Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  Suddenly the beast soared, arcing high across the cavern as Ouvahlan war-commanders below aimed spell-spewing scepters and fired at it, unleashing beams of fiery force that seared more cavern-stone than twisting, racing raudren.

  The cavern wall loomed up, and the raudren abruptly veered aside, towing Orivon and trailing gore. Banking across the cavern as more ruby-red beams sprang at it, it was caught by some of their fire, and abruptly shuddered and slowed.

  Sagging, the raudren veered toward a side passage of the cavern.

  Scepter-fire seared the stone wall nearby, but the raudren plunged into that passage, flying more and more feebly. Clinging to the top of its snout, Orivon tried to peer ahead. In the distance, the passage curved toward the nearby light of Talonnorn, and as that light grew stronger, the raudren seemed to hesitate.

  Sinking a little, it flew raggedly on, around a corner into greater light—and atop its gore-laced hide, Orivon Firefist suddenly found himself staring right down the throats of the Hunt of Talonnorn, who were rushing along the passage right toward him, hungry for blood!

  In his head, Yathla Evendoom trilled bubbling, merciless laughter. The Hunt! The Hunt, Hairy One! My revenge begins!

  “We’re close to Talonnorn,” Bloodblade rumbled as they crouched down in a hollow amid spears of jutting rock, Ravagers, and House Dounlar Talonar alike.

  “I’m aware of that,” Taerune muttered, trying not to sound as seething as she felt. She took out her Orb and glared at it. All of its stored spells were gone, but it could still cloak her from prying magic, boost her voice for far-hailing, glow if she needed light for some reason, help to boost silent thoughts to someone very close by—and not do Olone-spitting much more than that. It might serve to open a brief rift in the wards . . . or might not, depending on how much power it had left and exactly how the wards had been cast.

  So against all the might of Talonnorn, flying Hunt and massed Consecrated and all, they were a one-armed outcast Talonar and a handful of Ravagers, armed to the teeth but—

  “Foes!”

  That warning hiss brought them both whirling around. The Ravagers amid the rock spears were tense, weapons out.

  Farther down the cavern, some Niflghar had risen out of rocks that had hidden them, and were hesitantly approaching.

  “Made it down here unseen!” Grunt Tusks snarled, glaring at the gorkul around him as they crouched in the concealment of the slope of rocks. “So here we stay until I say we show ourselves. I don’t care how hungry you are. I don’t care how tempting a Nifl-she strolling obliviously past may be, or a pack-snout heaped with trade-sacks. Just stay quiet and still, until my signal.”

  He waited, then, for the reluctant growls of agreement. They were short, faint, and long in coming, but they came.

  He nodded. “These Outcaverns aren’t the favored ones for large caravans; too many dangers. These rocks, for one, and the passages, there and yonder, that lead to other caverns of the ring immediately around the city-cave. Yet whether you can smell it or not, there are Nifl on the move all around us, close by. I can smell them; trust me.”

  He paused again, and then added menacingly, “And if trusting me is your problem, you won’t have to wait for some fool of a Talonar to put steel through you. I can do it right now.”

  “Find out who they are,” Bloodblade snapped. “Don’t be too swift to slay!”

  “Oondaunt,” Taerune murmured, before the oncoming wanderers could get closer.

  Bloodblade nodded; he’d caught sight of the Talon targe, too, showing for moments here and there on shoulders and breasts of dark battle-harness, as the wearers moved warily closer, picking their ways among rising rocks. “More refugees from your brother’s happy rule, I’m guessing.”

  “You don’t think they’re a lure? Or dupes carrying fell magic?”

  The fat Ravager grinned at her.

  “I’m supposed to be the wary one, remember? If they are, they’re crone-cursèd good actors. See the white around their mouths? That’s hunger. Long and deep hunger.”

  “And they’re terrified,” Taerune agreed. “I think these are like the Dounlar were, only more desperate. Driven out, perhaps? Too fearful to stay in the city, too terrified to fare out into the Wild Dark and become lost, hiding from every patrol . . .”

  “Talonnorn has fallen far,” Bloodblade said quietly, looking toward the light of the city, “and it’s falling yet. Things are going to get really bloody.”

  “Oh, he’ll live,” the oldest merchant promised, peering down at Jalandral Evendoom’s bruised, still face.

  “But—but what if he doesn’t?” one of the youngest merchants blurted out anxiously. “Ondrar, we could be blamed! We—”

  “Rethglar,” the older trader said firmly, “we of the Araed have always been blamed. Yet for all the blustering cruelties of the Houses, there’s still an Araed, and its merchants still truly run matters that matter in Talonnorn. If he dies, we have the means to make him stand and walk and talk until his flesh rots away from his bones—and then some.”

  He smiled a cold smile.

  “By then, there will be plenty of blame to go around.”

  · · ·

  The hungry refugees were still fearful, but they had been more desperate than scared, and so had hailed those in the ring of rocks and been taken in—though Taerune noticed that several of the Ravagers Bloodblade trusted most always stood between Bloodblade and Taerune and the closest of the Oondaunts.

  Some of those newcomers were trembling openly now, as Bloodblade led them to the edge of the slope of concealing rocks, closer to the city. Where he stopped, and turned to the one-armed Talonar lady.

  “I’m not thinking that striding into Talonnorn to fight your brother and all his waiting, gleaming-armored warblades and softly sneering spellrobes is going to end well for us,” he growled. “Do you truly intend to keep striding on now, if it means all our deaths?”

  Taerune looked at him a little helplessly. “I’m . . . I couldn’t get away from all these Talonar if I wanted to. But you could slip away, you and Arthoun and Llorgar . . .”

  “No,” Arthoun said sharply, from right behind them. “Too long have we skulked and clawed and cowered. If there’s a chance—however slim—to topple a city’s rulers and make our mark, I’m for it.”

  “As am I,” Llorgar agreed, firmly.

  “And I,” another Ravager echoed. It was Hrestreen, and he was holding his drawn sword on high, as if to signal a charge.

  Bloodblade shrugged, rolled his eyes, and grunted, “Well, let’s all die prettily, then.” He waved his sword at the way ahead, and the band of outcast Niflghar stepped out of the rocks together.

  “Keep running,” Oronkh growled, as Nurnra, a few steps ahead of him, twisted around to look back. “That’s an Ouvahlan army back there, not just a raiding-band, and they’re not looking friendly!”

  Nurnra frowned. “There’re other Nifl running this way, too, right behind us. House Oszrim warblades—just three—and a spellrobe.”

  “Being herded just as we are,” the half-gorkul snarled. “With Talonnorn ahead and nothing between us and its cavern but yon slope of rocks—where anything could be hiding. Not that we can hide there, if all the Ouvahlans plunge right in, looking for us!”

  “We don’t need to hide that way,” Nurnra panted. “We just need time enough, down in those rocks, for me to call on the best trick I have left. A cloak-shell.”

  “That’s a spellrobe, back there,” Oronkh reminded her sharply, “and the Ouvahlans probably have six or more spellrobes. Or Ever-Ice priestesses strong enough in spells to make up for the lack of spellrobes. Your cloak-shell will last just as long as it takes them to suspect its existen—”

  “Manyfangs,” Nurnra gasped, running harder, “just leave the tactics to me, and—”

  “Play the large, stupid sword-swinger, one more time? While you get us both killed?”

  “Uh . . . yes,” the sharren replied, giving him a rueful smile, as she
plunged into the rocks.

  Shaking his head and growling, the half-gorkul followed her.

  The next thing he heard was her startled shriek.

  “Your family breeds darkwings!” the guardlord snapped, pointing at one of the High Lord’s most recent appointments.

  That Nifl undercommander blinked, swallowed, and admitted, “Yes.”

  “Good. Take four warblades who won’t fall off the moment they’re flying, and get out there!”

  “W-where?”

  “Window,” the guardlord snapped, pointing. “Get to it now!”

  The Nifl scrambled to obey.

  “You saw where the Hunt went!”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you see that cave mouth now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get yourself through it as fast as you can, find the Hunt, and report back here, sending just one of your warblades, each time! We need to know what’s going on out there! For all we know, there are armies mustering for a charge in each and every Outcavern!”

  Another officer watched the undercommander rush out, shook his head, and drawled, “Oh, I hardly think that’s likely, Mlorel.”

  The guardlord shrugged. “It only takes one army, Hlard. If it’s big enough and has magic enough, it only takes one.”

  With snarls of fury, gorkul rose out of the rocks all around Oronkh and Nurnra, swinging axes and swords. One of them, larger than the rest, swung a length of heavy chain like a flail—and if he’d been a stride closer, Oronkh’s brains would have been dashed out right then and there.

  Nurnra heard a frantic incantation hissed from somewhere behind her, and flung herself down, sweeping the feet out from under the gorkul who was trying to sword her as she did so. He struck his arm on the rocks and lost his sword—which was all the time Oronkh needed to draw his arm back and then plunge his own blade, with all his weight behind it, deep into that gorkul’s belly, and viciously up under the squalling gorkul’s ribs.

  All around him, gorkul were wading and clambering among the rocks, to get close enough to him to hack—but behind him, the incantation ended on a rising note of triumph, and Oronkh flung himself on his face between two rocks as fast as he could, tugging on his blade as he did so, to swing the gore-spraying, dying gorkul over atop him.

  The air above the rocks went suddenly bright blue, and then purple, as stabbing tongues of lightning raced and snarled everywhere, silhouetted gorkul convulsing and writhing.

  Nurnra was crouched over, murmuring, as the lightning died, dead gorkul toppled wetly to the rocks all around, and the scorched few who still stood roared out their pain as they all flung their weapons at a single target.

  Oronkh struggled out from under the gorkul he’d slain in time to see the spellrobe sway with three gorkul axes buried deeply in his head and neck, stagger up against a rock, and then fall dead over it with a long gurgle that might have held the cry, “No, I am Vlakrel of—” in its choking midst.

  A dying spell raged briefly around his fingertips, and then faded away.

  The warblades who’d been with the spellrobe tried to hasten back out of the rocks—but the foremost Ouvahlans were into the rocks by now, and sworded them mercilessly.

  “Come on,” Nurnra hissed in Oronkh’s ear, tugging at him ere diving right back down among the rocks again. Startled, he followed her—only to have her slap an open-fanged hand against his cheek, piercing it.

  “Oww! What’re you—”

  “Bite me,” she snapped, extending her forearm. “Draw blood.”

  Oronkh stared at her for a moment, then lifted an incredulous eyebrow, drew her arm to his lips, and bit down.

  A moment later, the world seemed to grow hushed and misty gray.

  “We’re sharing the cloak-shell now,” Nurnra hissed, tugging the arm he was holding so hard that his head slammed against a rock with dazing force. “But we’ve got to get out of these rocks, to where no one with a sword will run into us!”

  Almost right overhead, a blackened and roaring gorkul sprang past, trailing wisps of smoke. He smashed aside an Ouvahlan blade with his own, drove his tusks viciously into that dark elf’s neck, and kicked the warblade away, tearing the neck open and drenching the rocks around with Nifl lifeblood.

  Steel rang on steel and clanged on rocks all around as gorkul crashed into Ouvahlan Nifl, and over it all a great bellow rolled, “Die at last, cruel Olone-teat-suckers! I am Grunt Tusks, and I will be your doom!”

  “No,” Semmeira purred, “I do not think your place is down there hosting gorkul blades in your belly—though you may yet persuade me otherwise, Arothral, you may indeed.”

  She climbed on in the wake of the veteran she was chiding, up the narrow and rock-strewn passage that led to the lofty ledge she’d spotted, and added, “I would prefer to overlook this first battle, to best learn how these untried blades fare against a tough but unnumbered foe. I can hardly do that while I’m risking my own neck in the bloody heart of the fray, can I? Nor does my paramount task of improving myself as commander preclude my wanting to see and enjoy my first real battle. Glowstone was barely a dispute, but this . . .”

  Arothral wisely said nothing at all.

  Nor did the other two veteran Ouvahlan warblades, Helbram and Lorrel, as they all came out on the ledge. Clutching the enchanted items from the plunder of Glowstone that she’d let them keep, they looked around alertly and kept their mouths shut.

  They knew better than to dispute anything at all with the Exalted Daughter of the Ice by now.

  The ledge was long and wide, narrowing some distance ahead as it met with a series of deep rents in the rock. It was high on the side wall of the cavern, overlooking the half of it that stretched away to Talonnorn—and the slope of waist-high rocks where gorkul were butchering scared and inexperienced Ouvahlan warblades as fast as they could.

  “Aha,” Semmeira said with real pleasure, gazing down on that slaughter. “This was worth the climb.”

  She pointed in Arothral’s direction without looking at him and ordered, “Explore the ledge to its end, that way,” and then turned to point at Lorrel, and commanded him to do the same in the other direction. She ignored Helbram, who stood uncertainly just where he’d stopped when she started giving orders, and strode to the lip of the ledge to watch the battle better.

  A breath later, he exploded into wetness and bones as a blast of magic tore out of the nearest of those rock clefts, vaporizing Arothral in a sighing instant, causing Helbram to burst, and smashing Lorrel far out into the cavern, to plummet with a despairing cry.

  It was Lorrel’s screaming fall that Semmeira stared at, astonished—which gave Maharla Evendoom time enough to stroll leisurely out of that rock cleft, wearing a crooked and mirthless smile, and approach the Exalted Daughter of the Ice.

  “I’ve always wanted to feel the cold embrace of the other holiness,” she purred menacingly.

  As the Ouvahlan whirled to face her, Maharla flung the crumbling holy scepter of Olone she’d just drained of magic with her slaying blast. It smashed aside Semmeira’s fingers, intended to ruin any holy spell the priestess of the Ever-Ice might have tried to cast, but Semmeira was too astonished to have been that quick—as Maharla pounced on her, dagger drawn.

  They struck the ledge together, hard, Maharla Evendoom on top, and grappled with each other. The priestess of Coldheart frantically lashed Maharla with a spell, or tried to—but the holy magic sang and twinkled around them both, only to be sucked into Maharla’s dagger.

  A moment later, that dagger had slashed open the Exalted Daughter’s throat—and a panting breath after that, it had been plunged between Semmeira’s ribs.

  Then Maharla tried to spring clear, but Semmeira’s arms were locked tight around her as she spurted blood in all directions, and her last spell awakened flames out of the empty air all around them.

  The dagger tried to snatch the fire into itself, but was overwhelmed, and started melting. In the heart of those lessened flames Maharla twisted in pain, ga
sping, as she fought her way free of those failing arms—and almost rolled off the ledge.

  Almost. She lay there gasping, as the flames died away beside her, and then rolled back atop her victim and used the last of her strength and will to work the spell that would shift her body into a duplicate of Semmeira’s. Should any Ouvahlan come charging up here, they would find a living priestess of Coldheart sprawled atop a dead one . . .

  In the throes of that thought, darkness claimed Maharla Evendoom.

  Grunt Tusks was dying. A dozen Ouvahlan blades had marked him, and he could feel his strength flowing out of him along with his blood. Surrounded by hard-breathing, glaring Nifl warblades intent on grimly hacking him apart, there was no one to aid him. All of his fellow gorkul were dead already.

  So the many-times-cursed Nifl were going to win, in the end, after all.

  “Niflghar enslaved me,” he spat, lurching forward to rain sword blows down on the dark elf whose face he liked the least, ignoring the thrusting blades sliding home in his back and sides. “And now Niflghar have slain me!” He spat blood into the face of the Nifl he was fencing with, then bent his head to slam the dark elf’s jaw with his tusks. As his foe staggered backward, fighting for balance, Grunt Tusks sliced open his throat with a mighty slash that carried his heavy sword right on and into the next Nifl along, smashing aside a parrying blade as it went.

  “What price your army now?” he roared, choking on his own blood. “A few raiders are all you are now, with fear in your eyes and gorkul blood on your faces! Die, all of you, die!”

  Three blades pierced him deeply during that last roar, but he had the satisfaction of sinking his teeth through a Nifl throat a moment later.

  Then he was falling, red and roiling agony searing his innards like fire as swords slid into him again and again, and everything was darkening.

  Yet even as another Nifl blade smashed his sword from his numbed hands, taking a finger or two with it, Grunt Tusks knew another satisfaction.