Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  “Citizens of Talonnorn,” Jalandral said calmly, the quiet thunder of his tones making it evident magic was carrying his voice clearly to every ear, “be welcome in the new Talonnorn. The cleansed, renewed city that will regain the greatness we have lost, in large measure through your willing participation in a shared new vision. A vision we will forge together, ignoring tradition in favor of doing what is right. We have found folly in the past largely because everyone did as they pleased, defying all other Talonar as they sought to practice their own supremacy. So that shall not continue; I shall be the ultimate authority, and to defy my decree shall be to die or cease to be of Talonnorn. Yet I do not intend that this—”

  He turned to wave leisurely at the throne behind him. “—shall become a tyrant’s throne. My decrees shall be rooted in what we decide here together, after all Talonar who desire to be heard have been heard. What my word shall exterminate is the never-ending dissent of the past, the habits we all fell into of denying and working against policies, stances, and even laws we did not personally like. When a matter is settled, it is settled, and we shall move on. We can revisit matters in debate, but outside this hall, we act without hesitation or defiance in accordance with my standing decrees. Holy Olone speaks to me personally, often and with great clarity, so I shall accept disobedience, defiance, or empty corrections from no priestess of the Talonar temple of the Goddess or any other. In this place, we shall use no magic—”

  Half a dozen priestesses exerted their wills upon the spells already awake around them; magics that thrust gently at the High Lord of Talonnorn, revealing his glowing personal shieldings for every eye to see.

  “—except the magics I employ,” Jalandral added calmly, sounding completely unperturbed. “Our only weapons here shall be our voices, our reasoning, and the laws of Talonnorn. Laws that shall be amended as we commonly see fit, henceforth. I am not going to begin any nonsense of asking every Talonar or visitor to discard every last dagger at the doors, but hear me: except as weapons are drawn at my bidding or with my express permission, to wield any weapon in this hall is to forfeit one’s life.”

  “This decree is unlawful,” a voice interrupted calmly, “and thus as empty as the prohibition on magic you uttered just previously. Not a good beginning, Jalandral, unless you mean to be a tyrant over us all the while you loudly insist you are no tyrant. Talonar are not fools, Lord Evendoom.”

  “Stand forth!” Jalandral snapped.

  “My words have already accomplished that,” Lord Morluar Raskshaula replied, lifting a hand to indicate the swift movements of Talonar standing around him to take themselves hurriedly elsewhere and leave him standing alone on the tiles. “Orders are precious things, Jalandral. Use them more sparingly. Bluster less. With every blustered order you hurl, a little of your respect goes with it.”

  “I thank Lord Raskshaula for his wise advice,” Jalandral replied silkily, “even if it comes from the only lord of a House of Talonnorn to have retained his life and title through all the bloodshed that so humbled our city. Tell me, my Lord of Raskshaula, how exactly were you defending Talonnorn then?”

  The old noble smiled.

  “I was fighting at your father’s side against treachery within our own Houses, inside the temple, and in the streets. And wondering, as we did so, the same thing your father was wondering: where were you then, Jalandral?”

  “I very much doubt that is any of your business, Raskshaula,” the High Lord snapped, “and I—”

  “Have just made another mistake, young Jalandral,” the noble drawled, the same magic that Jalandral was using carrying his calm voice to every ear. “On the one hand you promise Talonnorn you’ll be no tyrant, and make decrees only after debate here in your bright new throne room—and it is a very nice room, mistake me not—and on the other hand you immediately presume to decide what is, and what is not, the rightful business of a citizen of Talonnorn, the moment such a citizen tries to engage in debate. You sound very much like a tyrant to me, Jalandral—and although I may be as old and decadent and foolish as you’re about to try to portray me, my own follies don’t matter. My perceptions do, just because I am a citizen. It matters not what you do or how you do it; what matters is what citizens perceive of your deeds and ways. I believe that the very least you can do, as High Lord of Talonnorn, is to let citizens of Talonnorn decide for themselves what is, and what is not, their business.”

  The air around Lord Raskshaula flared and crackled in a sudden swirling of sparks and stillborn flames, then . . . that fell away to leave the old noble smiling. “Attacking me with magic for disagreeing with you, Jalandral? Oh, tyranny indeed! Your father would be more than disappointed in you. He would be disgust—”

  “Enough!” Jalandral Evendoom roared, loudly enough that the ongoing farspeech magic made his shout deafen every suddenly ringing ear, and even caused dust to swirl down from the vaulted ceiling and drift through the air. “You seek to prevent matters of governance from even being discussed, sly traitor, and falsely accuse me of—”

  “Nothing,” the old lord replied grimly. “I accuse you of nothing falsely. Every eye here saw your spells rage against my shields. You seek to slay me in front of everyone and then prate of treason, without even bothering to gain the approval of all these gathered priestesses and nobility first. You are worse than a tyrant, young Evendoom; you are a hot-tempered, impatient tyrant. Who will bring woe to Talonnorn, not greatness, if—”

  “Enough, I say!” Jalandral snapped. “I will have order! Lord Raskshaula, your falsehoods demean and frustrate the lawful governance of Talonnorn, and I demand you withdraw them! Or depart this place and this city, forevermore!”

  “And if I neither withdraw nor depart?” the old noble asked calmly, drawing his sword and glancing along the glimmering length of its blade. “What then?”

  “I shall have you put to death,” Jalandral snapped. “No longer will any decadent noble frustrate matters in this city, nor work treachery among us!”

  “Behold,” Lord Raskshaula observed. “Something worse than hot-tempered, impatient tyranny, folk of Talonnorn. Look, all, upon bold and reckless tyranny!”

  “The folk of Talonnorn cannot hear you,” Jalandral sneered.

  “Ah, but they can,” the old noble replied, through grimly smiling lips. “That is what my magic has been doing, since my arrival. Having named you High Lord, the folk of Talonnorn at least deserve to see and hear you ruling their city for them. You are their servant, Lord; how can you rightfully have any secrets from them?”

  “Are you going to prevent all debate and decrees, Lord Raskshaula? Even as you stand in this chamber of ruling doubly condemned: of breaking the law against the use of magic here, and the law against the wielding of weapons here?”

  “Not at all, too-impatient-for-debate inventor-of-laws,” Lord Morluar Raskshaula replied. “I stand here expecting that very same law of Talonnorn to be abided by. The law that holds—among many other things—that disputes between nobles be settled by duels. You have attacked me, Jalandral Evendoom. So as the law permits me to do, I challenge you to a duel. Sword against sword, here and now, to the death.”

  He struck a stance, arms flung wide—and then dropped them to his hips, and frowned as if puzzled. “Or are laws mere empty words to you, to be twisted at will or flung aside if they suit not your purpose of the moment?”

  “I am High Lord of Talonnorn,” Jalandral snapped. “I need not entertain duels from House lords.”

  “Another new law of your own devising, this instant? Very well. Yet I am not challenging the High Lord of Talonnorn, Jalandral Evendoom. I am challenging the Lord of House Evendoom, one Jalandral by name. Perhaps you know him?”

  “You mock me, old lord.”

  “I do indeed. But then, I believe you mock us all, Jalandral Evendoom.” The Raskshaula spellblade pulsed in its wielder’s hands. “So, as Lord of House Evendoom, are you going to answer my challenge? Or break the very laws you insist you shall uphold?”

>   High Lord Jalandral Evendoom threw wide his hands in an exaggerated pantomime of defeat, threw back his head to look around the throne room, and announced, “Citizens of Talonnorn, I wanted a new beginning. I wanted no more of such wrangling, such unnecessary bloodshed. A cleansing of the old, old ways that so diminish us all. Yet it seems that one noble, at least, is stubborn enough to—”

  “Ah, I see,” a priestess said, using her own magic to conceal from Jalandral and everyone else just which Consecrated of Olone, from those standing crowded together on her side of the throne room, was speaking. “You’re going to talk him to death. Just like every other Lord of a House. Such bright reform heartens us all. Answer the challenge, High Lord, or step down from your throne and depart this city. Forever.”

  “—to cleave to the old ways,” Jalandral snapped, turning to glare at the cluster of expressionless faces on that side of the throne room. He drew his sword, the most powerful spellblade of House Evendoom crawling from end to end with dark fire, so terrible that a murmuring of awe arose among the Nifl gathered in the chamber.

  “Very well. Answer it I shall.”

  He stepped slowly down from the throne-dais, his sword afire in his hand, and said calmly, “Klaerra.”

  In response, a great oval of fire suddenly appeared in the air of the throne room, surrounding the throne, the High Lord, and his challenger—and settled toward the tiles, forcing back everyone else in the room.

  The doors boomed open, then, and Evendoom guards in full battle-armor rushed in, weapons drawn—only to come to uncertain halts as lords and priestesses turned to face them, and they saw, beyond, the raging ring of flames.

  “What befalls?” one warblade snapped. “Stand aside!”

  Obediently the crones in front of him moved away, to leave him facing the flames directly.

  “The duel,” one crone murmured, as he stood staring, “is lawful.”

  “But go ahead and rush into the flames,” a younger priestess standing beside her added sharply, “if you feel your orders demand it. Just don’t expect your loyalty to the High Lord to win you any special treatment from the flames.”

  The warblade snarled at her in wordless rage, and then pointedly looked away, grounding his sword to watch what was unfolding inside the ring.

  All over Talonnorn, thanks to the magic blazing inside Lord Raskshaula’s armor, Talonar were at that moment doing the same thing.

  The sudden roar was like the bellow of a deep, distant war-horn. Even as a startled Aloun turned his head to try to see its source, a hitherto-hidden whorl underneath the sidetable bearing Luelldar’s domed meal-platter flashed with urgent fury as it spun up into view.

  “What by the Ice—?!” Aloun snapped, striding toward it.

  Luelldar shrugged.

  “I obey the Revered Mother. We are, as you’ll recall, under orders to observe this new High Lord of Talonnorn and report on his doings. He and others have just awakened various strong magics about his person, and someone else in Talonnorn has a farscrying awake and showing Talonar what is befalling—and that magic triggered one of my ‘waiting whorls.’ ”

  Aloun gave the Senior Watcher of Ouvahlor a dark look. “ ‘Waiting whorls’? What else relating to our offices have you neglected to tell me, yet?”

  “Neglected? Nothing. Not telling you yet? Much.”

  “How much?”

  “Even more than you suspect.”

  Aloun sighed in exasperation. “Now you’re even managing to sound sinister!”

  Luelldar’s face was expressionless. “I prefer to see it another way, Junior Watcher. Now, you’re even managing to notice how I’m sounding. At last.”

  The Evendoom spellblade made a sound that set the Consecrated to shivering, all over the throne room. It moaned, like a lover in need, and its dark fires raced up and down its length with wild and frantic speed.

  Lord Morluar Raskshaula did something to the spellblade in his hands. It erupted in hungry green flames—and moaned right back at the Evendoom blade.

  Someone in the vast chamber chuckled at that, and the High Lord of Talonnorn’s face tightened in anger. He stalked forward, raising his sword—and it spat long black tongues of flame at the old noble facing him.

  Whose robes flared, blazing up in a swift fury. In their heart, Lord Raskshaula seemed calmly unconcerned, betraying no pain at all—and when the ash that had been his robes fell away from him, he stood revealed, clad from boots to throat in gleaming battle-armor of olden make.

  “So!” Jalandral spat. “You planned for this!”

  “Not at all,” came the mild reply. “I did as any prudent Lord of Talonnorn should always do: I planned for all likely needs and conditions I might face ere next seeing my armory, and garbed myself accordingly.”

  “There will be no ‘next seeing’ for you, traitor Lord!”

  Raskshaula shrugged. “You’re going to duel me with boasts and sneering threats? You would be wiser to save your breath for true traitors, Jalandral Evendoom.”

  Jalandral waved those words away. “My patience is at an end for your glib mouthings. Let our duel decide who is right and just.” He strode forward, brandishing his spellblade.

  “Oh, I’ve never yet heard of a duel that can do that,” his foe replied calmly. “They tend to decide who has more blood to lose, and is the better blade in battle—and who gets lucky.”

  “ ‘Lucky’?” Jalandral Evendoom spat. “You would hazard the future of Talonnorn on ‘lucky’?”

  “No,” the old lord replied lightly. “Just yours.”

  And their blades met, flames howling against flames in a great racing circle around them. Steel clanged on steel at the heart of those flames, the two Niflghar started to glide and dance amid their swordplay—and one spellblade spewed forth a sudden rosy glow.

  As that radiance settled over Lord Raskshaula, the High Lord of Talonnorn laughed in triumph.

  “So passes this treasonous threat to my throne,” he announced. “Vanquished so easily, too, before even—”

  The radiance burst, in a spectacular spewing of rose-red, dwindling stars—and from out of their heart Lord Morluar Raskshaula sprang, striking aside the Evendoom spellblade in a shrieking dispute of warsteel that sent sparks flying—and drove his point home in Jalandral’s shoulder.

  The High Lord of Evendoom howled and staggered back. As he reeled, using both hands to swing his blade up in a desperate parry, he caught a glimpse of the Talonar peering at him over the ring of flames.

  They were all leaning forward eagerly, peering at him. Their eyes were excited, and decidedly less than friendly.

  6

  Fighting, Dying, and

  Other Diversions

  Orthael the Warblade a-hunting he went

  Cave-sleeth and dung-worms in plenty he rent

  Warm gore a-drenching his helm to his toe

  As he stalked onward, to foe after foe

  The fighting and dying were all that he knew

  No singing, no dancing, no shes to make coo

  When he woke the Ghodal his bold heart sang

  But, laughing, it scorned him until his head rang

  Hurled him afar with sword and heart broke

  His glory all fled like fire gone to smoke

  But other diversions not a one did he know

  No family, friends, nor refuge where old hunters go

  So Orthael the Warblade a-hunting he went . . .

  —Talonar tavern song

  Seething in the heart of a rage greater than he could ever remember feeling, Jalandral tried his best attack—and found it anticipated and easily blocked.

  The Raskshaula spellblade seemed to be waiting for him.

  How could this old fool—?!

  He hadn’t even realized he’d snarled that aloud until his smiling foe replied, “With ease and enthusiasm, young Evendoom. You snatch up spells and use them as handy tools, not bothering to learn all their powers or experiment with them overmuch. For you, it’s easier to c
oerce—or seduce—someone else who can work the magic for you. In my youth, we valued magic and Talonar more highly; spells and servants—to say nothing of kin—were too valuable to be casually used. Or thrown away.”

  Their blades crashed against each other and sang away, spitting sparks, but Lord Raskshaula added as if they were strolling in casual converse rather than seeking to slay each other, “Your shieldings betray your thoughts to mine, and so to me, so I can tell what you’re about to do.”

  Those words made Jalandral go icy with crawling fear; he backed hastily away, hacking wildly with his spellblade. A thought came to him, and he pounced on it triumphantly. “Aha! Yet you reveal this to me, weakening yourself! You are a fool, Lord Raskshaula, and you are going to die here!”

  “Yes,” the old lord replied calmly, lunging after him so swiftly that Jalandral had to hurl himself away again to avoid being spitted as his two outermost shieldings failed, their glows going black. “I expect to die. You’re younger, stronger, faster, and more vicious than I ever was. Yet even in death, I shall win, Evendoom.”

  Jalandral felt his jaw drop in astonishment, and struggled to find words as Raskshaula pressed him hard. He gave way, parrying desperately. “How—” He panted, astonished at the old lord’s speed and skill. “How so?”

  Lord Morluar Raskshaula shrugged. “Spare me, and you’ll be seen as weak; in Talonnorn, that means your doom. Slay me, and you’ll be seen as the tyrant I have called you—and again, you shall be doomed, though your end may be longer in coming. I cannot lose, son of Erlingar. All, mind you, because of your own deeds, and your own overproud and careless tongue.”

  Jalandral heard bitterness in the old lord’s voice for the first time—and then, with a shock, realized Raskshaula was starting to weep. “You could have been so great,” the old lord whispered furiously.

  “I will be great!” he shouted in Morluar’s face, locking their blades together and using his fury and his height to lean forward, driving his foe a step back. “I’ll be the greatest lord Talonnorn has ever known! All the Dark shall fear me, and Nifl-shes everywhere will swoon at the very thought of my touch! D’you hear me, old failure?”