Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  “Seek—”

  Sudden pain stabbed through him.

  Thorar, yes! He was wounded!

  And had fought and slain a cave-sleeth . . .

  Orivon blinked and winced, worked his stiff and crusted mouth until he could feel his tongue again, tried to roll over and gain his feet—and stopped abruptly, wincing. He hurt.

  Ribs gone, for sure, and probably worse. He clawed himself over onto his belly and slid down the rock a little way, drawn sword dinging a faint trail as it bounced along uncaring stone in his wake.

  Feeling the need to relieve himself, the forgefist peered down rather grimly at the steaming stream of blood he was producing, and wondered just how sorely he was hurt.

  That whisper, in his dreams . . . healing stones.

  What if, by Thorar’s smiling luck, one of the sleeth’s gnawed-to-bones victims had been carrying healing stones? Most Nifl who ventured out into the Dark did, if they weren’t forced to flee a city as an outlaw, and become a desperate Ravager, that is.

  He knew how to use those stones, thanks to keeping his eyes open when shifting furniture in the Eventowers. Though they were enspelled by priestesses of Olone for use on Niflghar—or so Talonar Nifl had said in his hearing, more than once, at least—the stones worked fine on humans; he remembered one of the oldest Evendoom crones healing her favorite pleasure-slave, a Hairy One.

  Humans could even use the stones more easily than Nifl. A dark elf needed a spell to “melt” them into their injuries, or had to dissolve them in certain acids, drink the result, and undergo agonies. The stones didn’t dissolve in Nifl blood, but did in the blood of Hairy Ones—and the resulting mix was nauseous for Nifl to drink and healed them not at all, but a human quaffing it gained the full benefits of the healing magic.

  Sleeth, now . . . he had no idea if the magic of such stones healed beasts at all, or if sleeth had wits enough to know what they were and try to use them, hide them, or bargain them away.

  If there were no healing stones to be had amid the remains strewn around this cavern, he’d just have to go on to Glowstone. If the Ravagers there had even a few glowstones to sell, though, they’d guard them very well, demand the treasures of a city in exchange for one, and press their advantage when bargaining with a Hairy One . . . and a wounded Hairy One at that.

  Which meant “pressing their advantage” might well mean just gang-attacking Orivon Firefist, to slaughter him and get for free whatever he offered in exchange for a stone. Or poisoning or drugging food and drink he bought, wresting what he had from him, and then slaying him at will or chaining him as a cut-price slave, to sell to someone who’d work him to death.

  Of course, all of this assumed he found something here worth offering in trade for a healing stone. A few daggers and even a heavy sack full of coins wouldn’t do it.

  The alternative would be skulking and fighting his way into Talonnorn, and then into the Eventowers, to find and seize healing stones. There was a chest of them in the armory, he knew, and every crone no doubt had some hidden away, but none of them would be unguarded, and he’d not exactly pass unnoticed as he searched for them. And who was to say the armory was still stocked the same way, or that it was even in the same chamber as he remembered it being?

  Moreover, there was only one Orivon Firefist, and Talonnorn held thousands of Niflghar who’d try to slay him—or any unchained Hairy One—on sight.

  Something rattled as he thrust aside thickly heaped bones with his sword. Metal of some sort, dark . . .

  A bony arm, wearing a bracer that now hung on it limply, a chased and worked metal bracer of finer make than anything he’d ever seen in Talonnorn, all metal . . .

  Orivon’s eyes narrowed, and he plucked it up out of the crumbling decay. Magic tingled under his fingers.

  Take me and wear me, Hairy One.

  The voice startled him so much he almost flung the armlet away. He managed merely to juggle it awkwardly instead, pinning it against his chest.

  It was the voice in his dream, but it was whispering inside his head!

  Slave, obey and know no fear, the voice hissed, sounding amused. YOU have nothing to fear from me. So long as you obey Yathla. I have waited a long time for someone to wear me, and work my revenge.

  “Who—who are you?” Orivon snarled, hardly daring to look down at the silken-smooth, somehow warm metal against his chest.

  Yathla of Evendoom, crone of Talonnorn, I am—or was.

  “Evendoom,” the forgefist sighed.

  You know us, I see. Dark, bitter amusement surged in Orivon’s head. Unmatched in House Evendoom, and much feared, I was. Until I was betrayed by my younger sisters. Poisoned, helpless, I was tormented by spells, my power torn from me to enstar items of power for House Evendoom. My body died, but I lived, aware still, trapped in this war-brace, that gouts searing flame in battle. They had not expected that, and feared me greatly. Wherefore I was put upon the body of another poisoned one, and taken forth into the Wild Dark by the Hunt, to be hurled down and lost far from Talonnorn.

  “I—”

  You will wear me, and bring me to Talonnorn, and I will have my vengeance upon my kin for what they did to me. You will see House Evendoom humbled, Hairy One. Take some satisfaction in that, slave of Evendoom.

  “I am no slave of anyone, and never will be again!” Orivon spat fiercely. “Speak so to me again, and I’ll hurl you where you will never be found!”

  Then wear me, free human, and heed my guidance to find means of healing, and live. Or hurl me away—and die of your wounds. You are dying now.

  “I . . . I’ll live, with no help from you!”

  For a short time. A VERY short time.

  The forgefist sighed—and then grimaced and doubled over, as pain surged inside him again. “I returned to the Dark on a task of my own,” he snarled. “To try to free four children, enslaved by Talonar Niflghar. I will not be thrust aside from this rescue!”

  You need not be. I have no quarrel with any Hairy One. Just with those of the Blood Evendoom. Why should any of them live and flourish, when I was betrayed and my life stolen from me? Wear me, man! I’ll aid you as much as I can; remember, at any time you can snatch me off and toss me aside! Right now, you need healing stones sorely—and I know where they are.

  Orivon gasped as fresh spasms of pain wracked him. On his knees, he shuddered, snarled in frustration—and slapped the bracer onto his left forearm, clawing at its buckles. “W-where are they?”

  Don’t try to get up. Leave your sword for now; you’ll need both hands, and you still have your other blade. Crawl THAT way.

  Orivon crawled.

  Up along the sloping reach of stone, to the highest rocks in the cavern. To a cleft between them, and a headless, armless, sleeth-gnawed Nifl skeleton twisted between the rocks there.

  Beneath it. Pouches on a ruined belt. Trust not the hide to hold up under handling.

  Hissing in fresh agony, his mouth now full of his blood, the forgefist thrust an arm through the brittle rib cage and groped beneath. Spiders and tiny cave-snakes hastened away from his probing fingers—and he touched something solid, smooth, and rectangular.

  He drew it forth and stared at it wearily. A healing stone.

  Put it in your mouth. Spit out no blood, but swallow the liquid as it melts. Hold it in with your fingers, and choke not.

  Orivon almost choked with mirth; the motherly tone that had crept into the mind-voice sounded like old beak-nosed Meljarra, back up in Orlkettle.

  Choke not, I said.

  MEN.

  That scornful dismissal sounded even more like Meljarra, but the stone was almost gone, little weight left on his tongue, and something that was warm and cool at the same time, and soothing all of the time, was welling up in him, and the pain fading . . .

  You need another, and should thereafter find all the rest and take them for the NEXT time you do something as foolish as taking on a cave-sleeth alone.

  Orivon sighed, shook his head until his
wry grin faded, and obeyed.

  Gladrar heard the clatter of pots behind him and spun around more weary than angry. Outlaws were certainly becoming more clumsy than when he’d started trading at Glowstone. Why—

  The Nifl who’d upset his display shelf of cookware crashed heavily to the cavern floor at Gladrar’s feet, bouncing limply as his lifeblood spattered in all directions.

  Gladrar snatched out his belt-knife with a snarl. Pots were pots, but yon cloth had come all the way from—

  Then the old trader saw the two warblades leaping at him, blood-wet swords thrusting his way.

  He died spitting out the nastiest curse he could remember, as the hilt of the sword that had plunged right through him slammed into his ribs and snatched his breath away.

  He died smiling around that oath, though, or trying to. He’d managed to put his dagger into the warblade’s left eye, just as neatly as he’d managed that same trick long, long ago.

  So old and limping Nifl could still surprise sneering young warblades! Hah! As Glowstone erupted in shouts, screams, and the clang of snarlingly swung warsteel around him, Gladrar smiled in satisfaction.

  The look of utter astonishment in the dying warblade’s remaining eye was the last thing he ever saw, but it was a sight worth seeing.

  Orivon Firefist was completely healed, and there were six precious healing stones in the battered old carry-box, wrapped in a scrap of his under-leathers to keep the coins that were packed around them from scratching them.

  He’d found a baldric and pouch that should last for a little while, to carry most of the daggers, and now—

  You’re not done looking yet. There’s one thing more you must not leave this place without finding.

  “Oh?” Orivon snarled, as his healed but yawningly empty stomach rumbled. “Food, perhaps?”

  No. Something far more useful than that.

  Well, he’d never overheard an Evendoom crone appreciate any sarcasm except her own; he shouldn’t expect this one to be different than the rest. “Guide me, Yathla of Evendoom,” he said politely.

  As promised. The mind-voice was tart. Turn to your right.

  The forgefist obeyed, and found himself following a series of short commands that led him swiftly across the chamber to a tangle of bones near one of the cave mouths. Among them was something old, metal, and decidely odd-looking.

  He held it up. Three horizontal metal plates bolted together along a vertical spindle that held them stacked but apart. The plates were engraved with lines . . .

  Orivon turned the spindle, eyes narrowing, and abruptly knew what he was holding.

  A map!

  A simple, crude drawing of some part of the Wild Dark, with caverns and passages on the plates. He saw wisps of what might once have been threads, or spell-treated strands of something, that had formerly joined points on the plates, to indicate where passages ascended and descended from what was drawn on one plate, to an adjacent plate above or below.

  The small, starlike spot on the uppermost plate is this cavern, Yathla said gently. Turn to your left a bit, and hold the map straight out in front of you. When you look out of the exits from this place, you’ll find they line up with what you’re holding.

  “Ah,” Orivon agreed appreciatively, and then frowned, studying the plates more closely. “Is this Glowstone, here?”

  It is. And Talonnorn is the large cavern down on the bottom plate.

  Orivon shook his head. Thorar, if he’d had this—

  Ah, so Hairy Ones play the “if” game just as we Niflghar do. THAT’S interesting.

  A chill ran through Orivon. He hadn’t known the spirit-crone could read his thoughts.

  Of course. The mind-voice sounded fondly amused. It’s what we spirit-crones do.

  “What else do you do?” the forgefist asked grimly.

  Ah, man, where’s the fun in knowing beforehand? Don’t you want your life to be an adventure?

  “Tried that,” Orivon replied grimly. “Can’t seem to try anything much else, yet.”

  Many Nifl have said that, too.

  “And?”

  Died, most of them.

  “All over but the butchery, now,” Oronkh growled as they stopped to catch their breaths on the high gallery, three caverns east of Glowstone. The faint clash of arms could still be heard, back behind them. “We got out just in time.”

  The sharren nodded, too winded to voice a reply. Oronkh watched her take hold of some of the toothlike horns of rock that caverns hereabouts bristled with, cling to them while she gasped, and then turn as calmly and smoothly as if they’d merely been out for a stroll.

  Ghodal Below, but she was beautiful. Slender, graceful . . . sharren were called “Olone’s Curse,” and shunned because they were born with fanged mouths in their palms, and sucked blood through them from unwitting humans and Nifl they seduced. The few who weren’t strangled at birth tended to grow up decidely pleasant to look upon, but Nurnra was . . . stunning. Even with her gloves off, and fresh Nifl blood dripping from her hands.

  She caught the gleam in his eye, gave him a look of disgust, and then ignored him to lick her hands clean, plucking the gloves she customarily covered them with from her belt.

  Oronkh watched, grinning. He’d willingly yielded his gore to her a time or two, when she’d been hungry enough to surrender to his blandishments, and would happily do it again if ever she asked. However, there hadn’t seemed to be any shortage of pure Nifl blood in Nurnra’s recent life, and his own blood, he knew, tasted foul to her.

  Part of his being half-Nifl and half-gorkul, no doubt.

  Ah, well.

  ’Twasn’t as if he’d had any choice what he was born as, either. He’d grown into a fat, tusked pessimist of a knife-seller, and that was his achievement.

  One of them.

  Another was being the deadliest knife-hurler in all the Dark, but then, the trouble with such titles was that someone else was always well on the way to replacing you. Sometimes personally and very permanently.

  “Any idea who attacked Glowstone, Manyfangs?” Gloves on, Nurnra was strolling languidly forward, hand on hip, as if the deserted cavern was crowded with Nifl rampants interested in slaking their ardor, who just might catch sight of her.

  “Ouvahlan raiders,” Oronkh said, with utter certainty. “Accents as strong, most of them, as if they’d never been outside their cavern before.”

  “They were young,” the sharren agreed.

  “Are young, most of them. Glowstone’s overrun and taken, and I think they did more killing than getting killed.”

  Nurnra shrugged. “Aside from those I slew, I wasn’t counting. Yet here I stand, one sharren, and I left twelve-and-five dead behind me, plus another who’ll die if he doesn’t get healing right swiftly. Saw you any priestesses?”

  “Not a one,” Oronkh growled, starting to trudge along the ledge. “Come. Darkfirefall’s a long way from here.”

  “Oh? You’ve decided where both of us are headed?”

  The knife-seller stopped dead, reflected on the tone of the sharren’s voice when uttering that last sentence, and decided it was more sardonic than dangerous. Nevertheless . . .

  “Far from it, Softfingers. I’d never dare presume so far. I merely meant that I’ve lost my wares, back there, and the nearest store of knives I can call my own is hidden near Darkfirefall.”

  “Ah. I do so appreciate practical rampants. And how many did you slay?”

  It was Oronkh’s turn to shrug. “I didn’t count, either. I’m down four throwing-blades, though, and every one of them took a life. Shall we go back for them? Or anything else?”

  The sharren shook her head. “Not now. If they’re still infesting Glowstone when I want to use it again . . . well, then it’ll be my turn to launch a raid on our uninvited visitors from Ouvahlor.”

  “All by yourself?” the half-gorkul teased.

  “No. I’ll need you along, to bind and mind the few I leave alive. I do so like fresh blood.”

 
Oronkh leered at her suggestively, and pulled open his leather vest to reveal his hairy, sagging paunch.

  Nurnra scowled.

  “Start walking, Manyfangs.”

  Orivon strode along through the Dark, his swords in their scabbards, the map in the crook of his arm, and his hands busy with a knife and a huge, dripping slab of raw sleeth. Thankfully, its death-glow was gone.

  MUST you? You’re leaving a trail of blood even a snoutless cave-rat could follow. Hardly wise in the Dark, hmm?

  “The objections of Yathla of Evendoom are heard,” he told her, between gnawings on the bloody sleeth in his hands, “and swept aside. If the blood draws hunting things of the Dark to me, good. I very much feel like killing something else, about now.”

  The mind-voice sniffed, inside his head.

  Ignoring it, Orivon Firefist strode on, chewing hard. When at last he could swallow—sleeth tasted not bad—he lifted his head and told the darkness around him grimly, “Brith, Reldaera, Aumril, and Kalamae, I come. Stay alive until I find you.”

  10

  Vipers Out in the Dark

  There are vipers out in the Dark

  Your worst nightmares can’t imagine

  So drink deep and drink often

  And try not to dream.

  —Ravager saying

  Klaerra Evendoom entwined herself provocatively around the soaring black bedpost, but the High Lord of Talonnorn shook his head.

  “I didn’t come here for that,” he muttered, striding to the most comfortable chair. “I’m in need of some plain and truthful talk.”

  Klaerra smiled fondly, and sought the chair facing his. “Speak, Dral. What most burdens you?”

  Jalandral gave her a sharp look.

  What scheming was going on behind that smiling face? She knew quite well that he intended to kill her-had started to do so, twice-and suffered her to live now only because of her continued usefulness. So just when, and how, was she planning to betray him?

  She was being the most willing of slaves, lovers, and mentors, seemed truly to love him and to be eager to serve him, but . . . he was not the most lovable of Niflghar, and Niflghar in general were hardly lovable or trustworthy.