Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  “Uh . . . Of course, Revered Mother!” Semmeira stammered, trying to seem eager—and Lolonmae was gone, leaving Semmeira with a ringing headache and a deepening feeling of dread. Surely Lolonmae had some fell punishment in mind for her, but what? And when would it be visited upon her? When she stood in peril, embattled in Talonnorn, or as a humiliation before all at Coldheart, after she’d done all the bloody work for Lolonmae?

  “That little bitch,” Semmeira whispered. “If she can do what she just did, she has the power she needs to do anything to me . . .”

  Semmeira stood swaying for a moment, pale with fear, and then spat out curses as fast as she could and strode briskly away, heading . . . she knew not where.

  Maharla Evendoom didn’t have to be a Ravager to know that the approach to any meeting-place out in the Wild Dark would be among the most dangerous terrain in all the Dark. So while lurking monsters and outlaws may have seen only a lone Ravager leading six pack-snouts who seemed as old and lean as he was along the trade-trail to Lightpools, an invisible shielding-spell was moving with that trudging figure, and another unseen magic was darting about peering here, there, and everywhere among the rocks and deep shadows beneath and behind rocks, seeking out anyone—or anything—that might have been waiting to pounce.

  There were snakes, and cave-rats, and even something like a headless, all-wings bat that marked the approach of the Ravager with interest . . . but none of them tarried to attack, and Maharla did them no harm. She needed to keep her strongest spells for when they would really be needed.

  Because that moment of need just might be very soon.

  Lightpools, she now knew—that last peddler had kept everything, including old guidebooks to the Dark!—was a cavern that held a cluster of glowing pools of drinkable water, where springs bubbled up from below. From the pools, streams spilled out to wander far throughout the Dark, though their waters soon lost their glows. Lightpools was also a moot where Ravagers and traveling Nifl traders alike gathered, usually in peace. There seemed to be a code among those who lived out in the Dark, involving not hurling spells or shedding blood near drinkable water . . . but then, codes did not apply to Maharla Evendoom.

  She was smiling the tight smile evoked by that smug thought as she led her pack-snouts out into the Lightpools cavern, earning some swift looks and hastily-taken-up swords from the motley-clad Nifl rampants who were already sitting around the pools.

  She counted eight of them, all clad in worn and dirty leathers and scraps of armor.

  Every one of them was scarred, and every one of them was dirty. They all had weapons in their hands, now, one a ready hurlbow, but no one had scrambled to his feet, and no one looked to have any battle-magic, let alone showing any signs of getting ready to hurl it.

  Walking warily closer, Maharla marked two traders who were probably traveling together; the other six all appeared to be loners, spaced careful distances apart around the pools. All were watching her in expressionless, not-particularly-friendly silence, but she could see that they’d relaxed. One aging Nifl rampant, clad like any other Ravager and leading six bony pack-snouts with no trace of eagerness or good humor did not measure up to “pressing threat” in their shared judgment.

  Good.

  Eight armed foes, raging about on all sides, just might manage to get a hurled knife or an arrow past any crone’s spells.

  “Have a name, do you?” one of the nearest Ravagers—or traders, or whatever they were—asked calmly.

  “Daruse,” she replied, trying to keep her voice low, rough, and terse. Better to be thought surly than uncertain—or too different from the Daruse someone remembered to seem “right.” If Talonar had heard many tales of shapeshifting monsters and spells that did the same thing, then so had Ravagers out here, not all that far from Talonnorn.

  One of the traders frowned.

  “Ran with Bloodblade, didn’t you?”

  “Once,” she sat flatly, in a tone that invited no queries. She shifted her voice to sound a lot more friendly as she added, “I don’t remember your face. You had dealings with him?”

  “Some,” was the prompt reply, in precise mimicry of her flat “Once.” She caught herself on the verge of smiling.

  “Tell truth, Orlam,” another trader put in. “He outbid you on those blades in Glowstone, long time back, and you cursed him, and he laughed—and that was all the ‘dealings’ the two of you have had.”

  Orlam gave the trader a cold look, and said, “That you know about, Veln.”

  Then he looked at “Daruse” and added, “Saw you once, walking with him. Never really met Bloodblade’s band, out in the Dark, though.”

  “Never will, now,” Veln grunted, and there were some dark chuckles from around the pools.

  “Oh?” Maharla asked, starting to hobble her pack-snouts. “What happened?”

  “Heh. Slaughtered, all of them,” another trader said eagerly, from across a pool. “Every last one. ’Cept Old Bloodblade himself, paunch and all, of course. That one seems to have all the rival gods’ own luck.”

  “Yes,” Maharla agreed darkly, as if remembering something that didn’t please her. “No, don’t ask,” she added firmly a moment later, busy knotting the hobbles. “So what’s he up to, now?”

  “Recruiting a new band of fools, of course,” Orlam replied. “Wildblades, mostly . . . that’ll be all he’ll find, who want to run with him, after what happened to the last lot. He’s been seen with a maimed Nifl-she from Talonnorn, who’s a blade where her left hand should be.”

  Backside to the rest of the traders, Maharla hoped she hadn’t frozen at those words long enough for any of them to notice. Keeping her voice oh-so-casual, she asked, “Seen whereabouts, hey?”

  “Owes you coin, too, does he?” Veln laughed. “Well, good luck winning anything out of his grasp. That one tends to reply to such requests with a swift sword thrust!”

  Maharla turned in time to see the trader across the pool nodding and grinning at what Veln had just said, before he offered, “I heard they were last seen heading for Talonnorn. Raiding, spying—with that one, who knows?”

  Maharla joined in the general sour chuckling, deciding it would be best if she showed no more interest in Bloodblade.

  Thankfully, the pack-snouts had to be fed, and that meant heaving down some of the carry-sacks strapped to them.

  So she attended to that, keeping silent, and the talk among the traders moved on to other things. It sounded as if they were resuming converse her arrival had interrupted.

  “Can’t believe they struck Glowstone again. It’s not like there’s any riches worth having, that’s sprouted there since last time.”

  “True, and they sworded everyone who couldn’t flee in time again, too! Glowstone, mind you! Why seize a moot in the middle of nowhere? All you win is some drinking streams, a lot of dung and broken things, and nuisance beasts used to lurking nearby and preying on lone wanderers.”

  “I think someone in Ouvahlor has decided it’s a good place to train armies in attacking.”

  “And pillaging.”

  There was general dark mirth at this, and Maharla felt moved to swing around momentarily, so the traders could all see “Daruse” joining in.

  “Are they trying for Talonnorn again?” Veln asked. “Or is it Nrauluskh’s turn, do you think?”

  “Talonnorn. Wanting to put down this new High Lord before he becomes too mighty,” Orlam pronounced. “ ’Swhat I would do. He’s been thundering about decadent nobles and useless priestesses who let the city be raided by Ouvahlor, to justify his humbling both and taking all power to himself. So he’ll be building an army, and can hardly fail to use it if Ouvahlor comes calling. Why wait for him to get strong and ready, when you can smash him now?”

  “Who knows why they’re attacking?” another trader said sourly. “I’ve heard they’re led by a priestess. Who knows why high holy Ice-lovers do anything? It could all be her wanting entertainment, or to impress the more-exalted-than-her Ice-kissers
in her temple—or something they ordered her to do, to get her killed and so be rid of her.”

  Maharla looked down thoughtfully into a carry-sack that still had a little snout-feed at the bottom of it, ignoring the pack-snout that was trying to thrust its head in over her shoulder, to get a little extra.

  She had been intending to find, slay, and impersonate Bloodblade, but why not, instead, “become” this army-leading priestess?

  Conquering Talonnorn was certainly one way of returning to it in style, and setting things to rights.

  Lolonmae was glad she’d sent all the priestesses out. That meant none of them could see her arching and shuddering in pain, whimpering as blood wept from her ears, and she groaned silently, bit her lip, and writhed like a lover lost in lust.

  That thought gave her an idea.

  If she did off her robes again, and threw herself bare and yielding onto the Ice . . .

  The pain! She reeled, alone in her chamber in Coldheart, and almost fell, scrabbling weakly at the loop-fastenings of her robes.

  She’d known that forcing her way through Semmeira’s clawing, painful wards would mean a painful mental aftermath . . . but this! This was . . . ohhh . . .

  The familiar cold shock of the Ice, as she fell forward onto it, was bracing and yet comforting. She slid along it, head throbbing insistently now but no longer stabbing like fire, and gasped in relief.

  She would just lie still, numbed in the icy water her body would melt out of the Ice, and stay until it shared its cold strength with her, and she was clearheaded again.

  Lolonmae forced herself to relax, to yield against the hard, smooth coldness in surrender, spread-eagled in abandon.

  She deserved no less.

  She was, yes, proud of herself for not showing her pain while in Semmeira’s mind, nor betraying any definite hint that she was aware of what the Exalted Daughter was up to, and very angry about it.

  “You betray the Ever-Ice, Semmeira,” she whispered, lips immersed in icy meltwater of her own making, as she slipped down the glossy black Ice, “and shall pay the price. As I watch, and smile, and aid you not.”

  “Be still,” Grunt Tusks snarled, turning his head to glare along the ledge as fearsomely as he could manage. “I’m just as restless as the rest of you! Look now, though; if we go down there now, there’ll be Nifl warblades in plenty waiting for us! That’s a slave caravan, and you know as well as I do that they’re always guarded! And because they’re always guarded, the city has a guard of its own watching over the caravan guards, see? Nifl trust other Nifl even less’n we trust Nifl!”

  The gorkul beside him on the ledge grunted in reluctant agreement, but not acceptance. They were simmering in their eagerness, glowering down at what they could see through the cleft in the end wall of the cavern: Talonnorn itself.

  They were just outside the mammoth cavern that housed Talonnorn, could have hurled stones off their ledge and watched them bounce or roll inside that huge and brightly lit, bustling cave.

  Where all the slaves were standing.

  Hairy Ones, all full-grown, with Nifl cracking long, snakelike whips to arrange them—with thoroughly unnecessary cruelty, Grunt Tusks noticed with disdain—into long, straight columns.

  Three lines of glum, weary humans, all standing with their left wrists chained to the backs of their own necks to form a v-shape, so that long, heavy line-chains could be threaded through those arm-crooks to link them all together.

  The three columns, to the accompaniment of much shouting and lashing, were being shifted forward and back to make spaces between them for pack-snouts. Pack-snouts who would stalk along with the caravan, out in the Dark, providing mounts for the overseers, and laden with baskets of food and skins of water for the slaves’ journey.

  In all, the sort of caravan that came and went often as Talonar slave-owners made deals with visiting slave-traders shopping for strong slaves needed elsewhere in the cities of the Nifl.

  “No younglings?” Belorgh asked, because he was young himself, and foolish. Grunt Tusks humored him, this time.

  “Heed, fool. Young Hairy Ones are brought down from the Blindingbright, but thereafter never forced to travel the Wild Dark until they are grown into vigorous youth, or later. The journeys are too deadly; their lives will simply be wasted. Moreover, they are so noisy, and move so slowly, and climb so poorly, that they endanger their guards and minders, out in the Dark. Foes can’t be outrun, the brats shriek whenever they see any sort of beast, and hamper their handlers in any sort of battle. Just not worth it. They’re just humans, after all.”

  “Aye,” Belorgh agreed, seeing at least this most obvious point. “They’re just humans.”

  Then he stirred and started to ask something else stupid—but this time, Grunt Tusks cuffed him to silence, pointing grimly down at the small slice of the city cavern they could see.

  Silently, the gorkuls on the ledge all beheld what he’d noticed: large, dark winged things swooping through the air, to circle the towers of Talonnorn and gather together aloft, among them.

  “Darkwings,” Grunt Tusks growled unnecessarily, “of the Hunt.” He looked along the ledge, thrusting out his tusks belligerently. “Y’see, dolts, I don’t want us to be revealing ourselves if the flying Hunt is ready to swoop and slay. All of us together are a nice meal for a darkwings, not fighting foes for one.”

  Angry, impatient snarls answered him; having seen the glows of Talonnorn, the gorkul were not pleased at being held back from a charge out into that great cavern, where shrieking and fleeing food, gold, weapons, and even magic lay waiting.

  “Quiet,” Grunt Tusks growled. “We can always butcher and plunder yon caravan, and have ourselves a right good feed on Hairy Ones, when it gets a few caverns away from here—and then come right back here, bellies full, to choose a better time to attack Talonnorn.”

  Snarls that built into roars were his reply, and gorkul bared their teeth and thrust their tusks at him defiantly, rising on their fists to shoulder menacingly in his direction, thrusting the nervously squealing Belorgh hard into Grunt Tusks’s shoulder.

  Then, in an instant, silence fell. Gorkul froze right where they were, to quiver on the ledge, only their eyes moving.

  Eyes that bulged in staring fear at what had just come drifting menacingly out of the Wild Dark, to glide silently overhead.

  And hopefully past. Glowering, Grunt Tusks watched them with all the rest, hoping none of them would decide to veer over and down to the ledge, and casually cleanse it of gorkul.

  The raudren were hunting.

  Orivon Firefist was smiling. Standing tall and proud, raising both of his swords high over his head in silent exultation, he grinned from ear to ear and shook his fists, full of sword as they were, at the cavern ceiling high overhead.

  He was standing in a cave he recognized, a cave that had a trail of scratches and hoof-chips and dried dung down the center of it. This was a well-used way through the Dark, one of the main caravan routes to Talonnorn. He was lost no longer!

  All right, ALL right. Capering has a certain charm, BUT . . .

  Orivon grinned all the more. “What’s this?” he asked. “Yathla Evendoom feels a loss of dignity? Isn’t it a little late for that?”

  I inhabit a bracer of elegant design.

  The mind-voice was actually sniffing!

  It is QUITE dignified. Even when worn by large, loud, clumsy Hairy Ones.

  Orivon laughed heartily, not caring who heard the echoes. Until something dark and sleek drifted across the cavern ahead, and he fell abruptly silent and darted for the nearest crevice, to crouch down with swords out before him.

  THAT’S better, Yathla told him tartly.

  Orivon found her approval rather less than necessary. He was trying his best not to breathe, and to look like an uninteresting, shadowy corner of lifeless rock.

  They never hunt alone.

  He knew that, too, and went on trying to look like he wasn’t there.

  Nothing thrusts even
a strong warrior into tense, fearful waiting quite like hunting raudren.

  “Softfingers,” Oronkh said gruffly as they clambered through a narrow crevice out into yet another cavern, “I’m having misgivings. This Hairy One of yours is getting very close to Talonnorn.”

  “Too close for us to continue following him, you mean, and still be safe?” Nurnra responded, slipping as silently as a shadow down a rocky slope to peer around the cave.

  “I mean just that,” the half-gorkul agreed, sliding and jogging clumsily down the loose scree after her, arms windmilling to try to keep his balance.

  “Manyfangs, do you know how ridiculous that sounds, talking of safety when we’re out in the Wild Dark?”

  “Humor me,” Oronkh growled as he came up to her. “Talonnorn is ten-and-six caverns away from here, no more, if he takes the most direct route. And he is. He’s somewhere very near, perhaps around yon rock listening to us now, but more likely a cavern or two ahead of us, and we’re well into the caves Talonnorn patrols. Often. I say again: this human is getting too close to the city for us to keep tailing him.”

  The sharren trailed gentle gloved fingers over his chest, and licked his closest tusk.

  Oronkh tossed his head a little, warning her such attentions weren’t going to distract him this time, but she stroked his cheek and murmured, “You are quite right, Oronkh mine. I want his blood, but throwing our lives away trying to get it is oriadheadedness. What do you think we should do?”

  The half-gorkul shrugged his massive shoulders. “Hail him? Warn him, somehow, that he’s about to blunder into the wards of a Nifl city? The city, the one that’s always been the proudest and most warlike? That’s humbled a bit, now, but even more in tumult?”