,” a weak Nifl voice husked, from just ahead. “Do you believe in Olone?”

  “No,” Orivon said shortly, backing away hastily and straining to see. Spell-given darksight took some moments to adjust to great differences in light, whereas darksight one was born with …

  “I am far beyond hurting you,” said the voice, and a faint glow kindled.

  Frowning at it warily, Orivon soon saw that it was coming from the bracers on the forearms of a war-armored Nifl lying on his back in the tunnel, a black puddle of melted flesh where his legs should have been. The breast of the warblade’s harness bore the Three Black Tears of Maulstryke.

  One long-fingered Nifl hand was resting on the hilt of a long, slender sword. As Orivon watched, it closed feebly on that blade, tried twice to lift it, and on the third straining attempt waveringly brought the blade up—and threw it, back over the Nifl’s own shoulder to bounce and clatter just beyond the warblade’s head. “See? I am unarmed, man.”

  “There’s a dagger at your belt.”

  “So there is,” the weary voice agreed. “I had forgotten that. I doubt I can reach it any longer. Man, I mean you no harm. Olone comes to claim me; I am beyond all loyalties and causes.”

  “So why did you speak to me?” Orivon asked curiously. “Why not just lie still, and let this hairy human slave walk past and leave you in peace?”

  “I’m lonely,” the warblade sighed. “Never talked to anyone much, beyond curses and orders and grim grand denouncements of Evendoom. Are you in a hurry to get yourself killed, as I was?”

  “I … Can I do anything for you?”

  “Stay a bit. Talk. When I die, walk on. Perhaps we’ll both see Olone. They say She’s so beautiful—”

  “It drives Nifl mad, or blind, or both, aye,” Orivon growled, “unless they be Her anointed priestesses.”

  “You don’t look like a priestess of Olone,” the dying Nifl said, and chuckled—or tried to; it became a wet, blood-filled choking that faded into whimpering.

  “An Evendoom spellrobe did this to me,” he added suddenly. “Called himself the guardian of the Hidden Gate. Said he was a better spellrobe than Ondrar of Raskshaula.”

  “I killed him,” Orivon said. “Just now.”

  “You did? Good. Ah, good! Man, you’ve done me a service.”

  “Good,” Orivon growled. “So tell me: What is this Hidden Gate? Here, aye, but who made it? Where does it lead?”

  “A back way into the Eventowers. The oldest and best of six or so hidden ways; it goes deep, down to the Evendoom dungeons. Lord Maulstryke called us together in haste, to go in this way and do as much damage as we could. This attack on Talonnorn was none of our doing, but Evendoom seemed hit the hardest, and in great disarray. A grand opportunity.”

  Orivon nodded. Everyone knew Evendoom and Maulstryke were hated rivals. “Does all Talonnorn know this tunnel is here?”

  “Yes.” The voice was noticeably weaker.

  “Then why but one door and one spellrobe to keep other Houses out? Why not a tower? It’s not as if the Evendooms don’t like to build them!”

  That made the Maulstryke warblade try to laugh again, a convulsive, alarming choking that almost finished him. “Well said, well said,” he gasped at last. “No pureblood House Nifl will build such, here, or bide in such a turret if you built it for them. The magics here in these clefts make their bracers burn, and would force them away.”

  “Their bracers? That turn aside shards and forge cinders?”

  “Yes, and arrows, flung stones, and the like; those bracers.”

  “What magics?” Orivon looked hastily about. “I feel nothing.”

  “Magics are down, now. We broke them to get here.” The Nifl’s voice had faded to almost a whisper.

  “What magics?”

  “Ever wonder why dung-worms don’t thrust their snouts into Talonnorn every Turning? And the packs of wild darkwings and raudren—and all the other beasts that maraud out there in the Dark—don’t come raiding through our streets?”

  “There are wards.”

  “Yes, wards. Well, the biggest ward in all Talonnorn is—or was—anchored right here. The beast-ward, that keeps all such at bay, unless or
until they start wearing those bracers or carrying in their jaws Talonar corpses who wear them.”

  “So you broke this ward, and let the dung-worms in?”

  “No, they were almost as much an unwelcome surprise to us as they were to the Evendooms. Someone else sent them in—and that took powerful spells, to get them past the beast-ward. The beast-ward circles the city, and turns. Always.” The Nifl’s whisper was becoming slurred, and Orivon hurried forward to hear better. “Very slowly, but it’s always moving. Something—I’m no spellrobe, mind—to do with denying some sort of spell-attacks on it. It turns, and once around Talonnorn is a Turning, see? To you—d’you remember the Blindingbright, man?—that’d be about a month. I think.”

  “You’ve been to the Blindingbright?” Orivon shouted. “You know the way there?”

  “I’ve been,” came the weak whisper, sounding apologetic, “but I know not the way. They cast spells on warblades to keep us from knowing the passages through the Wild Dark, and lead us when we go. So we can’t so easily go rogue and join the Ravagers, see?”

  “So spellrobes know the way?”

  “I … guess,” the warblade said very slowly, his whisper wet and rattling.

  “Who knows the way?” Orivon snapped. “Are there maps?”

  There was no reply.

  “Damn you,” Orivon snarled, bending close to pluck at the breast of the Maulstryke armor. “Live! Live long enough to tell me!”

  The Niflghar turned his head, gave Orivon a beautiful, welcoming smile, and gasped, “Olone …”

  Then he went still. Orivon shook him, shouting, “Where are the maps? Who knows the way?”

  Smiling happily, the dead Maulstryke stared at nothing. Orivon threw back his head and roared out wordless frustration.

  And then he let go of the dead Nifl and said gently, “My thanks, warblade. May Olone find you worthy.”

  “Much as I dislike hampering the fun of any of my kin,” a deep, familiar voice came from behind Ravandarr, making him stiffen, “this particular pewling unworthy happens to be my son. And Secondblood heir of this House. Harm him in any way, Valarn, or by your neglect or deliberate action cause him to be harmed by another, and I shall personally remove your organs—one at a time, and slicing them very thinly—and fry them in your own blood, and feed them to you. Several of the crones of our House have offered to provide recipes and assist in the cooking, so long as they get a taste, too. No less than three of our spellrobes have offered their services to keep you alive and fully conscious throughout, so you’ll miss none of the fun—or the pain.”

  “L-Lord Evendoom,” Valarn said stiffly, “I was but jesting.”

  “Ah, good, good. Valarn, I’d hate to think you were doing anything else with your carelessly chosen words to my son and to our honored kin Faunhorn. It is my personal opinion that you become steadily more unloved, and that is both regrettable and dangerous. Oh, and one more thing.”

  Lord Evendoom fell silent, until Valarn was forced to ask, “Yes, Lord?”

  “There’s a battle unfolding. Try not to waste my time.”

  And with a flash of the ring that whisked him from place to place in an instant, the Lord of House Evendoom was gone as abruptly as he’d arrived.

  It was almost as if he could listen to words from afar.

  “By the Burning Talon, die, Ouvahlan scum!” Jalandral Evendoom shouted jovially, driving the sword in his left hand through a Nifl throat and slashing a gorkul across the eyes with the blade in his right hand.

  They’d reached the Long Hall before meeting with any of the foe—but the Long Hall could hold hundreds, and right now those hundreds happened to be warblades and fighting slaves of Ouvahlor, conferring and gathering loot and laughing over their kills.

  Until Raereul’s best spell lashed through them, and sent them howling up the stairs to the handful of armed Evendooms.

  Raereul’s second magic slew only a handful, and it was his last battle-spell.

  “Well,” Presker said, kicking a gorkul in the face and driving his sword over its shoulder right down the snarling gullet of the one behind, “we’re just going to have to kill the rest of them the old way.”

  “Uncle, stop killing my gorkul,” Taerune told him happily, plying her warsteel at his elbow.

  “Pray pardon, Lady Evendoom,” he replied in formal tones. “I regret to inform you that my regrettably aged eyesight has caused me to mistake one of yours for one of mine. Again.”

  “No doubt you tell all the shes something similar,” she laughed, causing the warblade on her other side to chuckle before an Ouvahlan long-claws thrust through his throat, and he died.

  “So a Turning is about a month, perhaps,” Orivon muttered, turning over corpses. “Would you happen to remember just how many Turnings you’ve had Orivon Firefist as your slave, Lady Taerune Evendoom? Aye? Well, speak up!”

  He shook a dead Evendoom warblade by the shoulder until slack jaws in a lolling head clacked and clattered—but still it wouldn’t meet his gaze or answer him.

  Grinning wryly, Orivon let it fall and went on searching.

  He’d found four corpses—no, five, now—he was certain were of House Evendoom. He even recognized one face: a guard who’d often accompanied Taerune of the Whips.

  From them he took the three best pairs of bracers, strapping them to his upper arms, his forearms, and his calves, hoping their magics wouldn’t react with each other and harm him in some strange way. He wasn’t going to risk Maulstryke bracers in the Eventowers, in case the strange magic raised alarms—or even unleashed waiting spells left ready by spellrobes. He knew just enough about magic to know that he knew nothing that could be trusted, noth—

  A shadow fell over him.

  Orivon looked up, froze—and then sprinted for the tunnel mouth faster than he’d ever run anywhere in his life, one half-buckled bracer flapping.

  Overhead, a raudren was gliding.

  Like a huge black living arrowhead, it looked—a sleek, leathery arrowhead as wide as the Rift itself. Peering up from the tunnel mouth that was thankfully too small for it to enter, Orivon saw its manyfanged under-slung jaw, wide enough for about five Orivons, several fanglike claws set in trios along the edges of its body, two rows of liquid black eyes that were gazing back at him knowingly, and a long, sinuous tail studded with razorlike projecting bones. Lots of them, lashing back and forth with slow, sinuous lassitude as it drifted through the air. Hunting.

  There was another raudren behind it, and another. Large and silent and relentless, hunters of Talonnorn’s foes and fugitives, and so guardians of the city. Unleashed, they’d hunt at will until called back with horns—but each raudren would return only after it had eaten.

  A Talonar had become desperate enough to release them, a menace to Niflghar and Ouvahlan alike. Probably they were intended to harry the invaders well out into the Wild Dark—but they were proferring a starkly simple fate to Orivon Firefist: If he tried to escape now, he’d be devoured, swiftly and messily. Raudren liked to tear their prey apart in midair, wheeling and darting—in pairs and trios, or more—to bite off pieces as the bleeding meat fell.

  Bleeding meat. Orivon’s smile held no mirth at all as he stepped through the door again and started down the tunnel. Either he was going to find the way blocked by fallen rock, and try to hide here or somewhere in the clefts until the raudren were called back in—or he was going to the Eventowers dungeons, and up through them to back storage rooms he dimly recalled, and thence by the servants’ stairs to the only relatively safe place in all the Eventowers he knew to hide, if spellrobes were finished hurling down towers: the attics of the older part of the castle. There to await the best time to take his plunge out into the Wild Dark—unless he could make his way unseen amid the chaos, with so many Evendooms dead, to one of the Eventowers libraries, and somehow find a map of the Wild Dark. Preferably one with a bold and clear marking on it that read “Ashenuld.”

  “The one with the eye patch is mine,” Taerune
said grimly, hacking aside a squalling human with a greataxe. “Dral, get that door open!”

  They were now only seven, and there were still hundreds of Ouvahlans. Wherefore they’d retreated to a corner of the Long Hall where an ornate pillar held a secret door all of the Evendooms had used countless times before to duck out of boring feasts or slip into meetings without having to endure the tedious greetings of disliked guests or Talonar officials. Unfortunately, it seemed Jalandral was having great difficulty in getting the door open.

  Of course, the dozens of blades he was acrobatically fending off while trying to do so might have had some part in that difficulty. Or perhaps it was the scarred elder Ouvahlan Nifl with the eye patch who seemed to know exactly what they were trying to do, and was ordering his forces to their deaths with a ruthless precision of attacks designed to keep Jalandral Evendoom from ever accomplishing anything.

  “No,” Presker gasped, between furious rounds of parrying, “I’ve never seen him before. He’s not some former slave or servant, as far as I know. Perhaps he came into the Hall in the past posing as some trade envoy or other. It’s one of the few rooms we’ve always let them see. Ha!” His sudden thrust caught a human by surprise—and in the crotch. Trying to scream and weep at the same time, the man doubled over and fell, clutching himself. His fellow Ouvahlans trampled him and finally kicked him aside.

  Taerune threw herself at the ankles of the pair of clumsily thrusting humans in front of her, bowling them over. She came up lunging, sharply putting her blade right into a hurrying Nifl behind the humans: her quarry with the eye patch.

  He screamed and hopped his way off her blade, howling, his leg collapsing under him the moment it touched the floor. He fell sideways with a speed that took half a dozen Ouvahlan Nifl by surprise, as he came crashing into them and they all went sprawling. The warblade beside Taerune sprang forward to thrust at throats and mouths and faces, despite her snarled, “No, you fool! Don’t break our line!”