Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  Doors that had murderous priestesses with ready spells waiting and listening behind them.

  The furious Consecrated obliged, flinging open a side door in the passage and shouting, “Blasphemers! You spit in the face of Olone!” before they thrust their long-fingered hands out into the passage and sent crackling lightnings racing from every fingertip, in a leaping, eye-searing bright web of snarling death.

  Jalandral watched all the rest of his wildblades—every last spasming, shrieking, helplessly dying one of them—cooked where they stood, lurching and convulsing as plumes of smoke billowed from their mouths and the dark, staring pits where their eyes had sizzled, popped, and run down their faces. They toppled, swords clanging, and . . . he was truly alone.

  Being well ahead of his wildblades, and being cloaked in the Evendoom shields, had saved him from that particular doom.

  Yet doors were opening all around him now, up and down the passage and all around the blood-spattered conclave-chamber, and grim-faced priestesses were stepping through them.

  To stand just in front of the still-open doors, burning eyes all fixed on Jalandral.

  Who had swiftly darted to a place in the passage where he could put his back to the wall, and now stood there uncertainly, fear rising in him as he held up hands that were starting to tremble, and stared at the rings he wore, wondering what best to unleash next.

  Or whether he’d have fingers at all, a breath or two from now . . .

  “Jalandral Evendoom,” a familiar voice said coldly, from a nearby door down the passage, between him and the distant temple gates. With a sigh he didn’t quite manage to conceal, the High Lord of Talonnorn turned to face Holyflame Alaedra, and awaited her next words silently, putting a slight smile on his face as he gently turned another of his rings.

  The tingling of its awakening magic was racing along his limbs as the Holyflame pronounced doom on him.

  “Jalandral Evendoom, you are a murderer and a tyrant to your people, perhaps also among your kin, and you are a blasphemer who brings death and unholy defiance to the Altar of Olone. Heretic are you, and you shall perish on the very altar of the Goddess. Olone demands nothing less.”

  With a jauntiness he was very far from feeling, Jalandral widened his smile, looked around at all of the priestesses, and said pleasantly, “Honored Consecrated, I am flattered by your attentions—but I fear I must decline. As Olone will undoubtedly tell you when you begin to ask her the right questions, the needs of Talonnorn must come before anyone’s petty revenges.”

  Pushing himself away from the wall, he started to stroll down the passage. Knowing as he did so that every last priestess around him—twoscore and ten, at least—were now swiftly working spells intended to accomplish his destruction.

  Smiling tightly as he strode right past the first priestess, close enough that she could have touched him if she’d stretched out her arms fully instead of using them to shape sigils in the air as she hissed out an incantation and glared at him, Jalandral turned the second ring.

  It worked instantly; he felt the intense chill along his spine as its rift opened, dark and bobbing and vaguely man-shaped. Ready to drink in every rending magic hurled at him from behind. As he strode on, it moved with him. Which meant, he hoped, all of the shieldings now moving with him would only have to face the spells of the score or so Consecrated in front of him.

  Who promptly vanished as the world in front of him exploded in silent white flame, crashing again and again against his shields as spell after spell struck, failed, and slid away—and the next spell came crashing through it to shatter itself against his shields and slide away in its turn.

  Crash, crash, crash. Blindly, he staggered on, hoping none of the priestesses had any enspelled knives that they could simply plunge through the shields and into his ribs as he lurched past them. Perhaps it would be wiser to stop, and wait for his vision to return and their spells to be exhausted, and—

  His outermost shield, the rock-hard Evendoom shield, flickered and then was gone.

  Leaving him barely time to frantically awaken his second-last ring, and no time to curse at all.

  “Behold your slayer,” the Talonar lord snarled into the astonished Ouvahlan’s face. “I am Lord Erlingar Evendoom of Talonnorn, and you are—no more!”

  He jerked his deeply buried sword back out of the dying warblade, using his other hand to thrust the body back and away from him as it fountained blood, and turned to see how Faunhorn was faring in the battle. He was in time to see the most magnificent Talonar warrior he’d ever seen calmly slaying his way across the cavern that formed the heart of Glowstone, leaving most of the Ouvahlan garrison dead in his wake. Smooth and swift, Faunhorn ducked and thrust and spun, dancing his way through accomplished warriors Erlingar would have been hard-pressed to fell. Two, three; just like that.

  Even as Lord Evendoom watched, another three fell, almost too fast to see the thrusts that slew them. There hadn’t been much more than a dozen Ouvahlans to begin with; the rest, he feared, had already departed for Talonnorn.

  Which meant . . . yes, Glowstone was now theirs. Or what little was left of it.

  Erlingar stared around the ravaged trade-moot. Blood, corpses, fallen weapons, and a fire that the Ouvahlans had been feeding with the splintered remnants of old carry-chests and market stalls.

  “Our new home,” he announced glumly, sketching a parody of a courtly “look ye” gesture. His pleasure-shes, Kryree and Varaeme, planted their swords and bowed to him, grinning—and so did an Evendoom warblade or two.

  There were chuckles among the House warriors, and the stretchings and arm-rubbings and wearily relieved chatter that erupts in the wake of all swift victories. Someone inspected a sword cut and groaned, someone else held up some skins of wine with a crow of triumph, and—sudden silence fell.

  There were Nifl in the deep shadows of the most distant reaches of the cavern, advancing slowly out of the tunnels and other caverns, beyond. Ravagers, with swords in their hands.

  The Evendoom warblades caught up their swords and formed a ring around Lord Evendoom and his two shes, facing outward. Faunhorn broke off his swift inspection of Ouvahlan corpses to heft his sword and stride to confront the nearest Ravager.

  And that foremost Nifl wanderer went to his knees, reversed the sword in his hand, and held it out to Faunhorn.

  “All hail the new Lord of Glowstone!” he called loudly, and Ravagers echoed those words, all around the cavern.

  More and more Ravagers were emerging now, a few of them kicking and spitting on dead Ouvahlans.

  Faunhorn took the Ravager’s sword and handed it gravely back to him. Then he turned to catch Erlingar’s eye, to be sure he saw no displeasure there at the title the Ravager had given Faunhorn.

  He and Erlingar exchanged disbelieving grins—and then Faunhorn peered sharply to one side, and started to frown.

  Lord Evendoom looked, too, and beheld two Ravagers bending over an Ouvahlan body, busy with rope.

  “What’re you doing?” Faunhorn called.

  “Readying this meat for a cook-spit, Lord,” one of them replied hesitantly, holding up one end of a long, rusty bar of metal.

  The looks Faunhorn and Erlingar exchanged this time were more aghast than triumphant.

  Jalandral was heartily glad the vaults of the Houses he’d humbled had yielded so many powerful rings; right now, they were keeping him alive!

  His just-awakened ring had come from his own family caches, if he remembered rightly; right now, it had opened a wide rift that was filling the passage in front of him, and devouring the spells of the Consecrated as fast as they could arrive. Leaving him to blink swimming eyes and start to be able to see things again—as the ring-rift suddenly trembled, shuddered, almost forced him to the floor, and then did what it was supposed to do.

  It spat out something dark and angry and much too big for the passage, that hissed in pain and anger as its emerging wings slammed against the walls and ceiling, splintered in bony ruin
in confines just too small for it, and then erupted in shrieking pain down the passage as it frantically tried to lurch and scrabble its way out, tumbling priestesses broken or crushed with it.

  It was a darkwings, huge and stinking and ungainly, and Jalandral smiled at the ruin it was working down the passage—and then awakened his last ring.

  It promptly grew a tiny, leaping flame that writhed vertically in midair above its band. Jalandral’s smile tightened as he selected a Consecrated who’d ducked back through her door to avoid the darkwings, and was now stepping out into the passage again with a spell snarling around her hands, as she looked balefully in Jalandral’s direction.

  Yes, she would make a good first victim.

  Jalandral bent his will, and the leaping flame spat forth a small whirlwind of flame that spun and grew into a fiery pinwheel with astonishing speed.

  The fire-wheel shot down the passage and crashed into that priestess, bursting into a roaring column of flames.

  She didn’t even have time to shriek.

  Really smiling now, Jalandral selected his next victim. The rift at his back was still protecting him against anything more than half of the priestesses might try, and in front of him, the maddened and broken darkwings had already reached the end of the passage and burst out into the chamber beyond. He could no longer see it, but he could hear it roaring horribly. It was probably slaying anything living it caught sight of.

  Good.

  Matters were finally beginning to unfold as he’d hoped. Roaring flames claimed another priestess, and another, and the little dancing flame showed no signs of lessening.

  Jalandral stalked down the passage dealing death until he reached its end—and then spun around, turning his back for now on the way to the gates and escape from the temple, and strode back down the passage to burn the rest of the priestesses.

  When he got these down to a cowering handful, he would command one or two of them to take him to the most powerful priestesses. They were the ones he needed dead. All but the minimum needed to raise the wards again, and those he would imprison.

  So much for the vengeful hand of Olone, reaching out to protect her oh-so-precious Consecrated. They deluded themselves, these preening shes, that their Goddess gave any thought at all to them, cared one whit—

  Then he stopped, in the midst of happily immolating his thirty-fourth priestess, and stared.

  A black, glossy altar had arisen from the smooth and seamless floor where he’d stood confronting Holyflame Alaedra—and she had just risen into view behind it now, with a dagger in her hand.

  “Olone, be with us! Aid Talonnorn now!” she cried, her voice ringing around the room.

  And then, eyes exulting as she glared at Jalandral, she plunged the dagger into her own breast, even as she leaped atop the altar to spread-eagle herself, dying, over it.

  The room rocked and darkened, and all of the rings on Jalandral Evendoom’s hands winked out, at once.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered, in the last moment left to him.

  16

  Armies, Battles, and Revenges

  Those who craft songs

  And give great orations

  Mirror sadness in me.

  For life should be more

  than armies, battles, and revenges

  Yet sadly, fails in this.

  —saying of Lord Ereth Evendoom

  No wards.

  No wards.

  Orivon shook his head in disbelief.

  Why?

  He could see Talonnorn itself, now, a slice of towers standing tall and dark against the light of its great cavern, through the tall cleft at the far end of the cavern he’d just entered. Talonnorn was right there . . . and no patrols, no wards.

  What had happened in the city?

  Was this going to be ease itself, striding in to search for slaves at leisure, or had some disast—

  There came screams, from behind him, the panting shrieks of Nifl who were running hard—and dying.

  Orivon whirled around, swords up.

  In time to see raudren gliding low and menacing above many wildly fleeing Nifl. Raudren who were diving down to snatch, and feed.

  Raudren who were coming right toward him, three of them converging. There was no doubt that they’d seen him, and were heading for Orivon Firefist, and no one else.

  Severed Nifl hands and feet spilled from one of them as it came. “Yathla,” Orivon snarled, “now would be a good time for some of your fire!”

  The bracer kept silent; no voice sounded in his head.

  “Yathla?” Orivon shouted, running hastily for the nearest cavern wall, and its rocks. “Yathla?”

  There was no reply. The raudren loomed up, gliding swiftly.

  Olone came. Not as a striding, raging cavern-tall shining female figure, all of shining bright fire, but as a great surge of force, a wave of silent, inexorable might that swept out of the altar and rolled through the temple.

  As Jalandral stared helplessly at the altar, watching Holyflame Alaedra’s body melt silently away, the great wave passed through him—and left him on his knees.

  There was no blasting fire, no hammer stroke shattering his mind. Only rapture that left Jalandral weeping and gasping and alive, every inch of his body thrilled and delighted. His rifts were gone in an instant as the sensual force swept on down the passage, melting the dead and their debris as it went.

  In dazed wonder he came to his feet, not quite believing he was unharmed, and staggered toward the passage. He should leave, he must go. That thought was suddenly there, and insistent, and would not leave him. He must depart the temple.

  His limbs were spasming with pleasure, stretching and writhing, almost tumbling him into a fall. His fingers sought to stroke, his heart was hammering inside him . . .

  Shuddering, Jalandral stumbled into the passage—and the empty air thickened before him. He’d waded a river in the Dark once, and this, barring the cold wetness, was the same; he was wading against a strong flow that now sought to sweep him back into the chamber with the altar.

  The altar! He was going to be forced onto the altar, and horribly sacrificed! Torn slowly apart while Olone shrieked vengeance into his face and kept him awake to feel every last moment of agony!

  He found himself driven back, the tide against him like a silent giant’s hand shoving far more strongly than he could stand against. No! No, by Talonnorn! “Klaerra!” he called despairingly, and heard his cry muffled right in front of his lips. “Klaerra!”

  She was not going to aid him, was not even going to hear him. Olone was in this passage with him, was all around him, held this temple in her titanic grasp . . .

  He was going to die.

  Arching and gasping in pleasure—unless Olone turned it to pain, plunging him into agony, and who was to say she would not?—he was going to die here.

  Magic!

  He had no spells, but he did have all of the rings and everything else he’d worn here or stuffed into his belt-pouches. The enchanted things of several proud Houses. Great magics, for all that Olone had extinguished the rings in an instant; magics meant to serve their wielders in triumphs for generations. Could they aid him?

  They were meant to serve for generations longer, but what of that? If he died, they’d be melted on that altar anyway, and lost.

  Jalandral bent his will—it was suddenly hard, through a storm of swirling pleasure in his mind—and called upon the endmost ring on his left hand.

  It awakened, with its customary glow and tingling, and he called on its power. Not to summon Hunts or fry warblades or whatever it was intended to do, but just to pour its power into him, so that he could—

  Yes! He could walk as if there was no invisible tide against him, could stride, even trot, down the passage as far as . . . a few doors down, as the ring darkened and crumbled and fell from his hand, and the tide rose against his slowing legs again, stopping him, and then—as he leaned desperately against it, to escape being arched over and flung back—draggi
ng at him, clawing . . .

  Frantically Jalandral called on the next ring, hoping it would also serve him. How many rings would it take to get a High Lord out of this temple? Had he brought enough?

  “Run, Softfingers!” Oronkh roared, swinging a futile sword at the great gliding bulk. “Run!”

  The sharren was stripping off her gloves, smiling a little smile, as a raudren turned in the air, moving as leisurely as a gloating river-snake turns to strike at trapped prey, to sweep down on her.

  “Run, Nurnra!” the half-gorkul roared, starting back toward her. “You can’t bleed these if you’re torn to bloody ribbons and are inside them!”

  Twenty-some rocks farther along the cavern, Orivon blinked. Where had these two come from?

  From among those rocks, yes, but how had they come so close without his even . . . ?

  He swept that thought aside rather grimly, as the raudren coming for him blotted out all sight of the Nifl-gorkul half-breed and the beautiful Nifl-she with him, as well as the running warblades, beyond.

  These were wild raudren, the great scarred hunters of the Wild Dark, not the smaller raudren kept caged as last-ditch defenders by Talonnorn. As if it mattered.

  Orivon set his jaw, hefted his swords, and wondered how swiftly he would die.

  Jalandral Evendoom put his head down and ran, lurching grimly along as another ring yielded up its power. He was just a step or two from the end of the passage, where it turned and opened into a larger chamber. Dark streaks of darkwings’ gore glistened on the walls all around him. Just a few more steps . . .

  His pouches were empty of magic, and most of his fingers were bare of rings. His enchanted earring was gone, and all three of his daggers. Even the enspelled-against-rust scabbard that had held his sword—eaten away for its magic far back down the passage—was no more.

  He turned the corner, hoping the tide of Olone’s will would abate.