Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  And did the cavern—which was still damnably dark, as if some lurking enchantment here, or even the sleeth itself, was clawing at his darksight—hold any other monsters or perils? Traps he might plunge into, or get caught in?

  A pincer slammed into the stone right beside him, clawing at his leg. Orivon hurled himself frantically aside, off the shoulder of rock, rolling over to crash down into more bones and clattering metal as the pincer swung past just above him. The other pincer, as gray and large as a wall of stone, reached for him, slamming into the rock he’d been trying to climb and running out of reach just shy of where he was wallowing in a great disintegrating heap of Nifl bones, trying to regain his footing. The sleeth, it seemed, was growing impatient.

  He daren’t seek cover and hole up under rocks where the huge old spider-thing couldn’t go; it would just wait Orivon out, or wall him in with rocks and wait for him to die. Emerging from anywhere with those boulder-sized pincers waiting for him would be greeting death with eager impatience.

  He had to get out of the cavern and flee where it couldn’t follow, or kill it. And it certainly wasn’t going to give him time to choose where to fight it, or climb up high, or—

  Three heads with fangs, six spider legs, bony plates all over its body like armor, and those gigantic stony pincers.

  Not good, by Thorar.

  Not good at all.

  No signs that it had poison or spun webs, at least. Nor could he recall any slaves’ tales about such perils. Just that the sleeth was a patient hunter, stalking prey and ferociously fighting anyone who stood up to it.

  Could he try to blind some of those eyes by hurling armfuls of these old blades and bones? Not that he’d have more than one good chance, once it realized what he was trying . . .

  The necks and throats were unarmored . . . but no; peering now, he could see a row of small bony plates running up to the chin of each mouth. The throats were armored, and the necks around that armor so thick that he’d have to hack and saw at their marbled meat for far more time than any living beast would give him. He’d helped Orl-folk butcher oxen that had slimmer haunches!

  That left the mouths as its weak spot. Could his armor keep him alive inside those jaws long enough to hack and stab enough to slay? Or would the fangs crush it, and the pincers rend him, the moment it felt pain?

  There was one proverbial way to find out, as the old Ashenuldar saying put it.

  Orivon snarled as his boots found solid ground again and he started to climb another rocky slope, this one much lower. Any smith knows there are many ways to fashion something, but only one “best” way out of them all.

  Seeing only one way forward—and one as risky as this one seemed—did not please the forge-giant at all. Nor did his size and strength mean much against a foe that was larger, heavier, and clinging to a stone ceiling he couldn’t reach, let alone stand on . . .

  A pincer came at him again, and this time he dodged, swayed, and then hacked with his sword, two-handed, into the joint where the thumb met the larger, slab-of-stone rest of the hand.

  It was like hacking a fire-hardened steelbark tree. His blade went in a finger-width or two, stuck, and then came free as the pincer opened, the sleeth squalled in angry pain—and the great stony limb started to flail and smash, dashing shards of stone off the rock slope an instant behind Orivon’s frantic leap. The sleeth surged forward, driving its other pincer through a cloud of bone fragments and tumbling old weapons in its murderous haste, to hammer this rock and that, trying to smash a bounding, scrambling Orivon to bloody pulp.

  “Ho, the coolly conquering hero comes!” Orivon shouted at it, dodging around another blunt old tooth of rock. The sleeth sprang, abandoning the ceiling to get at him. Yes!

  The forgefist ducked under that tooth of rock and then flung himself on, under the low-hanging edge of a great horn of stone that jutted out sideways into the very heart of the cavern. Landing amid snapping bones, he slid along easily in the greasy filth of deeply heaped, rotting sleeth-dung.

  The sleeth swarmed after him, hissing in anger—and Orivon came charging up over the horn and right back at it, in a leap that struck two of its heads hard with his boots, and slammed his armored crotch full into the face of its central head. He let fall his sword, snatched out his daggers, and stabbed, furiously and desperately, blinding all the eyes he could reach, through snarling forests of fangs, in a frantic frenzy that ended just in time.

  As both pincers came slamming down to smash him to the cavern floor and batter him to pulp there, Orivon kicked out hard, hurling himself back toward the horn of stone far enough that one pincer caught his foot and spun him helplessly away—and the other missed him entirely.

  The sleeth was shrieking now, several of its eyes gone into yellow-green rivers of ruin and another flapping loosely well clear of its weeping socket, like the bright necklace baubles Orl women liked to wear. Yet it could still see well enough with the two surviving eyes of its central head, and they were giving Orivon a burning glare of rage as the beast lurched forward, beating its pincers on the cavern floor in pain as it came . . . but coming far more warily than before.

  Sheathing his daggers, Orivon struggled to sit up in slippery sleeth-dung. It was nigh as deep as his arm, here, in a hollow where the stone of the floor fell away, which meant . . .

  With a wry smile, the former Rift-slave of Talonnorn caught up a heaping fistful of dung and flung it at the sleeth’s remaining eyes. It splattered across the head a little too high, but he had plenty to hurl.

  Most of his second throw ended up in its mouth and fangs, leaving it spitting and even angrier—but the third struck both eyes, just as he’d wanted. He carried a fourth and fifth as he slipped and stumbled forward, and as it shook its head furiously and clawed at its blindness with two of its spider-legs, he blinded it again. And again.

  By which time he was around behind the pincers, with his other sword in hand, and reaching in to slash and stab at those last two eyes.

  As he got them, it whirled and smashed at him, of course—but he’d been expecting that, and sprang away fast enough that the pincer slamming into him only gave Orivon’s leap a height and speed he’d never have managed on his own, lofting him far up onto high rocks with a clatter of armor.

  The sleeth came after that sound, swarming as swiftly as ever, and Orivon caught up some old bones and flung them to the stones on one side. Thankfully there was some old armor clinging to the bones that clinked on stone and gave the blinded beast something to lunge at.

  Which in turn gave Orivon time enough to gather his feet underneath himself and spring onto it, landing hard on its nearest end head. He clamped his legs around that head, ignoring its gnashing fangs, and drove his sword hilt-deep down its throat.

  This time, he didn’t get clear quickly enough; a pincer slammed into him like a hurled boulder, spinning him far across empty darkness into a clanging meeting with unyielding stones that cost him his other sword and some ribs.

  The sleeth’s swarming charge across the cavern after him seemed sluggish, though, and its pincers hung lower, as if it felt their ponderous weight for the first time.

  Orivon welcomed that; he was gasping for air, wincing in pain at every gasp, and wondering just what harm he could do to the sleeth with just two daggers. The eye sockets were holes he could stab through, yes, but those pincers couldn’t help but find him . . .

  His swords were both fallen somewhere in the cavern—different somewheres, but he knew where neither of them were, which meant his blades could just as well have been in Talonnorn, or lying in tall grass in the most bramble-tangled fields of Orlkettle, for all the good they could do him now.

  The sleeth was mounting the uneven rock slope that rose to the height where it had flung him, now, its pincers spread wide to try to trap him between them if he tried to leap aside. If he jumped on top of a pincer—and didn’t get a leg caught in its grip, mind—it would fling him far, again, as it tried to get him. Yet it might also fling him hi
gh, and the rough stone ceiling was uncomfortably close, now; that stone could crush his skull or shatter his neck just as easily as the cavern floor . . .

  Or he could jump right down its throats, so to speak, and trust to his speed to get down its body and on across the cavern—where, by Thorar, there must be a sword or spear or something he could use, among all these fallen weapons—before it turned. Those pincers couldn’t reach him once he was well behind its heads; its own body plates prevented it arching and turning enough to let those oversized arms get at him.

  The sleeth was close enough, now, that he just might be able to make its back in one leap, if he threw aside all caution and just dived forward . . .

  He sprang. A pincer slammed blindly into the stone where the sleeth guessed he’d be, grazing his leg in midair and turning him sideways.

  So Orivon landed on one hip, squarely on the sleeth’s back, bounced, and was on down the bumpy road where its back-plates met, all along what he presumed was its spine, to land gracefully on his feet and start a limping run across the cavern even before it started to turn.

  Thorar, but it could still turn quickly! Pincers-first it spun, those great stony blocks slamming through the air like forgehammers, straight at where it thought he was.

  And there was nothing at all wrong with its thinking.

  8

  To Bring Death to You

  Forth I went, sharp sword in hand

  Slaying my intent, death my command

  Much blood was shed, both the old and the new And now

  I have returned, to bring death to you.

  —Talonar chant

  Running hard, Orivon gasped, found the spot he was looking for, and flung himself sideways. A moment later, he was sliding helplessly, the sleeth’s sudden, triumphant roar loud in his ears.

  The beast knew its prey would flee—and it was right behind the forgefist, running him down.

  It missed Orivon with a smashing pincer only because he’d abruptly flung himself sideways and deliberately slid in old sleeth-dung, to where he knew there was a tangle of fallen metal: Nifl swords, nigh a dozen of them, most pitted with rust and probably too brittle for more than one thrust.

  Righting himself, he scooped them up hastily.

  He’d not be doing more than scratching sleeth hide-plates with these, but—

  A pincer grazed his heel as it slammed down, and Orivon shouted in alarm and sprang away, twisting in the air to fling all the swords in his hands wildly back into the ruined faces of the sleeth.

  The beast bit at and pincer-flailed the air as that brief storm of steel rang and bounced off it.

  Landing in a crouch not far away, Orivon caught sight of his first and favorite sword. It was lying bright and unbattered where it had fallen, only a stride away from his right boot.

  He sprang at it, snatched it up, leaped onward for a few paces before a pincer could come slamming down, and then spun around to face his foe.

  The blinded sleeth was coming after him cautiously, pincers spread wide again and spider-legs darting to prod the rocks underfoot, feeling for his crawling body. The head he’d fed the length of his warsteel to was hanging limply, drooling yellow-green gore, and . . . yes, that side of the beast was dragging a little, its pincer, too.

  Orivon smiled a grim smile.

  He could slay this sleeth, after all!

  Two long boar-spears would come in right handy about now, to save him from the pincers that would smash and tear at him if he tried to ride a sleeth head again, to thrust his sword down its throat.

  He backed away, trying to move as quietly as possible, and peered at the rocks all around. No handy spears, of course.

  The sleeth would know every cranny and handspan of this cavern, of course; he couldn’t hope to shelter behind handy rocks and strike at it without it knowing just where he must be, and what he was up to. Which meant he’d have to slay it in some inevitable situation, where what it knew would avail it nothing.

  He needed a boulder or upthrusting fang of stone large enough to withstand—and partly foil the reach of, so it couldn’t smash or grasp him from both sides at once—those deadly pincers. He needed—

  There! That lofty spear of rock!

  Hurling away stealth in favor of haste, Orivon got himself to the rock with only a panting breath to spare. The angry sleeth was reaching out with both pincers when its prey tapped his sword against the high shoulder of rock that its right pincer could just reach.

  Obligingly, it flailed away, seeking to smash anything atop that rock. When it felt nothing, the sleeth decided its tormentor must be sheltering behind the horn of rock, and reached around the other side of the pinnacle with its left pincer.

  Whereupon Orivon rushed forward, down from where he’d perched on a high ledge above and beyond the horn. He landed on that left pincer running hard, and was along it and slamming into one of the sleeth’s throats before it could do more than roar in startled rage and start to hastily back away.

  His sword was deep down that throat, and he was stabbing with it furiously, before the beast reared back and then slammed him forward against the rock, squalling in pain—and then vomiting up a great rushing gout of blood.

  Stinging, foul-smelling yellow-green gore drenched Orivon.

  He was dashed into the rock with bone-shaking, dazing force, driven against solid stone so hard his armor shrieked and buckled, thrusting sharp edges into him—and then fangs were gnawing at him, squealing along the metal plates encasing him as he fought dazedly to reach the last neck and the darting, biting maw above it.

  Fangs gnashed and snapped at air repeatedly, their jaws thrusting this way and that, trying to find and remove Orivon’s sword arm before he could thrust his sword anywhere.

  The forgefist ducked his head and kept that arm low, struggling to keep hold of his blade and to draw breath in the tightening grip of his battered armor, as the sleeth blindly rammed him against the rocks, and rained pincer-blows down on those parts of him that the solid stone behind him didn’t prevent it from reaching.

  Dust rose in a choking cloud, and the very rock shuddered and thundered under the sleeth’s fury. Coughing, Orivon slid down it, trying to crouch in armor that would no longer flex and slide to let him bend. He clawed at the one strap his fingers could reach, under a bent, flared-out edge of the armor he’d so carefully forged, and eventually—as he staggered sideways along rough rock, his armor shrieking in protest, those huge, stony pincers crashing into him ceaselessly and furiously—the strap slipped, and the buckle slid along it to arrive under his scrabbling fingers.

  A pincer-blow finally shattered the stone behind him, spilling Orivon abruptly over and down.

  Amid his wincingly hard landing and the rolling in dust and fresh gravel that followed, the strap parted and that piece of armor swung free. The sleeth’s next pincer-blow caught it, tore it right off, and tumbled the forgefist over and over in its wake, his found sword clanging away again—but Orivon found himself with space enough to roll away from its attack and dazedly claw off the worst of his crushed-into-him armor.

  The discarded plates made handy distractions. Scaled away across the cavern to clang and clatter on the rocks, they sent the sleeth scuttling away from Orivon long enough for him to find his feet and his breath, and cut away the last plates of his nigh-useless armor. It had served well, protecting him from swift death against the full force of those pincers and repeated gnawings by the thing’s wickedly long fangs, but was now so crushed and twisted that it was hurting him to keep it on, and was best abandoned.

  Orivon kept just one forearm bracer, so as to have something to thrust unscathed into jaws. Otherwise, he now wore only his bloodstained, padded under-leathers above his belt, and breeches and boots below it. Behold the Hairy One, Creatures of the Dark. Come again among you . . . hopefully not to die this easily, this soon.

  “Brith,” he whispered. “Reldaera. Aumril. Kalamae.”

  It was too late for stealth; the sleeth had heard t
he sounds of his armor-discardings, and was heading back in his direction, angrily but falteringly.

  Orivon gave the lurching beast a cold smile, and carefully threw a trio of armor plates to land in such a way that their successive clangings seemed to mark a path of travel away across the rocks. His ruse sent the slowing, weakening sleeth off on another errant charge.

  This time Orivon stalked after it, finding and picking up his second sword along the way. The beast was leaving ribbons of gore on the rocks as it went, two heads hanging down limply and its armored belly now scraping and dragging.

  If feeding that last throat the length of his sword didn’t slay the sleeth, he wasn’t sure what he’d do—but at last the beast now looked as if sharp warsteel thrust down its throat would manage to bring it death.

  And about time, by Thorar!

  If the Wild Dark held many more of these, he’d never see Talonnorn or even get anywhere near it.

  So, how to reach that last throat . . .

  The sleeth knew this cavern. Even now it was turning back toward him, having heard the faint scrape of his boots or scented him in the drifting air currents it knew and he didn’t . . .

  Orivon stopped, turned, and looked back.

  A heap of his discarded armor, yonder the bright fresh face of rock shattered by the sleeth . . . his other sword!

  He couldn’t trick the sleeth twice with the horn of rock, and didn’t dare rush into its pincers without armor. Which meant he had to get behind it, to where he could leap onto its back or neck, close to that central head, and do his slaughtering very quickly. If he couldn’t manage that, he wouldn’t be the one doing the slaughtering.

  Back beyond where his armor lay was a rising, rugged slope of broken rocks. If he could trick the sleeth into climbing it there, while he waited higher up, off to the side over there . . .

  Not a good battleground, but then he couldn’t choose caverns—and if he somehow managed to outrun the spiderlike monster and get out into the passages, he would be fleeing into the unknown with no place to hide, and no way to trick the sleeth into missing where he was.