Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  Nurnra shook her head. “Warn him, perhaps, but Manyfangs, this Hairy One knows quite well where he’s going. He’s seeking Talonnorn.” She took a few idle steps, tapping her own chin thoughtfully, and then turned back to Oronkh. “I think we should now begin to move as slowly and stealthily as you see fit to keep us best hidden, but continue—for now—to try to trace this human’s progress. I believe he’s been to Talonnorn before, and he doesn’t strike me as a fool. He just might lead us to a hidden way into Talonnorn, or meet with Talonar thieves . . . or spies who are in that city at the behest of someone else . . . or Ravagers. Who in turn just might turn out to be of great interest, and even profit to us.”

  Oronkh shook his head. “Your tongue, Softfingers, gets me in more trouble . . . you could charm a Nifl into digging his own grave, then slitting his throat and leaping into what he’s dug—not to mention handing you all his coin as he topples. This Hairy One could speedily lead us to our waiting graves. Yet I love you, and if I get to feel your clever little tongue often, I won’t care overmuch if ‘often’ ends soon, for both of us.”

  Nurnra put her fingers to her mouth and looked at him over their tips, sudden tears glimmering in her eyes. “Manyfangs mine,” she said softly, “you say the loveliest things.”

  Talonnorn was only a few caverns away, now.

  Orivon had slowed so that he could move as stealthily as possible, darting from one cleft or shadowed overhang to the next, peering everywhere for patrols, lurking creatures, and the faint glows and singing sounds of spells that might be waiting to warn someone in the city of an intruder’s approach.

  Slow, soft and quiet, now. That was the only way to save his own skin, and there was no point in hurrying, because when he got to the last cavern before the city, he would just have to hide and wait; he needed a trading caravan or slaving band to enter or depart Talonnorn for the wards to be down.

  Yet one thing was puzzling him, making his frown deepen as he went on, stealing quietly and slowly. There should be Talonar warbands or even the Hunt patrolling these caverns, marching or flying or standing sentinel.

  Instead, there was nothing. He was traversing empty caverns, alone, as he got closer . . . and closer . . .

  Curtly the spellrobe snapped at the Ozrim warblades to halt, and waved at them to form a ring around him.

  They did so in silence, keeping their heads down.

  Vlakrel’s temper had been sharp since they had failed to catch up to the Bloodsucker and the Misbegotten—who obviously hadn’t stopped to sleep, after all—and now it was visibly slipping.

  “The two we’re after are getting very close to Talonnorn,” Vlakrel hissed, keeping his voice low and imperiously beckoning the warblades to bend their heads close to hear him. “We’re getting very close to the city.”

  Not a warblade there dared to ask, “And so?” Yet every one of them posed that question silently, by their sidelong looks at him, the stances they took, and the way they shifted their hands on their sword hilts.

  “We must be very careful,” the spellrobe continued testily, “and very quiet—or our own city’s patrols may strike at us. The two miscreants we’re after may become aware of us, too, and arrange a trap, or lure us into a meeting with a lurking beast.”

  Warblade heads nodded around the ring, maintaining careful silence.

  Impatience suddenly overmastering him, Vlakrel pointed and waved furiously, sending them back into their advancing line once more. As they started to form it, he paced impatiently up and down beside them, hissing, “Yet we must catch those two up, if we can do so without their seeing us. They may be heading for some secret way into the city—I’m sure you’ve heard all the tales, just as I have—or meet with conspirators against Talonnorn; spies who dwell in the city but send word out through the Dark to Talonnorn’s foes, from time to time. This is why—”

  Behind him, there came the brief clatter of a dropped sword from the direction of the two rear-guard warblades. It was the sound of their vanishing, though no one else yet knew that.

  The warrior who’d been picking his way through the rocks just ahead of the rear guard whirled around—and shouted in horror, giving everyone else time to gape at the great black bulk sliding past through the air, just above their heads.

  Silent and deadly, the raudren were hunting.

  15

  Spitting in the Face of Olone

  No place have I to hide away

  In the endless deeps of cold stone

  For I have scorched the Ever-Ice

  And spat in the face of Olone

  —old Niflghar drinking song

  Jalandral paused for dramatic effect at the end of a particularly eloquent and telling point—if he said so himself, and he just had—and then let out his breath and broke his pose, hiding his exasperation only with some effort.

  An underpriestess of some sort had parted the all-concealing draperies behind the nameless priestess he’d been negotiating with, glided gracefully up behind her, murmured something unheard into those darkly beautiful ears, and withdrawn just as deftly and swiftly as she had come.

  Leaving Jalandral’s adversary visibly annoyed.

  Eyes flashing, she pointed an imperious finger at him and cried, “While we stand here seeking agreement, your hired wildblades are offering violence to Consecrated of this temple in the streets of the city, and your officials are publicly uttering words of vilification and rebuke against this temple and any priestess they see! Moreover, the one of these latter we caught and questioned—”

  “Gently, I presume,” Jalandral murmured.

  “With our spells, as is customary,” the priestess snapped, “both goading with measured and temporary pain to compel cooperation, and scrying the thoughts behind the words, as has been done for generations upon generations in Talonnorn, whilst it grew to greatness and your family was elevated in the rise and participated fully in it!”

  She took two long, liquid steps toward Jalandral, and then turned just as gracefully, retraced them, and turned to face him again. “To continue, the one we caught and questioned claimed—and our spells found it truth—that you ordered this behavior! That you require all who directly serve you to blacken this temple and all who dwell and worship within it, in the eyes of all Talonar! Have you no thought at all for consequences, Jalandral Evendoom? For implications? Is shattering Talonnorn around you the goal you truly seek? For that is what you are achieving, whether you claim otherwise or not!”

  Jalandral smiled, waved his hand floorward in soothing dismissal. “Now, now, Tall and Terrible—”

  “What? You dare—?”

  “I,” Jalandral interrupted firmly, “dare many things. Leading to this meeting, which will continue forever if we wrangle about such utter trifles. Empty pride is something Talonnorn can no longer afford; something we have never really been able to afford, but have—”

  “Jalandral Evendoom, do not presume to lecture any Consecrated of Olone’s Glory in Talonnorn on the history of this city. It is something no Talonar noble has ever troubled to examine with any amount of dispassion, and I have my doubts that, crones excepted, most of them possess the basic wits to do so, even if—”

  “Tall and Terrible, this grows truly tiresome. I am aware that most Talonar hate we nobles, and sneer at us behind our backs for any number of failings. This is something endemic to the attitudes underlings have to their superiors—and betters. It is not som—”

  “My name,” the priestess snarled, using magic to smite Jalandral’s ears with her voice as if it were a lash, “is not Tall and Terrible!”

  Wincing and trying not to back away—so there were spells that used a shielded one’s own shieldings against them, hey? Interesting!—Jalandral managed an airy smile. “Well, then, Tall and Terrible, would you prefer to be addressed as Nameless Negotiator?”

  “My title,” the priestess said icily, “is Holyflame, and the name by which I am known before the altar of Olone is Alaedra. ‘Holyflame Alaedra’ is neither
an overly long or complicated name. Have the basic breeding—you are an Evendoom, are you not? Not an impostor from the Araed, or an Ice-lover of Ouvahlor, who did something dark to the lazy fop of a Firstborn who so exasperated Lord Erlingar Evendoom, and is now impersonating him? No?—to address me so. As I so treat with you.”

  “Very well, Holyflame Alaedra. As High Lord of Talonnorn and Lord Evendoom, I, Jalandral, propose that we move on from name-calling and taking offense to forms of address or mere choices of words, at least as far as the trading of silken threats. I believe we have achieved enough intimacy for that now.”

  Surprisingly, Holyflame Alaedra smiled.

  “Very well. I, too, believe the practical time available to us is not infinite. I also understand that the passage of time brings changes to any city, and your lordship is one such. However, if you are to be recognized as High Lord of Talonnorn—by all Talonar, not just by the Holy Altar of Olone and all of its Consecrated—the powers of High Lordship must be clearly defined, understood, and accepted. By all.”

  Jalandral nodded, but the priestess politely held up a hand requesting he let her continue, and he nodded again and did so.

  “It is our observed opinion that you have been creating these powers as you see fit, to deal with every pressing situation before you, and are seeking, consciously or merely through accumulation, to make them very close to absolute.”

  She raised her voice a little, and started to speak slowly and firmly.

  “We can accept a secular lord over the traditionally fractious noble Houses of Talonnorn, but what defines Talonnorn is not its nobles nor Hunt nor Araed, but its worship of Olone. To speak plainly, we cannot accept a lord who presumes to command Consecrated as if they are slaves or warblades or House servants, because they are engaged in a holier service, and stand in Talonnorn as the instruments of Olone—and it is clear blasphemy to give commands to Olone.”

  She took a step closer to Jalandral.

  “So we need to know, specifically, where your powers begin and where they end. That you may have exclusive jurisdiction over certain matters we can accept, just as we must have exclusive jurisdiction over matters of worship; that you must have free hands to do just as you please at all times, neither we nor the Goddess accepts. This is our thinking, and our stance—from which we shall not be shifted, lest the wrath of Olone come down on us all.”

  She gestured to Jalandral to respond.

  Smilingly, he did so. “Ah, yes, the ‘mustn’t offend the deity’ argument. As expected, and differing in no specifics from what I anticipated. Well enough. Yet I hold, and intend to follow, another view. Hear me well.”

  He took his own leisurely step in the Holyflame’s direction, and started to speak slowly and clearly, each word firm and heavy. “In matters laid down in Olone’s words and teachings, her Consecrated are both directed as to how they should themselves act, and are also instruments of holy will in administering how all Talonar should follow these words and teachings. However, in all matters Olone has been silent upon, I believe—as most Talonar believe, whether they dare to say so or not—the Consecrated have no jurisdiction, and should not presume to offer their opinions or extend embellished interpretations of holy will. In short, keep to the altar and leave governance of Talonnorn to me.”

  He took another step, and spoke more loudly, though he kept his voice level.

  “Every Talonar experienced the disastrous result of a Talonnorn invaded that was a Talonnorn dominated by feuding Houses. Houses that this temple gleefully manipulated, time and again, into furtherance of those feuds, and continuously attempted to coerce in matters large and small through the House crones. That’s the only reason Talonar have accepted a High Lord at all; like me or hate me, they see the clear necessity of city defense being in secular hands. As High Lord, I must command all Talonar warriors, and such priestesses as go to war among them—and there must be such priestesses. A lone secular commander, with authority recognized by all, is vitally necessary to avoid Talonnorn falling to another invader.”

  Taking a step back again, he added sadly, “And as the crones and Consecrated of this city have amply and strikingly demonstrated through generations of self-serving, feuding-among-themselves manipulations of authority, they are unfit for command and unable to see what is good for Talonnorn—as opposed to what is best for them, and conveniently purported to be Olone’s desires. An effective High Lord must not be a puppet of any priestess or of this temple as a whole, and must sit in command—commands swiftly and carefully obeyed, not met with delay, debate, deceit in obedience, or defiance—over all Consecrated in and of Talonnorn.”

  Then he smiled, and added, “I do not anticipate this thinking—which is my budge-not-from stance—to be eagerly accepted, but in the end, accepted it must be.”

  “Or—?” the Holyflame Alaedra snapped, her voice trembling with rage.

  “Talonnorn will leave this temple behind,” Jalandral said quietly, “and its Consecrated can dwell within these walls enforcing Olone’s holy will upon each other, but not upon Talonnorn outside these walls.”

  “What you propose is blasphemy,” the priestess said flatly. “You show a glib ease in confusing ‘I want’ with ‘the High Lord needs’ or with ‘Talonnorn demands, and will inevitably have.’ You seem to think Olone is a fiction that we Consecrated invented, and now twist into justification for personal whims and a desire to dominate or rule. You forget that Olone is real, and speaks to us directly, and we are her slaves when she demands it. Her willing slaves. We serve her, and feel glory in doing so; we will not serve you. Were I you, I would go directly to the altar of this temple, abase myself, and beg Olone’s forgiveness and holy guidance.”

  “Guidance provided—with many conditions attached—by a helpful priestess who just happens to be standing behind that altar, yes?” Jalandral asked mockingly. “I’m sorry, Alaedra, but such clumsy tricks just don’t work anymore. The crones’ club can still meet to spit their spite and gossip, but Talonnorn is going to be ruled by someone else now. And if Olone doesn’t like that . . . well, as the old song has it: I spit in the face of Olone.”

  “Blasphemer!” the Holyflame cried, shaking and pale with rage. “To speak such words here, in this holy place! You dare—?”

  Jalandral turned the Evendoom ring on his finger, to surround himself with yet another shielding—the oldest, deepest, and most powerful shielding than any he’d seen before first donning the ring. “Let’s see her try to take control of that,” he murmured, not caring if she heard.

  Then he looked up at Holyflame Alaedra, who had flung wide her hands to begin a spell and was glaring at him with eyes burning like flame, and told her smilingly, “You’re about to be surprised at just what I dare to do, in this holy place.”

  From behind him there arose sudden deep, rolling thunder that ended in a sharp, ear-bludgeoning crash.

  The draperies there bulged out, as the top of a riven door thrust against—and then through—them. From out of that ruin came running Nifl rampants with swords and heavy goads and axes in their hands, wearing motley armor and enthusiastic grins.

  Bright, fresh blood was dripping from many of the weapons.

  Consecrated blood.

  They shouted in glee as they flooded into the chamber, and swept past Jalandral—who politely stood aside, indicating the priestess with a flourish—to bear down on Holyflame Alaedra.

  “Endlessly arguing over irrelevancies is so, well, boring,” Jalandral drawled, watching the priestess disappear elsewhere, in the shrinking heart of a frantically generated spell-rift that hurled his fastest wildblades in all directions. The Nifl who were only a running stride or two slower sprang forward and buried their swords in the brief roiling magic of her departure, but by then they were literally thrusting war-steel through empty air.

  They consoled themselves by slashing aside draperies in all directions, revealing walls of white stone and doors in plenty. Doors that were flung open before they could reach the
m, for furious priestesses to hurl spells through—ere the doors were slammed again.

  Those spells became bursts of bright flame, explosions that hurled wildblade arms and legs in all directions, axes and broken swords clanging and shrieking off walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Jalandral winced, ducked, and hastened for the door his wildblades had forced open. The severed heads of some of them bounced and rolled beside him.

  To the sound of his own hissed curses, he raced out of that chamber of death, running alone.

  He hadn’t expected the slaughter to be quite this swift and efficient. Half of his force was dead behind him, and there was no sign of the other half. Had they fallen, at the gates? Surely a few upper-priestesses could be harvested before he entirely ran out of wild-blades. After all, they—the best he could hire, out of the Araed—had obviously made swift work of butchering the guard-priestesses at the temple gates . . .

  The long, straight passage was empty.

  Jalandral sprinted down it in undignified haste, seeking to quit the Holy Altar of Olone before anything worse happened. He’d hoped to slay every Consecrated he could reach, until those left were too few and too cowed to do anything but obey him, once he apologized to Olone before her altar and said nice things to them thereafter. Thus far, however, he’d met with no one in the temple higher-ranking than the Holyflame, and his little trap seemed, in the end, to have been more dramatic than effective.

  Before he could reach the end of the passage, it filled with the last of his wildblades, waving their swords and looking excited—and then astonished at the sight of the High Lord of Talonnorn running toward them like a frightened child.

  “There you are!” Jalandral cried, skidding to a halt and forcing the widest smile he could onto his face. “Come! There is much taming of Consecrated still to be done!” He beckoned them, and then started back along the passage, striding steadily this time rather than running—and hoping something would arise to distract them all before they all reached the conclave-chamber and found their cooked, dismembered fellows strewn around a dead end walled in by all those locked metal doors.