by Ed Greenwood
17
No Cause for Doom-Crying
Bloodshed among the Holy Ones is no cause for doom-crying. When they’re truly in peaceful accord, then should Niflghar tremble.
—The Words of Dounlar
The Place of the Goddess, beautiful though it was, seldom saw Lords of Houses striding through its halls. Even less so, a Lord in everyday garb, with naked sword in hand and anger riding face and utterances.
“Out of my way or die,” Erlingar Evendoom snarled at the guardians of the gate, two Holy-shes chosen for their looks and clad in armor designed to ensnare the eye and warm the loins of rampants, not protect the sleekly rounded flesh beneath against anything. Yet the magic throbbing in their gauntlets, bracers, open helms, styled pectorals, thigh-high boots, and the various blades and whips sheathed and scabbarded at various locations about their bodies made them formidable holy defenders indeed. Moreover, they wore two invisible armors: All Talonnorn knew their every word and deed was backed by the ready spells of the Holy Ones of Olone, and they acted with the cold, certain hauteur born of the approval and authority of the Goddess Herself.
A lone, angrily striding Nifl seeking to enter the temple with a drawn sword would customarily have been ordered to withdraw, and lashed with a pair of long, spell-crackling whips if he kept coming. No matter what rank he declared, nor urgency and right to passage he claimed.
Not that Lord Erlingar Evendoom knew this would be their customary reception of such visitors—wherefore he was unaware that something within the Place of the Goddess must be amiss indeed, when the guardians murmured something he didn’t bother to listen to, and stepped back to let him pass between them. He heard the alarm gongs they rang in his wake, but paused not, nor cared; all servants seemed to get excited when he arrived anywhere.
“Aumaeraunda!” he shouted, as he strode down a grand hall lined on both sides with tall statues that upon another occasion he might have paused to examine appreciatively. “Where are you? And why have you snatched my Secondblood from me?”
Answer came there none, nor hastening priestesses, despite the gongs ringing on and on—and that was unusual. He slowed, frowning. “Aumaeraunda?”
A face peeked momentarily around the edge of a doorway ahead, then hurriedly withdrew. Taking another stride on, toward that door—there were many on both sides of this stretch of the vaulted hall, most of them closed—Evendoom spotted something else unusual.
A large scorch scar on the polished stone floor ahead … and a little way beyond it, something that was unmistakably a large pool of blood. Nifl blood.
Had they not cleaned up after the attack? For some holy reason, perhaps? The blood looked wet, freshly spilled, but might not be. Everyone knew the temple was a-crawl with spell upon spell, many of them preservative, to keep beauty at its perfect peak. Yet surely—even with the legendary pride of the Consecrated—Aumaeraunda would have said something about the fighting she and her Holy Ones had done on Talonnorn’s behalf, the losses the Holy of Olone had suffered, to win respect among the Lords and Eldests of the Houses that would have made things much easier for her during that little council gathering that had probably cost Ohzeld Maulstryke his Firstbrat.
Still no priestesses. No, something was very wrong in the temple of Olone. He reached the doorway where the peering priestess had been, and looked inside rather warily, sword at the ready.
The great chamber beyond was shrouded in darkness, its customary braziers unlit. Dead priestesses—many of them—lay strewn about the floor and the exquisitely curved couches.
Lord Evendoom blinked at them in astonishment, dimly recalling this as a brightly lit room of ostentatious splendor, clearly intended to show any visitor that the Holy of Olone were wealthier and more beautiful than even the haughtiest of the city’s Houses, and had taste and reach to outmatch even House Evendoom.
“Olone forfend,” he muttered, seeing sudden radiance kindle far, far away—through a gaping hole at the far end of the chamber, that let him look through a wall into an even larger room beyond. Powerful magic had been hurled about here, to blast that hole and hurl and tumble bodies and furniture and even the magically floating aerial plants the priestesses so loved everywhere.
The glow he was watching outlined the busily weaving hands of a priestess casting a spell; the glow was the mustering power of her magic. By her pose and the way she moved, she was angry, hurrying—and gazing at a foe or target Evendoom couldn’t see.
A bright bolt of magic suddenly burst into his view, from a part of that distant room hidden from him by the wall that still stood around the jagged hole, and struck the priestess.
Evendoom had a momentary glimpse of her, silhouetted against the ravening light that was slaying her, as she arched back, convulsing, as magic stripped flesh and all from her bones—and then the bolt faded, its deadly work done, and he was blinking as her skeleton collapsed, tumbling from view.
“Olone spew!” he cursed, ducking back out of the room and along the passage before whoever had hurled that deadly magic might think to seek targets in his direction. Had the Holy Ones gone mad?
He hadn’t reached the next door before a priestess burst through it, sobbing and running hard, with another Consecrated hard on her heels. They both rushed past the Nifl Lord and his raised sword as if he were invisible, and as he watched, the pursuing priestess caught the other one up, trod hard on her heels so she stumbled and crashed down—and pounced on her, stabbing repeatedly and viciously with a long dagger that was wet to the hilt with Nifl blood after its first strike, and dripping by the last one.
“By Olone, you deserved that, Narazmra!” the murderess hissed, rising from the sprawled body of the priestess she’d just slain. “Now to see to Paerille!”
She dashed away down the passage, ignoring Lord Evendoom as if he were just another of the statues, and raced up the stairs just inside the gates. The Nifl Lord sighed, wondering if he should follow. Or venture on—carefully, mind—into the other great chambers of the ground floor of the temple. Or, by Olone, turn and flee out of the Place of the Goddess while he still could.
“Die, traitor to Olone!” an unseen priestess shrieked, from somewhere in the chambers beyond, and there was a sudden roar of magic, a booming that shook the walls and made tiny pebbles bounce and hail briefly around him. In its wake, dust curled—and an eerie silence fell.
Lord Evendoom frowned, drew a dagger to keep his spellblade company, and strode on down the passage, stepping through the first door that stood open on his right.
Where he almost tripped over a Nifl-she he knew: Draurathra, Eldest of Raskshaula, who lay on her back, blood running from her mouth and her legs gone—melted into what looked like black tentacles, that had then been hacked and diced like runthar-meat on a cook’s board, leaving a dark pool of most of her blood.
Her eyelids flickered. “Hail, Erlingar,” she murmured, voice faint, slow, and slurred. “What brings you here, to this pit of she-malice?”
“Demanding an answer of the Holiest of Olone,” Evendoom told her grimly. “Who did this to you?”
“Askrautha of Dounlar, but it was the last thing she ever did. I caught her with whirlblades, and she was headless before she could even stop gloating.” Her voice faded. “Go, Erlingar. Go while you still can. I always liked—Olone damn it, I always fancied you. I’d plead for a kiss, but you don’t want to be near me when my death-spells go off.”
She waved one hand bonelessly. “Go! You won’t get any answers out of Aumaeraunda. Ever again.”
“Oh?” Erlingar asked, backing away and frowningly anticipating the answer he was about to receive.
“She’s dead, Erlingar. All this chaos you see is the fight to succeed her, just beginning. We go through this every time, and learn nothing. Pah! It’s all nothing to me, now. Farewell, Erlingar. I loved you a little, but took care you never knew it … I took sufficient care, didn’t I?”
“I—you did, Draurathra,” Lord Evendoom said, surprised to find his t
hroat thick and his heart heavy. “You did.”
He never knew if she’d heard him. That weakly waving hand fell as the first word left his lips—the explosions and wraithlike billowings were well underway by the time he finished speaking—and spun around to flee as fast as he’d ever run in his life.
As he sprinted out of the Place of the Goddess, between the saluting gate guardians, he heard an agonized scream from somewhere above and behind him—and from somewhere deeper in the temple, another spell blasted through what sounded like another wall.
“Truly,” he muttered sarcastically, pausing in the street—the surprisingly empty street—to catch his breath, “yon’s a testament to Olone’s beauty.”
The temple shook again, and a plume of smoke burst out between the two beautiful guardians.
Lord Erlingar Evendoom shook his head, turned away, and started back toward the Eventowers.
The struggle to succeed Aumaeraunda had more than begun.
The Eldest of Evendoom casually kicked a flow-sculpture that had been old before the Eventowers were built off its pedestal, ignoring the servants’ frantic dives to save it, and propped her boot heels on the vacated pedestal. Three cushions had served to make Erlingar’s throne fairly comfortable to a Holy-she reclining languidly sidewise upon it, and Erlingar’s best wine was very good.
Maharla sipped again from the Lord’s own grand goblet—Olone, it was heavy, but then if Erlingar could wave it about, so could she, and the more she drank the lighter it would get—and smiled as she contemplated just how to make herself the undisputed head of House Evendoom without having to slaughter too many of her kin and senior servants, and anger the rest of them, in the process. Fear forged the best loyalty, but not if she left strong foes alive to band together against her, and—
The searing pain in her head was as sudden as it was blinding. Maharla shrieked despite herself. Wine splashed across her face and lap as she clutched the goblet against her breast, hugging herself against the stabbing agony.
Nothing but a temple-summons should be able to reach her through the House wards, and Aumaeraunda could hardly need aid urgently enough to call on the newest Eldest in Talonnorn, that she clearly despised … yet neither was the Holiest of Olone stupid enough to try to spell-harm Maharla Evendoom just now, with Ouvahlor still on the prowl and—
Sickening pain flooded through her mind, swirled and washed away, and then returned again, stronger than ever. What was going on?
The servants, drenched with relieved sweat as they looked up from righting the unshattered sculpture, saw the Eldest make the swift, impatient gesture of a simple spell.
Then they saw her go very pale, mouth falling open at about the same time as her hand did. The great goblet plummeted, unregarded.
“Oh, no!” she gasped, her voice a ragged whisper almost lost in the goblet’s bounce, musical clang, and loud splash of spilled wine. “Oh, flaming, blood-spewing Olone!”
Orivon and Taerune warred with their glares, as sharp and bright as if they’d been thrusting at each other with swords.
“You’re wearing magic bracers,” Orivon told his longtime tormentor, his frown fierce. “Or rather, one bracer, now.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” she said coldly. “And I have my Orb, which masks this ward-bracer—and only this bracer—from anyone trying to magically locate it from afar.”
“There’s much you’re not telling me about Talonar magic,” Orivon growled.
“Yes,” she replied flatly. “There is.”
They traded glares again, and then the Nifl sighed and said quietly, “We need to get far from Talonnorn. Quickly. I think you know that.”
Orivon’s nod was grim and grudging, but they turned away together from the blackened thing that had been Shoan Maulstryke, and walked off side-by-side.
They were two caverns away before something quivered and started, very faintly, to glow.
Something that lifted a little, trailing one severed Nifl hand that held it in a death grip, and another that was on the verge of falling away.
Silently, with no living thing in the cavern to see it, the spellblade that had belonged to Shoan Maulstryke rose into the dark air.
“Lord!” one of the warblades said urgently, pointing.
Faunhorn Evendoom made the gesture for silence rather sharply. Olone have mercy, if Tersarr couldn’t see things until he was about to stumble over them …
He strode over to the warblade until their wards touched, flaring slightly, and let their magic carry his nigh silent whisper to Tersarr’s ears. “Take Goraun and Imbrel down this side of the cavern, and around. Peer carefully; expect hidden foes. Only when we know no one is about to pounce on us will we examine … the remains.”
Without waiting for a reply he turned to look at Lorand, at the head of the ring of warblades holding the gorkul’s chains. Grunt Tusks gave him a baleful sidelong glance that he ignored; if that collar had been around his neck, and the chains held by a ring of foes, he’d probably have felt far less than friendly, too.
Faunhorn jerked his head in an order; Lorand nodded and urged the chained gorkul forward, seeking the slave’s trail. He was unsurprised to see it sniff loudly, lower its head briefly, and then start right down the center of the cavern in a rattle of chain. Taerune and the slave had been in some haste.
And no wonder. Spellrobes can trace things they’ve helped enchant across a very great distance, even in the Wild Dark.
If this cooked carrion wasn’t Jalandral, it was Shoan Maulstryke. And those severed hands, yonder, held nothing, though they’d recently been clutching something.
The spellblade that should have been there was gone.
Lord Evendoom sagged in his seat, asleep even before the servants could finish filling his favorite goblet and hold it out to him.
Behind a locked door in a chamber not far away, Maharla smiled. The spell she’d left on the throne had sent Erlingar into slumber and opened his mind to hers in two swift and silent instants. Sometimes the simple traps are the best ones.
His thoughts were a whirlwind of anger, fear, and excitement; he eagerly wanted to watch as priestess murdered priestess, to enjoy their struggle to succeed the slain Aumaeraunda as Holiest of Olone. Seeing the temple so weakened had been a joy as well as a shock to him.
Maharla watched, drifting through his welter of memories, pleased to see old foes lying dead and the spell she’d cast on Erlingar earlier—the one that would let her transport him at will from wherever he stood to wherever Taerune was, keeping herself hidden from both of them—still intact.
Olone’s kiss, but this had been fast. The temple had gone from the haughty fist of true power in Talonnorn to a shell fought over by mindwounded or junior Holy-shes in a trice.
Handing Maharla Evendoom her own chance.
Yes, it was time.
Not letting herself begin to gloat yet, not even for a moment, the Eldest of Evendoom strode around the chamber, carefully preparing to cast the most intricate spell she’d ever tried. Yet.
Its glossy length gave off no glow, now, for any eye to see as it raced through the air, point foremost.
The spellblade flew in utter silence, sliding through the air as it flew, quite by itself, back through the Wild Dark to Talonnorn.
Maharla trembled, her heart pounding. If Askrautha were still alive, or Draurathra, or old Amedra, she’d never have dared do this.
Using her consecration-stone to link with everyone who wore such a stone—every crone and priestess of Holy Olone in Talonnorn—left her mind open to anyone who had the right spells and a more powerful stone.
Yet the spell was done, and nothing had come storming into her mind! Maharla fought down a surge of excitement so strong it almost sickened her. She’d done it! Olone be praised!
“Faithful of Olone, hear me,” she said, keeping her voice gentle and welcoming. Her voice thundered around the sealed chamber like the boom of a spellblast and rolled back at her, almost deafeningly. All over
Talonnorn, now, crones and priestesses would be hearing her.
“Maharla am I, Eldest of Evendoom, and I stand now in Olone’s favor. The Goddess who guides us all has sent me a vision, of the champion of my house who shall fittingly slay the murderers of Aumaeraunda, Holiest of Olone. I say ‘fittingly’ because a traitor Nameless of Evendoom and a runaway slave belonging to that traitor killed the Holiest. I have sent that champion forth in obedience to Olone, who has made my reward clear to me. That the bloodshed that now afflicts Talonnorn may cease, I invite you all to watch what this my magic shows you as the champion confronts the murderers. You know I can deceive you in no way, with my magic linking our minds thus. You shall see what you see, in accordance with Olone’s wishes. Watch now, and heed.”
It had not been hard to find some of Taerune’s blood, and kindly old Orlarra had been more cunning than any Evendoom had guessed: She’d used a spell Maharla had never suspected existed, to trace every last Evendoom Orb when she wanted to.
That spell was unfolding glowingly in front of Maharla right now, and so she knew Faunhorn was very near to Taerune, and Ravandarr was close behind.
She couldn’t lie to all the crones and priestesses, but she could hide things in her mind from them, and one of the things she intended to keep hidden was just who the champion was.
Faunhorn, Ravandarr—and if need be, an awakened and spell-hurled into the Dark Erlingar—could all try to slay Taerune and the Hairy One. She could triumphantly claim the glory no matter who succeeded, and deem any failures not Olone’s champion.
She could feel the weight of them in her mind, all the crones and priestesses. Watching; unable not to watch. All across Talonnorn, despite themselves, they’d stopped whatever they’d been doing, and were watching.
Folding her arms across her chest, Maharla allowed herself to smile.
