Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  Aloun nodded soberly. “Do we know the Revered Mother’s plans regarding Talonnorn? Or Klarandarr’s?”

  “Not well enough to discuss,” the Senior Watcher said firmly. Aloun took the hint. “What of the other cities, nearby?”

  “Uryrryr, Imbrae, Nrauluskh, Yarlys, and Oundrel are all arming themselves right now, preparing forces to set forth into the Dark. What those forces will be sent to do is pure conjecture, but I suspect it will depend very much on what they believe Ouvahlor is intending to accomplish. They do not want us—or any city—to grow as strong as Talonnorn was, and so threaten all. Nrauluskh may be intending more than that. They have long coveted Talonnorn’s Rift, and the richest of its ore-veins. The strife in the Talonar temple of Olone will give them all the pretext they need to ‘cleanse’ decadent, fallen-from-Olone Talonnorn. By conquering it, of course.”

  “And Jalandral? Is he readying an army?”

  “Full of questions, aren’t you? He is, but is most concerned right now with tightening his hold on his own city, and being ready to fend off attackers hired by rival Talonar. He’s no fool, mind; he’ll be expecting Ouvahlor to come calling again, to test Talonnorn’s weakness and his own rule, and to give their warblades more battle-tempering. To say nothing of what experiments on large numbers of screaming, fleeing Niflghar Klarandarr’s next spells may involve.”

  “So lots of Nifl may soon be butchering each other in the Dark between here and Talonnorn. Erlingar and Faunhorn Evendoom are still out there, heading for Glowstone to hire Ravagers and not knowing it has fallen to Ouvahlor. The Ravager they most want, Bloodblade, is somewhere else in the Dark, with Taerune Evendoom and whichever Ravagers they’ve managed to gather around themselves. Which means the few who are too desperate to do otherwise, or who haven’t heard how dangerous it is to walk the Dark with Bloodblade, these days.”

  Aloun frowned.

  “A thought strikes me: how many Ravagers—and slave-takers in Talonnorn and other Nifl cities hereabouts—know the ways to the Blindingbright, and are daring to seek them right now? To gain slaves, or allies, or magic, or just a refuge from all of this strife, to return when the time is right?”

  Luelldar smiled. “Ah. At last you are truly ready to begin to become a Watcher, Aloun. I have waited so long for you to truly begin to think. And see.”

  Orivon stifled another belch.

  Sleeth-meat was greasy, and though he’d long since finished it, its aftertaste was both less than pleasant and prone to returning.

  Often.

  He refrained from cursing as that foul taste filled his mouth again. Glowstone was very near, so a guardpost was somewhere close by, now. Which is why the Wild Dark had fallen very quiet around him.

  He tried not to fill that heavy silence with more noise than he absolutely had to, stealing forward as softly as any sneak-thief, with drawn sword reversed under his arm and the metal map held firmly against its hilt.

  “There!” The voice out of the darkness was as sudden as it was harsh. “Ravager—a Hairy One, by the Ice! Kill it!”

  That darkness fell away as if magic was banishing a curtain of clinging darkness, and Orivon saw armed and armored Nifl standing all around him. Their swords sang out—as Orivon Firefist cursed, flung the map into the face of the nearest Nifl, and drew his other sword as he bounded forward at the next warblade.

  And recognized the badge of Ouvahlor, in the instant before three blades thrust at him, and the Nifl behind one of them snarled, “Welcome to Glowstone, human! Now, die!”

  11

  No Shortage of Death

  Food? We’ve all too little to go round

  Softer than stone, our beds are mere ground

  Our riches and garments are all that you see

  Our only plenty? No shortage of death have we.

  —old Ravager song

  Orivon’s best sword was met and parried, the Nifl using both hands and staggering—but his second-best blade bit deep into that Nifl neck. The warblade sagged and started to fall, head flopping loosely amid spurting blood.

  The forgefist ran on, knowing that to stand and fight would mean being surrounded and swiftly hacked down.

  ‘Ware behind! Yathla snapped, in his mind, and Orivon twisted and slashed behind him, without slowing or looking; his blade sliced into something that shrieked.

  Then he was through the tightening ring of Niflghar warriors, and turning sharp left to hack the back of another neck as he ran along behind hastily turning Ouvahlan warblades.

  Keep running in this direction. There’s a cavern ahead where you can turn back into the Dark, away from Glowstone.

  “Been here before, have you?” Orivon grunted, smashing a Nifl sword aside with his own best blade and driving his other sword up under the warblade’s chin. The Nifl staggered away, gurgling and dying, into the path of a warblade who was pursuing Orivon—which gave the forgefist time enough to hack down the last Ouvahlan in his way, and sprint into the darkness. “What if I don’t want to turn away from Glowstone?”

  A horn-call roared out into eerie echoes right behind him.

  Then you’ll die, here and now. Hear that horn? This patrol is summoning others. They’ll be closing in around you.

  Orivon spat out a few vicious curses, and added, “I threw the map away!”

  So you did. Worry not. These are Ouvahlans, so they’ll be heading for Talonnorn soon enough. Once you’ve gotten away and they’ve calmed down again. First things first.

  “Full of trite advice, aren’t you?”

  Once a crone of Evendoom, man, ALWAYS a crone of Evendoom.

  And running hard, stumbling and reeling on uneven stone, Orivon Firefist found himself chuckling.

  “What,” Nurnra asked, her voice closer to shaking than steady, “is that?”

  Oronkh shook his head, watching great looping coils glide and undulate in the cavern ahead. Whatever it was seemed snakelike, but to have four—no, more—heads, all of them on their own long neck that branched out from the main body somewhere near the back of the cavern.

  The beast was huge. And angry. And hungry, or looked it. He could see fangs as sharp as swords and longer than his own body, and those jaws were thrusting this way and that, as if tasting the air . . .

  “I know not,” he told the sharren grimly, scratching one of his tusks, “but I do know it’s between us and the only way to Darkfirefalls, and filling the Olone-damned cavern! We’re turning back.”

  “To greet scores of Ouvahlan warblades?”

  “To lead it into their ranks, if we can. The thing has scented us already. See?”

  Nurnra peered for a long moment.

  “It’s following us,” she said softly—and then shivered, against the knife-seller’s shoulder. “Get me out of here.”

  “As you command, Lady,” the half-Nifl, half-gorkul growled, sweeping an arm around the shapely sharren and whirling them both around. Behind them, much hissing arose, sounding as if it was coming swiftly closer. “Whither shall we—”

  “Manyfangs,” Nurnra snarled, “just shut up and get going.”

  Oronkh lowered his unlovely head between his broad shoulders, tightened his arm enough around Nurnra to lift the sharren off her feet, and did as he was told.

  Suddenly there were Nifl in front of him, warblades with swords in their hands.

  Orivon hacked at them viciously, burst through their line, and ran on.

  Horns were calling in several caverns behind him; many, many Nifl seemed to be closing in around him.

  Six—no, seven—patrols, at least; had Ouvahlor emptied itself, to flood to Glowstone? Well, with this sort of an army, they’d be heading for Talonnorn, for sure.

  Which meant he had to get there first, and somehow find the four younglings and get them out—and then, somehow, get them home through the Wild Dark going around an advancing army.

  And he was running out of curses.

  Orivon rounded a corner into a larger cavern—and skidded to a halt. It was full
of Ouvahlan warblades, all looking his way and with swords ready on their hands.

  Spitting heartfelt dirty words, he ran in the other direction, down a long and curving cave that was heading around Glowstone on the far side of that moot from Talonnorn, toward a distant, larger trading town called Darkfirefalls. A completely unfamiliar reach of the Dark to him, and—

  This new cavern seemed to go on forever, and to be something of a roadway; he could see the wet, rotten fragments of old sledges here and there among the teeth of rock that studded the floor. A gentle breeze was blowing into his face, and he could hear water trickling, somewhere unseen but nearby. Water he went on hearing, as he ran and ran with Niflghar warblades flooding into the cavern far behind him. A stream, then, which would inevitably mean prowling monsters of the Dark, lurking as they awaited food to come running right down their waiting maws.

  Such as a lone and winded Hairy One, a sword in either hand and—

  Orivon panted out a despairing oath and skidded to a stop again. There were Nifl ahead of him, too, lots of them. An entire Thorar-damned army!

  He looked back. The Nifl pursuing him were still there, of course.

  Orivon drew in a deep breath, and then turned and ran toward the sound of water, up off the relatively smooth cavern floor into tumbled, rising rocks. The Nifl at both ends of the cavern were shouting now, calling to each other excitedly, amusement in their voices as they confirmed that there was only one Hairy One—and started to bargain over what they’d do to him, and who’d get to do what bloody torment first.

  Get across the water. DON’T tarry in it. Unfriendly jaws await.

  “Thank you, Yathla. What’s across the water?”

  A little ledge a lone Hairy One with two blades and swift hands just might be able to defend. It even has a rock to get down behind, if they try arrows.

  “And you know this how?”

  I was young once, human, and tasted a few adventures of my own. Enjoy the swim.

  The water was ink-black—and icy!

  Orivon grunted involuntarily as he plunged into it, his boots finding bottom immediately. He hurried through the stream, water thick about his legs, and then was up and out of it, rolling across the ledge.

  Just in time, it seemed.

  Something unseen was causing the water to bulge up over a just-submerged bulk that was sliding lazily but inexorably out of the distance toward him. Orivon cursed and shrank back from the water, moving along the ledge to get behind the shoulder of rock Yathla had mentioned.

  Whatever it was in the water slowed when it got to where Orivon had crossed, and then sank down, leaving only ripples behind.

  Which was when the foremost Nifl who’d been chasing Orivon reached the spot where he’d turned off the cavern road, and came rushing up through the rocks, and over the ridge, down to where the stream was.

  No, don’t try to hide behind the rock. They need to see you.

  They already had. Warblades plunged into the water, snarling, “Get the Hairy One!” and similar sentiments, and—vanished.

  The water boiled briefly, Nifl swords and heads abruptly sank from view, and a few bubbles arose.

  Orivon and the Nifl still on the stony bank watched those bubbles pop, and the warblades fell silent, standing wavering on the bank.

  The other Ouvahlan band arrived at the bank of the stream farther down, having seen none of this. They plunged into the dark waters without pause, to wade in great numbers along the dark flow toward Orivon.

  The black waters promptly roiled, and warblades started to vanish again.

  This time, some reappeared, drifting lifelessly to the surface, blades fallen from hands.

  One rolled over as it came up, and Orivon saw that its throat had been bitten away. The water-monster, it seemed, had eaten all it could for the moment, and was now slaying for later dining.

  Shouting in alarm, the Ouvahlans still in the water turned and tried to clamber out, falling and splashing in their haste. More than one shrieked as he was taken from behind and dragged under, but the water was soon empty of the living.

  Silence fell again, as everyone stared at the drifting bodies and the waters started to calm. No one had yet really seen the slayer in the water—and no one, it seemed, really wanted to.

  Orivon heard what was being shouted, and his stomach lurched. They had no spellrobe, and were led by a priestess no one wanted to disturb for anything—he smiled mirthlessly at that—but their highest-ranking officers, the commanders, had found slaying magics in Glowstone. One was being sent for.

  Thorar, be with me.

  He ducked down below the rock, where the Nifl couldn’t see him, and muttered, “Now what? How do I fight magic?”

  By doing as you’re told. For now, stand up again. When this “commander” arrives, point at him with the arm you’re wearing me on—point your sword—and leave the rest to me. If someone looks like they’re about to send an arrow this way, first, point at them, too.

  Orivon stood up. Nifl warblades stared at him. He smiled back at them and stood leaning on his swords, watching the bodies drift slowly downstream. The water looked placid again.

  The bodies were all gone, and the stream was flowing mirror-smooth again, by the time the commander shouldered through the Nifl along the bank, some sort of slender metal baton in his hand. It looked something like a Talonar slave-goad scepter, and the Nifl holding it looked calm and capable and ready to use it. The war-blades around him pointed at Orivon and then at the water, saying many swift things in voices too low for the man across the stream to hear.

  Then the commander gave an order that sent Nifl to searching along the banks for loose stones, and hurling them into the stream. Orivon shrank down, hoping no one would decide to just bury the human in hurled rocks and be done with all of this, but the stones went on plunging into the water and sending it up in little plumes and geysers as it gulped them.

  Suddenly the water bulged again—and something black and glistening and serpentine burst into view. It reared up with frightening speed, powerful coils that split into a forest of writhing snake-bodies, each ending in a snapping-fanged head. Those heads lunged for the Nifl-crowded bank, reaching angrily—

  For oblivion, as the Nifl commander struck a pose, aimed the scepter in his hand, and fed the beast snarling spheres of roiling lightning.

  The water-monster shuddered as those spheres burst in its jaws and along its dripping coils, unleashing snarling, clawing arcs of lightning that split and sizzled, racing and coiling in an eyesight-searing instant that left glowing steam rising from sagging, falling coils.

  Point at the commander. Point at the Olone-blasted commander NOW.

  Orivon pointed. The bracer on his arm quivered once, and then erupted in a racing red bolt of flame, a line of fire that spat across the water and through the sinking monster-heads, to melt through Nifl chests beyond.

  Aim true, human! Strike that scepter, before he drops it into the water!

  Orivon moved his arm, snarling in concentration, and aimed true.

  Abruptly the little knot of stricken, staggering-back Niflghar on the bank vanished in a blinding ball of white fire that smote the ears like a forgehammer and sent shards of stone clacking and spinning past Orivon and everywhere else in the cavern.

  The stones underfoot shook, the dying monster and much of the water in the stream were hurled up into the air, and dark elves in that more distant band were flung in all directions, limp and broken.

  The Nifl on the bank right across from Orivon shouted in fear and turned to frantically flee, Orivon winced as his shoulders were slammed into the cavern wall behind him hard enough to drive all the breath out of him, and . . . silence fell again, the silence of temporary deafness.

  Groaning on the ground, fighting for breath, the forgefist could hear nothing but the deep vibrations of his own groaning and the much fainter quiverings of shock waves dying away through the rock beneath him. He felt rather than heard the water crashing back down in
to the stream, and the limp carcass of the water-monster slapping down into it.

  MUCH better, Yathla of Evendoom purred in his mind.

  Orivon heard that well enough, and felt her satisfaction, too, but of the Dark around him—nothing.

  Then, slowly, as he lay gasping, air slamming back into him and then failing again, slamming back and failing, sounds started to come back to Orivon. His own labored breathing, louder than all else.

  He struggled to roll over and rise, managing to get as far as up on one elbow, to where he could see the cavern again.

  There was a great scorched, blasted place on the bank of the stream where the Nifl with the scepter had been, and for quite a distance beyond, to a ring of lifeless, heaped Nifl that defined that deadly ground.

  Groaning, wounded Nifl were limping, crawling, and staggering around behind that ring, and beyond them, their unharmed fellows were hastening away, fleeing down the cavern into the distance.

  The dark elves who’d pursued Orivon here, however, had drawn back only as far as the road down the center of the cavern, where veteran Niflghar—more commanders, by the looks of them—had arrived and were rallying them, with much stern shouting and wavings of swords. Glowing swords.

  Orivon’s spirits sank again. Magic swords weren’t something he could fight against, if—

  Oh, stop GLOOMING, human. You’re as bad as a close-cloistered Consecrated, worrying over which finger to raise in prayer-gestures! Besides, things are about to get worse. Save your despair for when it’s truly appropriate.

  “I . . . I’ll try to remember that,” Orivon muttered sarcastically. He glanced down the cavern again, and added a curse.

  The distant group of Nifl had stopped fleeing. It seemed superiors had arrived there, too.

  More than that, they were coming back. Slowly and warily, with swords held ready and gazes darting everywhere, the Ouvahlan warblades were coming back.