Dark Vengeance

by Ed Greenwood

  Taerune frowned. “What does that mean?” she asked the Dark in general.

  The forgefist strode to a stop in front of Nurnra. Something in his manner made Oronkh hasten to her side, reaching for some of his daggers, but Orivon held up his hand to the half-gorkul in a “stand easy” gesture, his eyes bent steadily on the beautiful sharren.

  Who lifted her chin under his hard scrutiny and asked, “Yes?”

  “Nurnra, I’ve been warned about you. By several whom I trust. So hear me: you are not to try to tail me everywhere and drink my blood. Find another victim.”

  Her answering smile was gentle and genuine. “Orivon, I had already decided so. Worry not; I am not daring the Blindingbright for any blood-meal. Even you.”

  “Good,” Orivon replied. “Then there’s treasure in it for you.” He turned and stalked across the cavern, through a passage, across a moot of passages, and on past warning runes into another cavern, with all of them following.

  It was as he had left it, all tumbled rocks strewn with dead cave-sleeth, and with cave-sleeth treasure, more glittering riches than he’d ever have been able to carry away. The rocks were strewn with coins, gems, and gleaming things of curved and shaped metal that Niflghar would know the names and uses of. He hoped.

  Behind him, he heard Bloodblade, Nurnra, and Oronkh all gasp in awe.

  “Where did you—?” Taerune asked, and then wrinkled her nose at a rotting chunk of butchered sleeth. “Oh.”

  Bloodblade already had two scepters in one hand, and was clawing up a gem the size of his fist with the other, when he looked up at Orivon and rumbled, “You mean that? You’ll let us take from this?”

  The forgefist shrugged.

  “So long as you let all of the children take a gem and a coin, and Taerune come back for what she wants. Oh, and so long as your ‘us’ includes these two.” He pointed at the sharren and the half-gorkul. “After all, you’ll need help carrying all you’ll want.”

  Bloodblade started to chuckle. “I’ve a better idea. I’ll let these two stay to sort and gather and guard, once I’ve stuffed my pouches. I’m coming with you. This time, I want to see the Blindingbright. Properly, with its brightshield in its sky, and all, not just the stars and the dark. Before I die, you know.”

  Orivon looked at Nurnra and Oronkh. “Sits this right with you? You’ll not greet Taerune or Bloodblade with violence, when they return?”

  Nurnra looked disgusted. “Hairy One, you really don’t trust Niflghar, do you?”

  “No,” Orivon replied. “No, I don’t. I guess I’m slow to learn.”

  “No, I’d not say that,” Taerune said quietly, walking to his side. “I’d say you’re slow to abandon wisdom.”

  Bloodblade sighed. “Are you two going to stand cooing all day? Let’s be on our way.” He patted his now-bulging pouches, gave them a bright smile, and added slyly, “After all, I’ve got mine!”

  “We’ll stay and revel in this,” the sharren said to Orivon. “Get safely home, human hero.”

  She turned her head to look at Bloodblade, and added, “Remember the ways he takes to the surface, in case we have need of Orivon Firefist again.”

  Orivon cursed, and one of the children—Kalamae—giggled. Brith joined in, a moment later.

  Taerune speared the piece of rotting sleeth on her blade, and carried it with her as they started out of the cavern.

  “That stinks,” Kalamae complained. “Why are you bringing it?”

  “Because, Little Noise,” Bloodblade growled, from behind her, “anything that smells it will think twice about prowling up and pouncing on succulent little human morsels. Out in the Wild Dark, anyone who can slaughter a sleeth is someone to stay well away from.”

  Aloun stared around, while trying not to seem to do so. He had never expected to ever stand in the holiest chamber in Coldheart, with the Ever-Ice rising like a dark pillar not two paces away.

  Still less had he expected to be spoken to as an equal, by a devastatingly beautiful, nude young high priestess who was lounging in a smooth hollow of the Holy Ice as if relaxing on a bed. He wouldn’t have believed the Revered Mother Lolonmae would ever dismiss all her priestesses—quite sharply, too—if he hadn’t heard it with his own ears.

  He barely believed what he was hearing now, as Luelldar talked to Lolonmae as if they were old friends.

  “The fate of Talonnorn bids fair to be grim, yes,” the Senior Watcher was saying, “but I do not see it reduced to a lawless ruin—for long enough for Ouvahlor or anyone to benefit, at least. Yes, it will be plunged into savage strife now, as everyone fights for power—but the Talonar have a way of settling matters very quickly.”

  “Until the next dispute, yes,” Lolonmae agreed with a grin.

  “W-what,” Aloun forced himself to say, hardly daring to speak but very much wanting to join the converse, “of its vanished High Lord? He’s not dead, is he?”

  Luelldar and Lolonmae both shook their heads. It was the high priestess who answered him, teasingly: “Surely that question is one I should be asking you?”

  Then she lifted her hand and gestured at Luelldar, who bowed his head and told her, “The last whorl I spun, before coming here to you, showed me Jalandral trying his hand, out in the Wild Dark, at becoming a Ravager. And vowing to retake and renew Talonnorn, of course.”

  “It showed you something more than that, didn’t it?” Lolonmae asked slyly.

  Luelldar nodded. “I was going to tell you all about that,” he said gently. “Please believe me. I am merely . . . feeling my way through the maze of holy discretion.”

  Lolonmae threw back her head and laughed merrily. “Ah, what a phrase! Luelldar, be not a stranger here in Coldheart! Come striding in whenever you feel the need; so long as you don’t interrupt a chant to the Ice, you’ll be right welcome. Feeling your way through the maze of holy discretion, indeed! Say on; what of the slayer of Semmeira?”

  The Senior Watcher smiled. “You watch whorls, too, don’t you?”

  “Occasionally,” Lolonmae replied, and lifted a slender hand to caress the Ice beside her. “More often, I gaze into the depths of the Ice, and it informs me in the same way as a whorl does. Wherefore I know every detail of Klarandarr’s foray into Talonnorn, and how he fared. Yet tell me of Jalandral’s meeting with . . . this slayer.”

  The Senior Watcher nodded. “Maharla Evendoom, Eldest crone of her House and a most ambitious and ruthless manipulator, slew Exalted Daughter of the Ice Semmeira, took on her likeness, and led the Ouvahlan force in an attack on Talonnorn—doubtless intending to eliminate certain Talonar and make some changes in her city without Maharla Evendoom having to bear any blame for it. She translocated herself to join Jalandral, out in the Wild Dark, offering herself to him—and he slew her before all the watching Talonar Nifl, renouncing all crones, I would say, because he loudly dismissed all ‘old ways.’ ”

  Lolonmae nodded. “There is something about Jalandral Evendoom; he survives and succeeds where others would have fallen long ago. I would say he is well on the way to becoming the most dangerous Ravager leader since Bloodblade.”

  “You speak of Bloodblade as if he’s dead,” Luelldar ventured, frowning.

  Lolonmae smiled slightly. “Yes,” she said. “So I did. How careless of me.”

  The children started to cry softly when the daylight grew too strong to ignore any longer. Wordlessly Orivon led the way up through the last few caverns, his drawn swords steady in his hands.

  Bloodblade winced and narrowed his eyes as they came up into the last cave. Taerune grinned at him. “Behold the Blindingbright,” she said softly. “In a moment or two you’ll see the brightshield itself. Don’t look up at it; gaze instead on the green stuff that will be around our boots. They call it ‘grass.’ It’s the least of the marvels you’ll see.”

  “Oh? Should I be expecting lots of Hairy Ones, with spears and bows and swords?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. They’re rarer than Ravager tales would have you belie
ve.”

  Orivon looked back over his shoulder at them and growled, “Would you two shut up?”

  The old merchant turned from the window as they came into the room, and the younger Araed traders with him hastily drew their swords.

  “Who are you?” Ondrar asked sharply, thinking he’d seen the large Nifl—darkwings and death, the rampant was perhaps the largest Niflghar he’d ever seen!—around the city before.

  Munthur came to a stop, saying nothing, his large hands hanging empty at his sides.

  It was Clazlathor who spoke. “We are Talonar. I am a spellrobe and Munthur here is a . . . strong Nifl who does what the strong are called upon to do.”

  “Break heads,” Ondrar said simply.

  Clazlathor nodded. “We were wondering if you needed any broken, as you try to rebuild Talonnorn.”

  Several of the Araed merchants raised their swords. “How did you know we were seeking to do that?” one of them asked sharply.

  The spellrobe ignored him. Clazlathor’s gaze was fixed on Ondrar.

  Who smiled, waved at his fellow merchants to down their blades, and said, “Be welcome. Be very welcome. We have a lot to do.”

  Orivon looked out into the full brightness, took a few steps out of sight, and then returned to smile and wave the children past him.

  They obeyed, still crying, their voices rising into shrieks of excitement.

  “No one is there,” the forgefist said gruffly. “You can come and look.”

  He took Bloodblade by the hand and led him, adding, “Shield your eyes. Look down, first. Taerune, will you hurl that sleeth away before I do it for you?”

  She grinned and swung her blade, to let the rotting meat fly far across the cavern and spatter on the wall.

  “I was saving that,” Bloodblade joked, in mock-injured tones. Then he looked up at Orivon, the sunlight bringing tears to his narrowed eyes.

  “Forgefist, I stand in your debt and find myself proud to be your friend. If you need me, I’ll be somewhere down there.” He pointed at the cavern floor under his boots. “Dead or alive.”

  Orivon chuckled, and flung his arm around Bloodblade’s shoulders. “I think Taerune just might fancy you,” he whispered into the Ravager’s ear.

  Bloodblade squirmed out of his grasp, glared at him, and growled, “I thought the crones were the manipulators, not the slaves!” He waved at Taerune. “Take her and go stand out there and kiss her! I’ll stand here and watch!”

  “Do not,” Taerune said sharply, “dare to do anything of the sort. Or those children will be finding their ways alone back to their village.”

  She started walking out into the sunlit world.

  Orivon and Bloodblade exchanged looks and shrugs, and then the forgefist followed her.

  They stopped atop a little hillock, standing a few strides apart, facing each other. The children, after much glee and running and a few falls, had calmed enough to gather together again, and were a little way down the grassy hill, watching them.

  “I will be back,” the forgefist told the Nifl lady grimly. “I know it.”

  “Should I lead the raids myself?” she teased.

  “If you want to die soonest,” he replied coldly.

  Taerune smiled, shrugged, and beckoned him. Warily he approached, swords still out, and stopped just out of blade-reach.

  Taerune nodded, face unreadable. “I think we are fated to need each other, you and I,” she said in low tones. “I know we will meet again.”

  She tossed her head, hair streaming out behind her in a sudden rising breeze, and added, “Until that day.” She took a step back, kissed the palm of her hand, and raised it to him in salute.

  Orivon made the same gesture back to her, and then stood like a watchful statue as she gave him the slightest of smiles, and walked back to the cavern where Bloodblade stood waiting.

  Orivon watched her go, not turning his back on her, until the two Nifl disappeared into the cavern depths.

  Then, and only then, he turned toward Orlkettle and said to the four who knew where it was, “Lead the way. Don’t run so hard you fall and get hurt—that would be foolish, this close to a good feast and your parents and soft beds!”

  The four excited Orlkettle children started to run in an instant, of course.

  The other freed slave-children hesitated for a moment, and then started to run after the four, pelting down through the grassy fields and rocks.

  Orivon smiled. Soon they would see Orlkettle, and parents would come running. Waving his swords for balance, he started to run, too, to catch them up.

  Coda

  Many cities proclaim themselves the greatest of their realm or empire or even race, and Talonnorn of the Dark Below was one such.

  Long and proud was its history, yet in its ending it proved no different than the rest. Poisoned from within by feuding among its increasingly decadent nobles and strife between those haughty ones and the increasingly corrupt priestesses of Olone, it fell into a decline of heir-slayings and slothful indulgences, depending increasingly on raiding other Nifl cities, and gorkul dens, and even the Blindingbright Above to seize the infants of Hairy Ones, to gain the brawn needed to work and fulfill daily city tasks and needs.

  Many a proud place declines so, and when restlessness for renewal stirs, a tyrant always arises. Always, such a one delivers tyranny that only hastens the inevitable downfall.

  So it was with Talonnorn, as the feuding noble Houses so weakened that city that the rival city of Ouvahlor raided proud Talonnorn itself, Consecrated fought Consecrated in the city temple, and Talonar turned to a charismatic but self-serving leader, Jalandral Evendoom, whose cruelties and mass executions in the end plunged Talonnorn into lawless ruin.

  As with all such dooms, many legends arise, to lurk and flourish in their tellings and retellings, until all truths are lost. Talonnorn’s legends include tales of a deposed lord returning from the Wild Dark in rags and desperation, to try to restore order and rule in his turn. Some legends say his daughter, maimed or outcast or even changed into the shape of a monster, returned to Talonnorn with him, or instead of him, or to oppose him.

  The wildest of these foolish, exaggerated tales is the legend that a Hairy One, once enslaved in Talonnorn, actually returned to topple the city towers, or slaughter all its people, or rule them!

  Such claims only serve to amply demonstrate the folly of believing such distorted fancies.

  —from Dynasties of Darkness,

  penned by Erammon the Elder,

  published the Sixth Summer of Urraul

  From the Land of Light to the Dark Below, Orivon Firefist descended.

  Four slaves he sought. Four human children, taken and chained as he was taken and chained, snatched by raiding Niflghar as a child.

  He cared not what might fall to his swords, nor what he might have to do. He went to deliver them from enslavement and bring them safe back up to the sunlit world, and would suffer nothing and no one to thwart him. One man, alone, he went down, and did this thing, and in the doing destroyed the proud Niflghar city that had enslaved him.

  —from The Deeds of Orivon,

  penned by Elmaerus of Orlkettle

  (date unknown)