Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  “Down steel, but be ready,” Bloodblade snapped to the ring of Ravagers as he and Taerune shifted and peered, trying to see the speaker.

  “Who . . . ?” Taerune began, and then saw the face of the grandly dressed rampant who was pushing through the warblades toward her, with similarly garbed kin at his shoulders. “Barrandar Dounlar!”

  Rival Talonar Houses are not friendly, and she and Barrandar had never much liked even the look of each other, but there was clear relief and even respect on the face of the eldest surviving Dounlar heir as he hastened forward, his brothers at his shoulders as they came out from among their own warblades, and on, bloody blades in hand.

  “Let them in,” Bloodblade growled, a stride before the three Dounlar would have walked right into the unmoving ring of Ravagers.

  “What would you, with me?” Taerune asked calmly, pitching her voice loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.

  “I . . .” Barrandar Dounlar seemed suddenly uncertain, darting glances at his brothers; Garlane, the nastiest, and the younger one . . . Andralus, that was his name. Then he spoke in a rush.

  “Lady Evendoom, we would like you to lead us. Lead us all.” On either side of Barrandar, who was paling in embarrassment, his two brothers nodded.

  “Lead you in what?” Taerune asked warily, wondering if, a moment from now, she might have to fight all of these Dounlar to the death.

  “To rally loyal Talonar, against the oriad new High Lord of the city. Your brother, Jalandral Evendoom.”

  Hairy Ones can flee far and fast. There was what felt like grudging admiration in Yathla Evendoom’s voice, deep in his mind.

  “I only hope I’m not lost forever,” Orivon Firefist replied, trudging along yet another unfamiliar crevice, and watching things that looked like spear-long centipedes, with spiders at both ends, racing away from him up the rock walls. “With the map gone . . .”

  You have me. I can always feel what direction Talonnorn is. More or less.

  “More or less,” Orivon grunted, ducking low under a narrow place where two jutting points of rock almost met. “Well, that’s a comfort.”

  A little less sarcasm, swaggering human hero. I fry foes for you, remember?

  “Endlessly?”

  Alas, no. That’s why I unleash my flame so seldom. Too much fire, and . . . no more Yathla.

  So sad was the voice in his mind that Orivon found himself on the verge of tears as he came out of the narrow way into yet another dark, silent, and unfamiliar cavern. And stopped.

  All he knew was that he was somewhere out in the Wild Dark, trying to circle around Glowstone and reach the ways between Glowstone and Talonnorn that Bloodblade had led his now-lost Ravager band along, before Ouvahlor had come after all Ravagers. That had been a hectic time, and Orivon’s will had been bent on surviving, and getting back up to the sun, and Ashenuld. He only hoped he’d recognize the caverns Bloodblade had led them through, when he stumbled out into them.

  If, that is, he hadn’t crossed them already.

  Oronkh rose with a grunt, the finger he’d just swiped across a darkened stone underfoot and then licked still held out in front of him.

  “Aye, man-sweat. This is the way he went.” He looked at Nurnra, who stood with her slender sword drawn, looking warily up and down the cavern. “You sure you want to tail this Hairy One as he wanders lost across all the monster-slithering, Nifl-army-roamed, Ghodal-gnawing Wild Dark?”

  The sharren gave him her most alluring smile. “I’m sure, Manyfangs.” She struck a pose, knowing full well how attractive she looked, even before her longtime business partner growled longingly, deep in his throat. “Aren’t you interested? Yes, he’s not a Nifl-she panting to be under you, but he’s a Hairy One with darksight, he fights like a war-hero, and things happen around him. He’s obviously down here for a reason, and I want to know what it is. Before, perhaps, it’s too late. In the meantime, he’s undeniably entertaining.”

  Oronkh shrugged. “Hairy Ones are always entertaining. They stop my knives so prettily, fountaining blood and collapsing so fetchingly, they go down under slavers’ whips faster and more clumsily than anyone else, making for much comedy, they—”

  “Oh, chain that jaw of yours!” Nurnra tossed her head, magnificent hair swirling, and strode on through the rocks. “Let’s be after him!”

  “Let’s not,” Oronkh growled, staying right where he was, “until you’ve answered me something. ’Tis fool-haunched to travel the Dark talking, alerting every lurking and skulking thing of your approach and making too much noise to hear them moving to where they can best pounce. Aye?”

  The sharren halted, spun to face him, and nodded. “So ask.”

  “So what’s your real interest in him, Softfingers? There’s something more than mere entertainment, and I’ll be disappointed sure if it’s just that he’s a rampant and not a Nifl, and you want to be under him.”

  Nurnra rolled her eyes. “The half of you that’s gorkul is obviously the lower half.” She took a step nearer the half-gorkul and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The smell, the hair . . . no, Oronkh, Hairy Ones are not for me. Yet I’ve tasted human blood before—slaves—and can drink it safely. If I can somehow control my gorge, and seduce him, I do wonder: is his blood strong? Will I be able to feed on him for years without killing him? What a thing that would be, freeing me from the need to seduce or convince with coin, or attack . . .”

  “Whereas mine sickens you.”

  “Truly sickens me, Oronkh. Not only does it fail to sustain me, it’s unsafe for me—for which I am deeply thankful to whatever gods there may be. For that keeps you safe from me.”

  The fat, tusked half-gorkul nodded, turned to look down the passage toward where the human was presumably somewhere ahead of them, and asked quietly, “But what if I don’t want to be safe from you?”

  The sharren stood like a silent statue for a long breath, and then a second one. Then she retraced her steps through the rocks, as softly and smoothly as if she’d been made of drifting smoke, and lifted a gloved hand to stroke his cheek.

  “Oronkh,” she whispered, “you don’t have to be.” She slid deft hands inside his vest, slowly drew it open, and kissed his chest.

  “Softfingers,” he rumbled, “this is perhaps not the best place to—”

  “Be safe?” Her eyes glimmered up at him from somewhere close to his belt. Below which something was bulging to thrust insistently at her, through his worn and filthy leathers.

  Glimmered, and then winked.

  Oronkh shook his head, smiled, and growled, “You win. As usual.”

  Vlakrel stopped so abruptly that the Ozrim warblades behind him almost walked right into him.

  “They’ve stopped moving,” he snapped.

  The warblades ahead of him halted and turned to hear what he’d say next, joining their fellows of the rear guard in a ring around the spellrobe. Who promptly mumbled something magical, and closed his eyes.

  Vlakrel might be the most treacherous and vicious Niflghar ever to serve House Ozrim, but he was their commander, and one of the two most powerful Ozrim spellrobes. He’d returned from his private audience with High Lord Evendoom afire with zeal, almost tremblingly eager to lead them out into the Wild Dark after the Bloodsucker and the Misbegotten. Whose heads commanded high prices, whether or not their bodies were still attached.

  They all knew that Vlakrel—and with him, House Ozrim—would rise greatly in the estimation of the High Lord of Talonnorn if they succeeded.

  The Bloodsucker was the rampant-meltingly beautiful sharren Nurnra, who’d seduced Nifl beyond counting—not a few of whom had vanished forever, or had been left longing for her return to their arms, and seeking her out when they dared.

  The Misbegotten was the half-Nifl, half-gorkul knife-trader and sometime slayer-for-hire Oronkh, a wily and unlovely crossbreed whose very existence was a soiling affront to Olone, and whose swindles were legendary.

  They almost always worked together, notorious cri
minals of the Dark who had cheated Talonar merchants for years. They seemed to know when goods were owned by, and traders were working for, the ruling noble Houses of Talonnorn, and to seek out such prey over other opportunities. Wherefore the bounty on their heads—and Jalandral’s eagerness to reward Vlakrel. If things went awry, the spellrobe had told them all, he had been given the means to summon Jalandral’s flying Hunt, to come swooping out into the Wild Dark to him and fight on his behalf.

  Which meant that this foray was the closest thing under Olone’s smile to a certain success.

  Vlakrel’s eyes snapped open, and his sharp, ratlike features assumed their usual gloating sneer. “They must have decided to sleep,” he said. “So we go on, as swiftly as we can without making overmuch noise, to perhaps take them unawares. Speak only if peril demands.”

  He waved at the warblades impatiently, and they silently and impassively re-formed their line and started walking again. Veterans all, they already had a lot of experience in creeping up on foes.

  Lolonmae stared right into Luelldar’s eyes through the whorl, her gaze as deep and steady as if she could see his every thought and memory, and correctly anticipate what he would think of next, too. The priestesses all around her were staring at him, too, but Luelldar paid them no attention at all. Even if he could have torn his eyes away from those of the Revered Mother, he had no desire to do so.

  “Senior Watcher,” she said politely, showing no sign of discomfort from the embrace of the solid ice that encased her from just below her throat on down, though her lips were white with cold, “your wisdom, perceptiveness, and your attentive care for the well-being of Ouvahlor have long impressed us. We appreciate that you have interrupted private and holy deliberations for good reason, because you do nothing without good reason. You have our full attention; speak.”

  Luelldar made a swift reverence, and lifted his head to say in humble tones, “Revered Mother, we Watchers have noticed that the wards of the city of Talonnorn are not only down, but have been down for some time now, implying that there is something preventing or at least delaying their restoration.”

  “Wherefore, you are suggesting—?” she asked silkily.

  “As Watchers,” Luelldar said flatly, “we suggest nothing unless requested to do so.”

  “Then I am making such a request,” she informed him, just as flatly.

  Luelldar blinked. He was so used to Anointed laying verbal traps with their every utterance . . .

  “Then I would suggest,” he said carefully, “that you use holy spells to contact Exalted Daughter of the Ice Semmeira from afar, and order her to attack Talonnorn immediately. If the force she commands can slay this new High Lord, plunder the city, and then withdraw, Talonnorn will remain a needy chaos, at war with itself, for some time.”

  “Probably a long time,” Lolonmae agreed thoughtfully.

  “This would at last free Ouvahlor, for that long time, to turn its attention to our other rivals, rather than our traditional foe,” Luelldar added.

  The Revered Mother smiled.

  “And that can only be a good thing. Luelldar, you serve Ouvahlor as diligently as ever.”

  The whorl in front of the Senior Watcher winked out of existence, astonishing Aloun.

  Luelldar, who was not at all surprised that the Revered Mother could casually shatter his magics from afar, merely shivered.

  “. . . Well, I’ve always wondered why they don’t suffocate when they sleep,” the familiar, harsh voice of the older Nifl overseer said, from right above her. “The stuff grows so fast.”

  Kalamae lay still, taking care not to change her breathing or open her eyes. She could tell from the slight quiver of Aumril’s flank, pressed against hers, that she wasn’t the only one who’d come awake.

  “Exhausted or not, you’d think they’d lie on their backs, just to keep from feeling like they’re going to smother,” he added.

  “Who knows why Hairy Ones do anything?” The other overseer—the lazy one—sounded as bored as he always did. “They don’t, that’s all.”

  Kalamae couldn’t feel Reldaera or Brith, on the far side of Aumril, but she knew from the faint hitch in their breathing that they, too, were awake and just feigning sleep, now. They always slept whenever they got too exhausted to go on, at a place where they’d dug away a lot of yeldeth. It regrew around them with its usual uncanny speed, but if they got most of it off the tunnel ceiling, there was little chance enough would fall on them to crush or smother them, and that was all that mattered.

  To the overseers, nothing involving slaves—aside from keeping the yeldeth yield up—seemed to matter at all.

  The two were literally standing right over the four children. Kalamae felt the sudden warm wetness as the older overseer spat on her back, ere speaking again.

  “I’ve been wondering,” he said slowly, “if we should shift all the slaves back a few tunnels, to where they’ll be more out of the way of the High Lord’s warblades—should the sword-swingers need to move through here in a hurry, if the city comes under attack.”

  “Too much trouble moving them,” the lazy overseer said promptly; more to stave off the effort of shifting slaves anywhere than for any other reason, Kalamae thought. “Keep the yield up, that’s our job. Which means we keep the slaves here, in these outermost ways, where the yeldeth’s younger and the yields are highest. That keeps our necks healthy. I’m not thinking the city’ll be attacked by anyone—and if it does, and the warblades come charging through here, keeping Hairy One brats alive will be the least of our worries.”

  Kalamae felt the barbs of his whip just touch her behind, in the lightest of touches, and move on in the direction of Aumril. Then the lazy overseer added, “If anything happens to these, they’ll just send out more raiding bands to the Blindingbright, and get more. They’re only slaves.”

  Daruse might have known right where he was, but copying his shape and wearing his filthy clothes didn’t help her recognize anything at all out in the Wild Dark. She needed a map.

  Luckily, that last peddler had been a careful keep-all-things sort. Old etched metal map plates had been used to line the insides of three of his oldest, leakiest chests.

  Wherefore she thought she now knew where she was. Looking up at the soft glow glimmering in the distance that was probably Lightpools, Lady Maharla Evendoom smiled.

  Talonar noble crones, Eldest of Evendooms or not, always liked to know where they stood.

  “You don’t think we’ll have fighting in Talonnorn?”

  “Ah, now, I didn’t say that. I don’t think Ouvahlor will bother to march all the way here, and everyone else is even farther off, with the worst of the Wild Dark to get through. I think if we do have warblades down here, it’ll be Talonar seeking to run around behind Talonar. What with all this strife and tumult over the High Lord . . .”

  The listening children cowered, and tried not to show it. Luckily, the overseers had largely forgotten them. Seeing the bared bodies of slaves was hardly a thrill when they were this young—and were Hairy Ones, to boot.

  “Aye. Now that he’s hiring wildblades and poisoners out of the Araed, to hurl against the noble Houses—”

  “Not that they haven’t long needed taking down, right and harsh, mind you!”

  “—and now, I hear, against the Consecrated of Olone when they can catch them, too!”

  “What?” The lazy overseer was shocked. “Holy One, that’s a . . . that’s another thing entirely.”

  “No good will come of this,” the older one said grimly.

  “Agreed,” the lazy one said quietly, still aghast. “Oh, agreed.” After a moment he added, “I need a drink.”

  “Ah. Now you’re spewing sense!”

  “But of course!” The overseers chuckled, and the four slaves who were not asleep heard those hoarse chucklings dwindle away down the tunnel.

  Brith, Reldaera, Aumril, and Kalamae all opened their eyes and turned to look at each other, sitting up warily to do so. “We’re goi
ng to die!” Reldaera hissed, eyes wide with fear.

  “We all die,” Kalamae said dismissively. “We just have to make sure we don’t die here. And soon.”

  Around them, the moist, warm yeldeth grew. Visibly.

  14

  Trying for Talonnorn Again

  Take your sword, take your sword

  Your armor and your pain

  Take your spells, take your spells

  Your tricks and battle-brain

  And for the glory and the gold

  Try for Talonnorn again!

  —old Ravager trail song

  “Leave me,” Semmeira ordered her four handsome bodyguards crisply. “I must renew one of the magics that shields us. To be near to me, or to spy on me, will be more than dangerous.”

  She strode away across the cavern without looking at them or waiting for any reply. It really didn’t matter if they correctly suspected she wanted some privacy to relieve herself, so long as they stayed where they were. By the Ice, but there were limits.

  Warblades’ leathers were designed for moments such as these. Unbuckle the codpiece, swing it aside and catch it on the belt-hook provided, use the same hook to hold the end of the crotch-leathers, and—let fly.

  A little bare and breezy, but no need to crouch or worry about skirts, and turning her outermost shielding to the semblance of solid stone blocked all prying eyes.

  Semmeira threw back her head, let out a shuddering sigh, and relaxed.

  For just long enough to gasp in alarm, as a face appeared in her head—a face that should never have been able to pierce her weakest shielding, let alone all six of them!

  Including the two that had so painfully ended the scrying and spying of Coldheart in the first place . . .

  Revered Mother Lolonmae was cold-eyed, taking no seeming pleasure in Semmeira’s astonishment, dismay, and flaring fear. Yet they both knew there was a note of silent triumph in her mind-voice as she said crisply, Exalted Daughter of the Ice Semmeira, before the Ever-Ice you are bound to hear and obey this my command: you are to take all of your force of war and travel with them as swiftly as possible to the city of Talonnorn, and attack that city. You are to slay its newly proclaimed High Lord, Jalandral Evendoom, do as much damage as possible to its forces of war and leadership, plunder what you can of its wealth, and withdraw, returning here to Coldheart without delay.