Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  He smiled or tried to, as he crashed down among the rocks. Darkwings were diving out of the cavern overhead, with Nifl riders who were even now unleashing speeding bolts of fiery magic that slashed down among the rocks, sending screaming Nifl flying.

  The flying Hunt of Talonnorn!

  With battle-scepters in hand, they were cooking Ouvahlans as fast as they could, the darkwings wheeling like carrion-things.

  The last thing Grunt Tusks saw, as the long cold darkness dragged him down forever, was scepter after scepter crumbling to dust, and their Nifl wielders casting them aside and drawing their whipswords.

  He wasn’t going to die unavenged . . .

  18

  Return of the Dark Warrior

  One will come unlooked-for

  One of us yet not of us

  To dare the unthinkable

  And do the impossible

  And that one shall be known

  As the Dark Warrior.

  —old Niflghar prophecy

  The raudren was dying under him.

  Sluggish and failing, it sank ever-lower; Orivon knew it wouldn’t even try to evade or fight the swooping darkwings of the Hunt.

  Which meant it was now a platter, displaying him as its tempting morsel. The high-nosed Nifl riders would probably not even try to resist spearing him, purely for sport, as they flew by.

  So Orivon gathered himself into a crouch over the sword hilt he was using as a handle to keep himself on the raudren—his favorite sword, buried so deeply in its flesh that blood was still welling out in a steadily pumping flow—and watched the Hunt rush down on him.

  He tried to look wounded and despairing, hunched and helpless—but in truth he was watching the oncoming Talonar alertly, to know which way he’d have to leap, and when.

  The leader of the Hunt did not try to resist. Hefting his whipsword with a sneer, he guided his mount into a dive that would let him carve the raudren’s unwanted rider in twain as he swept past.

  The dying raudren did not even notice; it was slumping into its last glide, drifting toward a waiting stony grave.

  The foremost Hunt rider was a young and handsome rampant—a standout even among the bred-for-beauty Talonar—and he struck a pose for the rest of the Hunt, leaning out from his saddle to dramatically cleave this lone Hairy One.

  His whipsword swept in—and Orivon struck it aside with one bracer-clad forearm, and then moved like lightning.

  The end of the blade, whipping around the obstacle that had parried it, sliced only empty air; the forgefist was already bounding up to catch hold of the Hunt leader’s elbow.

  Driving iron-hard fingers into that elbow and swinging himself up in a great heave, Orivon came crashing down on the Nifl’s torso and legs, breaking them. The shrieking dark elf lost his blade, spasming and writhing in helpless pain—and the forgefist ruthlessly shoved him out of the saddle and took his place, hauling on the reins to bring the hissing darkwings around and up, just as the second Hunt rider came hurtling down to hack at him.

  The two darkwings crashed together in midair with teeth-jarring force, becoming in an instant a tangled chaos of wings, claws, and necks.

  Together the beasts and their riders tumbled into the cavern wall, Orivon snarling in pain as wild wings buffeted him and he clung grimly to the saddle’s high cantle so hard he thought his fingers would sink into its metal.

  The force of smiting the unyielding stone rebounded the two darkwings out into the air again, flapping and calling wildly. Still tangled together, they fell like a cavern rock—straight down, to collide with the third onrushing darkwings of the Hunt in a bone-shattering smash.

  Orivon had a brief glimpse of a snarling Nifl face, eyes glittering with hatred. Then the bracer on his arm quivered once—and that face burst into flames and started howling in astonished agony.

  Yes.

  Yathla Evendoom sounded deeply satisfied as she made the bracer on Orivon’s arm spit fire into the face of the other Hunt rider, who tried to scream but managed only to vocalize a loud sizzling as that tongue of flame slammed into his open mouth and out the back of his head, with force enough to drive him out of his saddle. The rider Yathla had attacked first, now a flopping corpse beheaded with fire, toppled from his saddle, too.

  Shorn of their riders, two of the three entangled darkwings started to flap and claw in earnest, seeking only to win free. One was too badly broken to fly on its own, and tumbled helplessly toward the cavern floor—falling free of Orivon’s struggling mount.

  That darkwings suddenly soared high and far, seeking only to get far away from entanglements. Finding itself about to smash into a hard and endless rock ceiling, it panicked, frantically rolled onto its side to turn as sharply as any darkwings can, and hurled itself back toward Talonnorn, diving fast.

  Which took it behind the rest of the Hunt, shielding Orivon from the sudden volley of magic that then erupted, as the fearful, shouting Ouvahlan survivors unleashed all of the plundered Glowstone magic they had.

  The priestess who’d led them and her three veterans, their commanders, had borne the best magic, but even strong Nifl can wear only so many scepters—and one of the veterans, Lorrel, had fallen from on high to land dead and bloodily broken behind their ranks; some of his scepters had survived the fall that had slain him.

  None of the surviving Ouvahlans believed they’d be allowed to keep any magic they’d gained if they returned to Ouvahlor—and if they didn’t call on that magic now, they’d never make it home in the first place. So anything that looked as if they might be able to awaken it, and if its magic could be used as a weapon, saw use.

  The cavern blazed with a dozen vivid magical fires. One hapless Ouvahlan was propelled screaming into the midst of the Hunt, riding a jet of scepter-born flame that sent him smashing into the belly of a darkwings and then tumbling, broken-limbed, to the cavern floor far below.

  All the rest, however, unleashed battle-magic with passable aim, desperately sending a volley of bright-lancing spells that burned and blasted the Hunt, reducing it to spinning, flaming chunks of darkwings and Niflghar.

  Not a Talonar-ridden darkwings survived.

  By then, beyond that conflagration, Orivon’s terrified mount was roaring out its terror of all the magic bursting in the air or racing past it in bright, deadly beams. Its dive almost brought it crashing into the cavern floor, but it soared wildly aloft at the last instant to avoid doing so—and slammed full-tilt into a very hard and jagged cave sidewall.

  Headless in an instant, it sagged and then bounced brokenly down that rock face, leaving a bruised and stunned Orivon to roll free just before it crashed to rest on the jagged edge of the cavern floor.

  The forgefist rolled, bounced, and then rolled again . . . right into the path of the heartened Ouvahlans, as they roared obedience to the sudden shouts of Semmeira, Exalted Daughter of the Ever-Ice, and charged forward. Heading for Talonnorn . . . and for a lone, dazed Hairy One, lying on the cavern floor a few paces closer to them than the feebly thrashing, dying remains of the darkwings he’d ridden in on.

  “Onward, for glory!” the priestess cried from the ledge above and behind them, in a grand voice that rolled into and through their heads, and echoed around the cavern like thunder.

  “The Sacred Ever-Ice commands that Talonnorn be conquered, and shall shield you and enfeeble your foes, that this may happen! You shall bring glory upon yourselves and upon Ouvahlor, and win great honor and rewards from the Holy Ice itself! It has been ordained! You shall prevail! So onward! Let Talonnorn fall to your swords—Talonnorn!”

  “Talonnorn!” the Ouvahlans roared back, waving their swords, and started running.

  On the ledge, Maharla Evendoom stood with hands on hips, smiling, watching the Ouvahlan warblades running hard away from her, to Talonnorn; from up here, she could just see a tiny glimpse of the city in the distance.

  She let herself enjoy the moment for two breaths, no more, before starting the long climb back down from the ledge.<
br />
  Beautiful, just beautiful.

  The enchanted belt that had broadcast her voice on high, and unleashed the spell that heartened and inflamed the minds of the few Ouvahlans she had left, had been Semmeira’s. Obviously prepared beforehand by the priestesses of Coldheart, it had worked flawlessly.

  It still had those useful magics, too, leaving Maharla to ponder whether she should discard it, as it could readily be used to trace her and might well contain the means to magically slay or influence her from afar—or keep it, so that she could again inspire the Ouvahlans, and cry orders to them and be heard.

  Well, it wouldn’t hurt to go on wearing it at least until she was safely back down on the cavern floor . . .

  She clambered down a bit, skidded on loose scree, caught at projecting rock until she’d slowed herself, and clambered some more.

  Slightly clumsy, but then, she was wearing a shape not her own. She looked exactly like Semmeira, of course, and the real Semmeira was now smoking ashes on the ledge behind her.

  It had taken one of the most powerful spells she knew, and all the force of will she could furiously muster, to force her way into the dying mind of the priestess.

  Nor had that poisonous, furious, dying mind yielded her much. She now knew Semmeira’s name, that she had been an Exalted Daughter of the Ice—the Exalted Daughter, for a long time—of Coldheart, and that Semmeira hated and feared a younger priestess, Lolonmae, who had been named her superior, the Revered Mother. She had seen several views of Lolonmae’s face as Semmeira had remembered her, before the Exalted Daughter’s mind had faded entirely into darkness.

  Now Maharla was mind-weary, and weighed down with the grimness of holding intimately to a mind as it darkened into death. Yet she was still physically strong, revenge just might be within her grasp, and she didn’t think Semmeira of the Ever-Ice had managed to creep into her mind and hide there, awaiting a chance to strike and conquer.

  Orivon blinked. Where—?

  Oh. Aye. By Thorar, he’d best get up!

  And do it now! He could hear the thunder of running Nifl feet, and knew a score or more Ouvahlan warblades were running toward him with swords in their hands and murder in their minds . . . but he just couldn’t . . .

  Orivon clenched his teeth, shoved feebly at the ground, and then heaved.

  Only to find himself wavering, half up. He’d raised himself on one hand, his lower half still sprawled . . . but he wasn’t facing the Ouvahlans.

  He was staring into the brightness of Talonnorn—where what looked like a slaving caravan, mustering for its journey out into the Dark, were all standing staring back at him, Nifl masters and lines of chained human slaves alike.

  Not that he, Orivon, was all that astonishing a sight.

  They were really staring in disbelief at the battle raging just outside the city-cave, at the Hunt spell-blasted to ribbons before their eyes, gorkul fighting Nifl before that, and now a line of charging Ouvahlan warblades. Charging their way.

  Brith, Reldaera . . . he had to get up, had to move before a dozen Ouvahlans gleefully carved him . . . Aumril . . . Kalamae!

  Growling, Orivon shoved at the stone cavern floor, kicked, reeled, and was up, staggering toward the dark bulk of the dead darkwings. The running, shouting Ouvahlans sounded very close . . .

  There was suddenly a hand right in front of him, in midair, reaching forth to him as if in greeting. As if in aid.

  It was a Nifl hand, but the strongest, fattest-fingered Nifl hand Orivon had ever seen. It was . . . it was a gorkul hand, with the hue and nails of a Niflghar hand!

  And it was almost touching him, reaching out for his forearm, to grasp and haul, reaching out of a thin, dark rent in the air itself!

  Orivon had no sword, and no time nor stumbling balance to reach to see if he still had a knife left. He couldn’t hack this hand away, nor stab its owner . . .

  He shrugged, reached out, and took the hand.

  A moment later, he was being tugged forward into dark and swirling chaos, as a female Nifl voice said, “—much too useful to just let him be killed. This Hairy One could be not just my sustenance, henceforth; he could be the slave to overmatch all slaves—or a useful ally, out in the Dark. But we’ve got to move; this cloak-shell won’t last long. You’ll have to carry—”

  As strong arms that smelled of sweaty Nifl closed around Orivon, the darkness swallowed him—and closed behind him.

  The false priestess frowned as she came down through the rocks to the cavern floor—and then stiffened, as something unfolded in her mind. For a moment she felt icy fear, thinking Semmeira did live on, in her mind, and was revealing herself now to doom Maharla.

  Then, with a gasp of relief, she relaxed. It was merely this belt—and the belt alone, with no hint at all of any sinister sentience at work from afar, through it—attuning itself to a new wearer, and informing her of what it could do, aside from clinging flatteringly to her hips, inflaming Ouvahlan armies, and deafening everyone nearby with her orders.

  Its magics could also make her invisible, and awaken shortlived, parrying shields if she was beset by sword-swinging foes.

  Well, now. Better and better.

  She made herself invisible and strolled on down the cavern. She would be safest among her Ouvahlan warriors, inexperienced as they were, but she wasn’t going to run to keep up with them.

  She was now, after all, an Exalted Daughter of the Ever-Ice.

  Orivon blinked.

  He was still in the cavern, yet he was not.

  He was in a hushed, gray-hued place that he could see through the walls of, could see the Ouvahlans storming past—and storming through where he stood.

  Or sagged, actually, half falling, with those strong arms firmly around him and dragging him back and away from the dead dark-wings and all running Ouvahlans. He groaned, shaking his head to try to clear it. Aye, that was why he was staggering and off-balance . . . that and the fall down the rocks from the dying darkwings.

  “Come on,” that female Nifl spoke again, from behind his head, on the far side of this half-Nifl, half-gorkul’s body. “Bring him.”

  Bouncing and jouncing in the grasp of his puffing, staggering savior—or perhaps captor—Orivon could see the Ouvahlan warblades rush to the end of the cavern and into Talonnorn, where the chained lines of men were trying to turn and flee, and the slave-masters were shouting and cracking whips frantically, before it was too—

  Late.

  The Ouvahlans slammed right into the midst of the slaves, hacking and thrusting gleefully. The slaves screamed, staggered helplessly in their chains, and died.

  The Ouvahlans shouted triumphantly, rushed over the line of slaves they’d butchered, and headed for the next line, as the slave-traders abandoned their doomed wares and fled, sprinting hard.

  “No!” Orivon shouted. “No!”

  He twisted in the arms that held him, and shoved hard against a vest-covered rib cage. “Murdering Nifl!” he roared, and twisted again, free of the half-gorkul’s grasp.

  Who was staggering—and now falling over a slender Nifl-she behind him, as she scrambled unsuccessfully in the clinging grayness to try to get out of his way. They both fell to the ground; the half-gorkul was too winded from hauling a large, strong human to do anything to stop the Hairy One as Orivon pounced on him, snatched half a dozen knives from sheaths all over the fallen half-breed, whirled around, and burst through the gray walls, out of the conjured hideaway, racing after the Ouvahlans.

  Nurnra cried out in pain as her spell was torn apart, and rolled out from under Oronkh with a soft curse, wincing and clutching at her head.

  “So much for keeping the Hairy One from getting himself killed,” she said sharply, as she helped the gasping Oronkh to sit up.

  Then she stiffened, dug slender fingers into his shoulder to get his attention, and pointed back up the cavern. “Manyfangs! I’m thinking our own necks are at risk, now—look!”

  Oronkh looked where she was pointing, and decided it wa
s his turn to curse softly.

  The high ledge whence the priestess had so thunderously commanded her Ouvahlans—and where was she now?—was occupied once more.

  In a twinkling of fading yet still-blossoming spell-lights, a tall Niflghar spellrobe had just appeared, and was standing staring down the cavern toward Talonnorn.

  “Oh, dung,” Oronkh added, almost in a whisper, and Nurnra nodded silent agreement.

  Taerune Evendoom took one long look out into the bright cavern that held Talonnorn, then turned her head and commanded softly, “Now!”

  Bloodblade rose out of his crouch beside her with the softest of growls. Then he and Arthoun and Llorgar were all running hard, out into the light.

  None of them shouted or spoke; their only noise was the faint clatterings of bouncing metal as Ravagers ran in mismatched armor. Swords flashing, as silently as possible, with the one-armed Talonar lady sprinting along in their midst, Taerune’s little band burst out of their narrow cavern, through a bloody chaos of slaughtered human slaves, to crash into the Ouvahlan flank.

  Orivon Firefist never slowed.

  When he reached the fray of Nifl battling Nifl, he carved his way through it without slowing. With swift, brutal efficiency he stabbed or sliced any nightskin in his path, not really looking at them. He was heading for the surviving, fearfully staring chained slaves.

  Some of whom recognized him.

  “The Dark Warrior!” a cry arose.

  “Dark Warrior!” another shouted, and was echoed by still more.

  Orivon waved a knife at them in salute—and sprinted right past them, calling back, “Swing your chains like whips! Defend yourselves!”

  Ahead, he could see the Nifl caravan-masters fleeing back to the city. He put his head down and ran faster.

  The moment one of them looked back, he roared, “Come back! Free your slaves or die!”

  The Nifl stared at him in terror, and ran even faster.

  The most powerful spellrobe of Ouvahlor—probably the mightiest Nifl spellrobe there had ever been, let us be honest about such things—stood and watched Niflghar pour out of nowhere to attack what was left of Semmeira’s band of bumblers.