by Ed Greenwood
She turned her head and said calmly, “Semmeira, we will need the mindbolt spell you’ve been perfecting.”
The Exalted Daughter’s jet-black skin went a sickly yellow-white. “The—?”
“The spell you’ve been practicing in secret, to use on me, Child of the Ice,” the Revered Mother said flatly. “Did you really think you could do such things here without my knowing? I feel every pulse and shift of magic from the topmost spires of Coldheart down to the rock beneath its roots. Go now, Semmeira, and meet me in my chambers as soon as you can. We must alter your spell together, to make it a lance to slay Klarandarr of Ouvahlor.”
Semmeira was trembling, almost white from head to toe, her eyes very dark. “H-how?” she whispered.
“Using some of his seed, of course.”
“Revered Mother,” Darraeya asked shakily, as she and Ithmeira eyed Semmeira as if the Exalted Daughter were going to die in an instant, right in front of them, “how will we ever get any of that?”
The Revered Mother sighed. “From my stock of such handy necessities, child. I didn’t go to all that trouble seducing the rampant when he was much younger and fiercer than he is now—and win all the bites and bruises he gave me, too—for nothing.”
And she turned and swept out without another word, reacting not at all to the gasps of jaws dropping open all around her.
It was impossible to tell if the huge stalactites had crushed any foes when they’d crashed down onto the cavern floor. Atop his horn of rock, the spellrobe was bending and peering almost frantically, trying to see through the dust down there.
Then he sprang back as if stung, almost falling in his haste; something too small for Orivon and Taerune to see had come hurtling up at him from below. The warblades back along the cavern were cocking and firing their hurlbows in swift, deft earnest, firing at some foe below, some—there!
Taerune caught a glimpse of a dark, slender figure that was somehow shimmering …
Another, yonder, and another. Nifl were dodging among the tumbled stones down there, swords in their hands. One of them began the unmistakable movements of whirling a stone in a sling and then letting it fly at the spellrobe.
The Nifl scattered across the cavern floor were clad in all manner of mismatched armor, and hung about with sheathed weapons and flasks, packs and—Taerune’s eyes narrowed—ah! There: those rolling stones! Dislodged by a boot that her eyes told her was well over yonder. The shimmering … of course!
They were all using magic to make themselves seem in one place, when they were in truth standing off to the side. Ravagers? Probably, for no Talonar warband—and probably none of Ouvahlor, either—would make war in such motley armor.
By the way he moved his head, Orivon had seen them too, but Taerune had only a moment to glance sidelong at him; the spellrobe was casting something.
And no wonder. The Raskshaulan warblades must be running out of arrows, they’d sent so many sleeting down, yet she’d seen only one Nifl struck, twisting and toppling over amid the rocks strewn across the cavern floor.
Crouching low as he tried to avoid slung stones, the spellrobe finished working his spell, its light flaring around him. He’d chosen haste over the precision that would have poured all the power he’d called up into the magical effect alone.
The rock overhead glowed, and Orivon’s grip on her belt tightened. There came another deep, yawning groan, and another stalactite fell.
Just one, this time. They watched it break free—huge and brown-gray and hoary—and fall, slow and ponderous. Below, Nifl were running and clambering frantically, as doom came down to greet them.
Orivon rolled back from the edge, clawing Taerune with him … but the heavy, rolling crash, as the stalactite smashed and the cavern shook, still almost flung them both off the ledge.
Someone screamed in pain and terror—a long, falling wailing that came from across the cavern, not below—as Taerune came down hard and helplessly atop Orivon, driving the breath out of him. Grunting, he lost his grip on her, as she twisted and arched, trying to roll along the ledge and away from him—and not off the ledge into a deadly fall.
She was managing it, gag still firmly in place and bound arm throbbing from all the bruising it was taking, when the bare stone end of the ledge she was rolling toward blossomed into a fell radiance.
At the heart of which appeared the spellrobe who’d been standing on the horn of rock, crouched with hands raised to hurl more magic, gaze bent on the cavern floor below.
As the glow of his magical journeying faded, he saw Taerune tumbling along the ledge and Orivon scrambling to his feet beyond her. His eyes widened in fear and anger.
And a moment later, in recognition.
They’d all seen each other before, across the Rift. The firefist and his tormentor were sharing this ledge with the watcher House Raskshaula had often sent to spy on House Evendoom’s prize slave.
The cruel young spellrobe Ondrar of Raskshaula—who was now moving his hands in the first framing gestures of a spellweaving, even as he gaped at them in disbelief.
He was casting a slaying spell.
Lord Erlingar Evendoom poured the last of his best elanselveir into a goblet that matched his own in grandeur, and held it forth, smiling a genuine smile. “I never thought I’d see you alive again.”
Faunhorn Evendoom took the wine with a nod of thanks. “I am similarly surprised. By the grace of Olone—or Taerune’s own intent and precise unleashing—the magic that felled me burned me inside, marring my skin not at all. The priestesses and our crones both saw this as a mark of Olone’s favor, not a sin before her. Wherefore the Waters.”
Lord Evendoom nodded. Faunhorn’s near-lifeless body had been submerged in the Waters of Healing in a hidden chamber of the Eventowers, a family secret known only to Evendooms and a handful of Talonnorn’s most senior priestesses of the Goddess. In the healing pool Faunhorn had drifted from ravaged weakness to unharmed and vigorous far faster than most the Waters had aided. Another mark of Olone’s favor.
Lord Evendoom savored the familiar ruby heat of the elanselveir, thoughtfully—and expressionlessly—regarding the only Nifl in all Talonnorn he trusted.
Faunhorn had gone into that pool because he was trusted by everyone. Some called him the most honest and honorable Niflghar in Talonnorn, and it was no secret the priestesses of Olone saw him as an ideal Lord of House Evendoom. That he’d escaped all scarring or mutilation just made their decision easier; they wanted Faunhorn alive to give them the freedom to sweep away a certain Erlingar Evendoom and both his sons, if the desire—ah, pray pardon, Olone’s will—took them.
Yet Faunhorn could be trusted, and was capable. No treachery would make him act against the rightful ruler and heirs of Evendoom, and henceforth no mercy would make him hesitate in striking down Taerune—no matter how fond he’d been of her—now that he knew she bore her Orb, and that her treason was blatant and extended to unhesitatingly trying to slay him.
Not if the Lord of Evendoom ordered it.
Erlingar sipped again, swallowed, and said formally, “As Lord of Evendoom, I order you to hunt down Orivon Firefist and my now-Nameless daughter, she who we both knew as Taerune—and slay them both. Do you accept these orders, Faunhorn Evendoom?”
Faunhorn frowned, but nodded. “I do.”
Lord Evendoom sighed—he’d not realized until that moment how much he’d feared a refusal and the fight to the death that would have had to follow, given what the Evendoom crones had told him of why they were allowing Faunhorn to be brought back from slow and lingering death—and drank deeply. When he’d recovered from the raging ruby fire of the elanselveir, he said roughly, “Taera’s using her orb to mask her whereabouts—but we have a means of tracing her scent out in the Dark. A gorkul.”
He reached down with the walking stick he’d brought with him—the stick both of them knew held many slaying magics of the House, enough for a Lord of Evendoom to blast any number of Faunhorns—and with its tip slid aside an
ordauth plate in the stone floor beneath their boots.
“This is why we met here,” Faunhorn said. It was not a question.
Erlingar Evendoom nodded, and pointed with his stick down through the revealed grating—at a chained and naked gorkul looking balefully up at them from the depths of a cell below.
It knew better than to do anything but keep silent.
“We’ve already used it to trace her into the Outcaverns, to make sure she didn’t try to hide here in the city and betray us to a rival House. This is one of the first gorkul she personally trained; she named it ‘Grunt Tusks.’”
“I see. So this Grunt Tusks had been overseeing other slaves working at the Rift?”
“Indeed.”
“So just what’s going to make a he-gorkul we’ve lashed and goaded into lashing and goading other slaves want to hunt down this Orivon for us? What are we going to offer him?”
“His life.”
Orivon sprang over her, arrow-swift, a dagger flashing in his hand. Taerune tried to shriek a warning around the gag, even as Ondrar’s wards flared—and the human froze in midair, caught and held in the shimmering, swirling force of the spellrobe’s defensive magics.
More than held; the magic would be searing his innards, cooking him alive!
Taerune spun around on the ledge, pivoting on her bound arm and kicking out viciously, sweeping the spellrobe’s ankles from under him before he could even start to shout.
Ondrar of Raskshaula toppled like a smashed turret, arm and shoulder slamming down onto the edge of the ledge with bone-shattering force, bouncing him back up into the air like a thing of rags—to start the long, shouting fall down to the cavern floor.
And snatching his wards away from the Hairy One who’d come leaping to slay him.
Freed, Orivon Firefist landed and ran forward on wobbling, collapsing legs. As he fell obliviously on his face, plumes of smoke streamed from his mouth and staring, sightless eyes.
The cavern around them trembled, ever so slightly, even before the distant echoes of thudding falls reached them.
“Ho, now!” Old Bloodblade rumbled. “Those were short and sharp, with no groaning of rock before them, only after. Battle.”
Daruse nodded. “Battle.” He looked back over his shoulder at the grim, motley Nifl behind them. Two dozen veteran Ravagers hungry to raid Talonnorn were walking with the slow, sure-footed ease of dark elves used to traversing wild ways as quietly as possible. “So, do we go to see who’s fighting?”
Beside Daruse’s other shoulder, Lharlak shook his head. “Not off that way. That’s the Immur, and apt to be crawling with warbands of Ouvahlor, slowly returning home. The wounded and the wise.”
Old Bloodblade swung around, to squint at him hard. “‘Wounded and wise’? How so?”
“Two sorts travel slowly in the Immur: those who can only manage slow travel thanks to their wounds, and those wise enough to move quietly and warily. Those who go faster meet their dooms sooner.” Lharlak pointed. “We go this way, to the Outcaverns not between Ouvahlor and Talonnorn, and come around to approach the city on another side, where sentinels and ready defenders are less likely. Me, I like to survive my raids.”
For once, there came no dispute.
On her knees on the hard ledge, bending over Orivon, Taerune peered at him. Was he dead? Was she alone here in the Outcaverns, with murderous Talonar all around her?
He moaned, softly, and started to move, hands feebly seeking his eyes.
Alive.
Taerune’s mouth tightened. Her Dark Warrior, her brute who’d so eagerly—gloatingly—used her own lash on her.
It would be so easy to slay him now; the nearest of the daggers on the ledge was an easy crawl away. Once she sawed through the lash binding her wrist to her side, it would be the work of but a moment to slit his throat or sink the dagger hilt-deep in one of his eyes …
And then she would be alone; even something slow and mindless like a cave creeper could slay her whenever she fell asleep. Shouts and warsteel ringing on warsteel from below sharply reminded her of dangers far faster and smarter than cave creepers. Dangers who might want to … enjoy her before slitting her throat. With no one to stop them.
No one to talk to, no one to guard her back—or flank, with but one arm—Olone! No one to help the Nifl with the missing arm even climb.
She dared not kill him. She needed him too much.
Yet how alive was he? The Orb could do many things, but powerful healings were not among them, and even if she’d had a dozen Orbs aglow with power and obedient to her command, she didn’t know how to restore blinded eyes. Oh, where was a spellrobe when you needed—
Taerune swept that thought away with a grim grin and put her arm over her Dark Warrior much as he had done to her, to keep him low and unmoving on the ledge should he start to writhe. Then her lip curled in distaste, and she wriggled hastily away from him, nostrils flaring.
The wards had scorched him, making his human stink sharper and stronger. She was used to his reek from the brandings, but still … With the gag in, she’d choke if she spewed. If she cut it free, spewing her guts all over him might well rouse him, but she doubted he’d waken in a kindly mood. Not to mention that he’d then smell far worse.
Taerune drew in as deep a breath as she could around the gag, and dared to thrust her head out and look down over the edge of the ledge at the battle.
Nifl were busily slaughtering Nifl, blade against blade down in the drifting dust and tumbled rocks. With their spellrobe gone and nothing left for their hurlbows to bite with, the Talonar warblades were faring poorly—and dying swiftly. She watched them thrust desperately at empty air, aware by now that their foes weren’t where their eyes told them they stood—and she watched them fall, spitted before they could wound what they couldn’t see, blades falling from spasming hands to clatter on rocks.
The Ravagers—they had to be Ravagers—would very soon kill the last warblade, and have time to peer up at high ledges in search of the missing spellrobe, to make sure he wouldn’t lurk awaiting the best moment to drop stalactites on their heads. Taerune rolled over onto her back, away from the lip of the ledge, and lay there staring at the rough rock high overhead, listening to the clangor fading.
When it ended, there was a brief mutter of low voices—Nifl rampants, uttering a few words she caught: “our noise heard far off” and “must move, now” and “raid Talonnorn, not fight Talonar idiots.” Then there came the thuds and scrapings of armored Nifl clambering over rocks, moving in the direction of Talonnorn … then, silence.
Taerune lay for a long time listening, seeking not the stretching silence but the faint sounds of cave creepers or anything else cautiously approaching. Out in the Wild Dark, noises meant battle or the rare yawnings of the earth … which meant possible food. Dead, injured, or pinned and helpless creatures to feed on.
A wounded, senseless human and a bound and maimed Nifl on a ledge, for instance.
14
The Fear of the Hunted
Taste it as your blade comes out,
The fear of the hunted,
The despairing shout.
Mercy is for fools,
Hesitation for the weak.
Spilling blood makes every sword sleek.
—old Nifl warblade drinking chant
Orivon groaned. Taerune rolled over hastily and sat up.
He groaned again, one outflung arm twitching. Taerune threw herself into worming her way past him to the swords.
The blade that was lying the right way up, allowing her to easily trap it between wrist and hip and slice through the lash binding her, was right … here …
The lash parted and fell away, freeing her, at about the time she saw Orivon’s eyelids flutter. Hastily Taerune crawled back behind him, and put her arm down against her hip as if it were still bound.
She watched him lift a hand to his face, trail his fingers across it, and tap lightly at his eyes. He let his hand fall, sighed, and felt around
in front of him, patting the rough stone of the ledge, less than a finger length from his dagger. The dagger he seemed to be searching for …
He can’t see!
“Taerune?” Orivon asked quietly. “You’re behind me, aren’t you?”
She drew in a long, slow breath, saying nothing. So the wardfires had blinded him. This changed everything.
And nothing.
She watched him snarl a soundless curse and feel for the dagger again. He was going to find it, his fingers almost on it … there. Even as he cautiously closed his hand around it and then snatched it up, Taerune replied calmly, “Yes. Yes, I am.”
He turned slowly, dagger in one hand and tracing the stone in front of him with the other.
“You can’t see, can you?”
“No,” he said shortly. “Your doing?”
“No. The spellrobe’s wards.”
“Ah. And he’s—?”
“Dead.” Taerune drew in a deep breath. “I kicked him off the ledge. It sounded like a long fall.”
Orivon nodded. “And his friends?”
“The others—Ravagers, I believe—slew them all. And moved on.”
Orivon nodded again. “If I try to climb down, I’ll probably fall too.”
“Not … not if I go first, and tell you where to reach. The climb wasn’t that hard.”
Her Dark Warrior grinned bitterly. “Can you tell me the movements of foes, fast enough for me to put a sword through them before they kill me? If I can kill one with a map, you’ll have to read it.”
Nettled by his calm, Taerune burst out, “Aren’t you afraid?”
