Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  This amused Quenthel. “A rat chasing its own tail! How very appropriate. Tell me, what resources is my dear brother committing to this endeavor?”

  “He has hired a mercenary band. Quietly.”

  “It is hardly something he would wish to hear sung in the marketplace,” Triel murmured. She rested her elbows on the arms of her throne and propped her chin on her hands as she thought this through. After a moment or two, a thin smile tightened her lips.

  “I will discover this little plot, and to support my dear brother I will grant forces of my own to ensure a successful quest—or more accurately, a long one! It might be wise to have a copy of this artifact made. If he is ever in danger of finding Liriel’s trinket, set him upon the scent of a false amulet. That will keep him chasing his tail a while longer. Meanwhile you will find the real one and bring it to me.”

  Shakti inclined her head respectfully. “I suspected you might say that, and have brought something that will enable you to begin this task at once. I took it from one of Liriel’s books.”

  She passed Triel the folded parchment, a page torn from a human lore book. On it was a finely detailed drawing of small dagger in a rune-carved sheath. The matron gave a curt nod of approval.

  “There is more,” Shakti cautioned. “Gromph believes that Liriel is dead. I told him this to ensure that he seeks the artifact but not the Zedriniset.”

  Zedriniset: Chosen of Lolth.

  Her choice of words was deliberate, and effective. A murderous gleam flashed in Triel’s eyes, betraying the ultimate reward awaiting her too-favored niece. Shakti tucked this realization away as if it was her greatest treasure.

  “Devious, but shortsighted,” observed Triel. “What will you do if the Lady of Chaos decides that Liriel must return to us?”

  “If this is the will of Lolth, I will bring the princess back myself,” Shakti said. She nodded toward Quenthel. “Considering past honors given to House Baenre, such a return would not be beyond belief. Until then, it is better that the archmage has no reason to seek out his daughter.”

  “You are loyal,” Triel observed. The matron’s tone held both irony and curiosity.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? House Hunzrin has long been allied with the First House. I have nothing to gain through your ill fortune but much to gain from your favor.”

  “Blunt as a dwarven axe,” Quenthel murmured.

  “For the moment, I am glad of it,” Triel said. “Speak plainly once again, and tell us why Gromph cannot have this Windwalker amulet.”

  Shakti had contemplated this question at length, but the answer only now came to her.

  It all fit: her unfading piwafwi, the survival of the soul-bubble spell on the surface world despite the coming of day, Quenthel’s words of triumph upon her transformation from yochlol to drow.

  “Liriel used this Windwalker amulet to take drow magic to the surface,” she said slowly, “but she did not realize how powerful this human trinket was or that the consequences of her casting might be far more widespread than she dreamed possible.”

  Triel inclined her head. “That is our belief.”

  For several moments the priestesses held silence, each absorbed in her own thoughts.

  Shakti’s head whirled with the enormity of this revelation. The shift to strategic thinking was profound, the implications were staggering. She thought back to old Matron Baenre’s attack on Mithril Hall and in particular the disastrous battle in a place the humans called Keeper’s Dale. The drow had not been defeated by the combined forces of dwarves, human barbarians, and wizards, but by the coming of daylight. If such a battle were to be fought today, they could win it! Once the other drow knew …

  That, of course, was why the two Baenre females had summoned her. Once the other drow knew, what was to keep them underground? Why would the males of Menzoberranzan submit to matron rule if they had other, more attractive options?

  “Suddenly you have become very important to us,” Triel said softly. “As traitor-priestess, you can walk in places none of us can go. You can ensure that no one knows of these developments. No one. You will be the ears that listen, and the sword that silences.”

  Shakti inclined her head in acceptance—she had no other choice—but she couldn’t resist giving voice to her reservations. “Many eyes have seen me come to House Baenre. Other priestesses will wonder why.”

  “Of course they will, and we will give an explanation that all will understand. The wars have devastated our supplies of slaves and workers, disrupted our trade, slowed production of needed goods. When nobles and common alike are garbed in new woolen clothes and feasting upon rothé and cheese, they will look upon House Hunzrin as Baenre’s faithful stewards. See to it.”

  This, even more than the death of her hated rival, was Shakti’s dearest dream! She could not quite keep the joy from her face. Finally, an acknowledgment of her gifts and talents! She was ambitious as any other drow, but she did not want to rule. She could manage affairs and processes in an orderly, precise fashion that eluded most of her chaotic kin. She could excel at the task Triel put before her.

  Shakti bowed low. “All will be done. I should, however, point out that trade with the surface may be disrupted for some time to come. Some of our merchants are Vhaerun worshipers. Any Underdark magic they carried with them has long since vanished, and so they are no immediate threat, but they must be kept from returning, lest they discover this secret.”

  “I agree,” Matron Triel decreed. “The wisest course would be to seek out and destroy these merchants. This secret must not spread beyond this chamber.”

  “What of Liriel herself?”

  The matron was slow in answering. “Bring her back if you can, kill her if you cannot. Above all else, we must have the Windwalker. If it effected so profound a change, who knows what else it might do?”

  The appearance of a human wizard and his damnable light spell left Gorlist in a foul mood. He stalked back toward the Dragon’s Hoard camp in silence. Brindlor offered no comment, largely because the dark glares Gorlist sent him from time to time warned against any comparison with Merdrith.

  Gorlist stopped at the edge of a ravine. Brindlor kept a judicious pace back. The stench of city sewage and rotting bodies rose from the foul water, and the deathsinger had no desire to contribute his mortal remains to this unpleasantness. The warrior selected several gems from Liriel’s bag and tossed them into the sludge.

  “Understandable,” Brindlor observed, “but a shame nonetheless.”

  The warrior’s glare snapped toward him. “Have no fear. I’ve saved the choicest gem for you.”

  He reached into a hidden pocket and took out a large, red stone. This he placed in Brindlor’s hand. Before the deathsinger could step back, Gorlist gave his wrist a vicious twist, sending him to his knees and forcing his arm behind his back. He reclaimed the gem and lowered it purposefully to the deathsinger’s face.

  Brindlor struggled as the sharply pointed gem pressed against his forehead. The ruby flared with brilliant red light and began to sear its way into the deathsinger’s skull.

  Brindlor awoke on his pallet, although he could not recall making his way there. Nor could he guess how much time he had spent in oblivion. In fact, nothing seemed certain except the throbbing, burning pain just above his eyes.

  He carefully touched his forehead and felt the hard, flat surface of the ruby embedded there.

  The gem responded to his touch with a flare of searing heat. A vivid image leaped into his mind: a drow priestess with an angular, feral face and a voluptuously full mouth. She stared forward intently, her crimson eyes moving as if she scanned a room.

  Nisstyre? she inquired. The words sounded in the deathsinger’s pain-benumbed mind like the clanging of bells.

  “Speak softly or kill me now,” Brindlor mumbled.

  “Ah, both the deathsinger and the ruby have awakened,” Gorlist said in tones rounded with satisfaction. He came into Brindlor’s field of vision and seized the deathsinger’s
tunic. With ungentle hands he hauled Brindlor into a sitting position and propped him against the wall. That accomplished, he squatted down to eye level and stared intently into the deathsinger’s face.

  “Just repeat what she says. She will hear my words well enough.”

  Nisstyre? the priestess inquired, more emphatically. Still dazed, Brindlor echoed the question.

  “He is dead. Gorlist, son of Nisstyre, now commands the Dragon’s Hoard.”

  You would be this Gorlist, I suppose?

  Brindlor relayed the words if not the sneering intonation drow females typically employed.

  Who is the stone’s new host?

  Brindlor decided it was time to speak for himself. “I am Brindlor Zidorian of Ched Nessad, a deathsinger famed for songs of dark glory.”

  “He will sing of the downfall and death of Liriel Baenre,” Gorlist added. He paused, then inclined his head in a small, reluctant bow. “If that is still your wish.”

  Your purpose and mine are in accord.

  Brindlor related this response. Gorlist smiled. “I thought they might be.”

  Bring your full forces to the troll caves near the Glowing Dracolich Cavern. I will meet you there.

  The gleam in Gorlist’s eyes abruptly dimmed when he heard these instructions. “You will join us? There is no need for you to endanger yourself in a long tunnel march, much less in the Night Above! The ruby gem will enable you to see all through a deathsinger’s eyes.”

  In time I might find his particular vision useful or at least amusing. Until then, you will both do as I say. Gromph Baenre himself will see that you are well paid.

  A searing heat flared high and hot in the ruby, then the painful presence receded.

  “She’s gone,” Brindlor said with relief, speaking his own words at last. He turned furious eyes on Gorlist. “What is this about? The gem, the female? The archmage? I am to sing a Baenre princess’s deathsong to an audience of her own blood? Why didn’t you tell me we were working for Gromph Baenre? I could have cut my own throat and saved the great archmage the inconvenience of a bloodied dagger.”

  “Until this very moment, I didn’t know about Gromph Baenre’s interest,” Gorlist said. “As to the other matter, this female, Shakti Hunzrin, gave that gem to my father, the wizard Nisstyre. They worked together until his death. My father’s task is now mine.”

  “I’d prefer that your father’s gem was now yours,” Brindlor grumbled.

  The warrior shrugged. “You chose to become a bard. Is it not said that all great art is born of suffering?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BORDERLANDS

  Merdrith stood on the docks of Kront, looking out over the deceptively calm waters of Ashane. A short, thick-bodied Ashanathi fisherman stood a few paces away, eyeing him with speculation. Despite the woolen cap concealing his head tattoos, the soot darkening his thin crimson beard, and his rough woodsman’s garb, Merdrith had the look of Thay’s wizard nobility. Red Wizards were slain on sight in Rashemen and were none too welcome in the bordering countries.

  “You traveling alone?” the man asked.

  “Passage for one,” Merdrith confirmed.

  “It’ll cost you. I wasn’t planning to dock in Rashemen and won’t be coming near to any port town. I can set you ashore on the edge of the Ashenwood, about a day’s walk south of Immilmar. Best I can do,” he said defensively.

  The wizard understood completely. While the fisherman didn’t wish to lose a potential fare, neither did he want to risk angering his powerful neighbors. No doubt the wretch intended to stay overnight in Immilmar. He could sell the day’s catch and warn the local fyrra of the suspicious outlander sighted walking northward along the shore. As it turned out, the proposed destination suited his purposes perfectly.

  “Will ten Thesken gold suffice?” he asked, holding up a small deerskin bag.

  The sailor’s eyes widened with avarice. He snatched the offered payment and offered a gap-toothed grin. “Brunzel will stow your gear. Take a seat, get yourself a tarp cloak. In this season the winds coming off the Ashane could freeze the blood of a white dragon.”

  Merdrith already knew this. He had last stood on the banks of the Ashane in mid winter, as part of a band of Red Wizards charged with the suicidal task of attacking a witches’ watchtower and keeping the guardians occupied long enough to distract them from the main invading forces. Contrary to all expectation, the magic of these few Red Wizards had prevailed over the tower’s witches.

  Even though it shouldn’t have.

  This unexpected success still puzzled and intrigued Merdrith. It had inspired him to commit the first truly impulsive act of his life. He had killed his fellow wizards and claimed the tower’s treasures for himself. A treasonous act, to be sure, but had he succeeded in his purpose he could have returned to his homeland in triumph to claim a zulkir’s honors.

  It seemed eminently clear to him that the unique spirit-magic of Rashemen had faltered. That was the only explanation for this victory. If he could discover the source of this new weakness and find a way to exploit it, the conquest of Rashemen and the destruction of her much-hated witches would finally be within Thay’s grasp. This particular watchtower was said to be a treasure trove of magic and lorebooks. Merdrith had not been disappointed, and he had left the tower confident that he would find the answers he sought.

  His booty had included a witch’s staff, this one a wish-staff fashioned from ebony and elaborately carved. With it he had secured one of the most powerful and well-guarded hiding places in all of Rashemen, a place filled with its own treasures and secrets. By now he should have been sitting in council with the greatest of Thay’s wizards.

  Then came two unforeseen complications: a band of drow thieves and an interfering Rashemi warrior. The drow had come upon Merdrith’s hiding place—a legendary magical hut—when he was out walking the forest in search of talkative ghosts. The dark elves had done battle with Merdrith’s gnoll warriors, the busybody Rashemi, and the hut itself. He had returned from his forest ramble in time to see the last flurry of battle as the berserker warrior was encased in an icy shroud. The Rashemi had escaped his prison, foolishly following the drow through a magical portal. The wounded hut had also disappeared, as it was said to do upon taking any hurt. No one knew where it went on these occasions, but according to the lore it would heal itself and return with the next autumn equinox to resume haunting the Rashemaar forests.

  With nearly a year to wait, Merdrith found himself bereft of his quest, his magic, and his homeland. If he returned to Thay without the secrets he sought, he would be executed as a traitor and deserter. Lacking a better idea, he fled to the west and took up a hermit’s life in the High Forest, a place notorious for the number of portals into the Underdark.

  His first attempts to make contact with the drow raiders had proved disastrous. There were in the High Forest small bands of dark elf females, self-righteous priestess-warriors whose goddess apparently held a dubious view of Merdrith’s character and motives. He’d slain one of the troublesome black wenches, and in conversing with her spirit he learned of a battle in the subterranean realms of Skullport between a band of drow thieves known as the Dragon’s Hoard, and yet another group of drow females. One of these females was accompanied by a Rashemi warrior, and she was said to hold an artifact known as the Windwalker.

  So Merdrith went to Skullport and sought the drow female, the Rashemi, and the band of thieves. The first two were long gone, but the new leader of the Dragon’s Hoard readily agreed to form an alliance.

  All was going well. Perhaps even a bit too well. The problem, to Merdrith’s way of thinking, was in finding ways to delay the capture of the Windwalker until its current guardians returned it to Rashemen.

  For it was there, and only there, that the amulet could release its full power.

  The fishing boat made straight for the shore. Its captain sent out a small skiff and a man to row the passenger ashore. Merdrith gave the oarsman a silver coin for his t
roubles then obligingly headed northward, walking a careful distance from the lake’s edge. As soon as the fishing boat was out of sight, however, he turned into the shadows of the Ashenwood.

  He found a small clearing and took a bag of birdseed from his belt. This he sprinkled in a wide circle, all the while singing an old Rashemaar folk song he’d coaxed from the ghost of a slain berserker. They were plentiful, these Rashemaar ghosts, and still full of boasting insults and superstitious chatter. Some of them, however, had inadvertently aided his research.

  The rustle of leaves and the creak of bending branches announced the success of Merdrith’s summons. He backed into the concealing underbrush and waited.

  A Rashemaar hut stalked cautiously into the clearing on legs resembling those of a giant chicken. Despite its startling mobility, the structure was otherwise unremarkable, with its dark timbers and wattle-and-daub walls, thatched roof, and brightly painted shutters. These shutters were closed, further proof that the hut’s legendary occupant was not in residence.

  The hut made its way into the center of the birdseed circle and turned around a couple of times, perhaps to survey the surrounding forest or perhaps in ritual such as that performed by drowsy hounds. Whatever the case, it seemed satisfied. The massive legs folded and the magical dwelling settled down like a brooding hen.

  Merdrith began to sing the song that had proven so effective months before.

  “While the mistress is asleep,

  Chicken-legs a watch will keep.

  When the mistress wanders off,

  Chicken-legs will stand aloft.

  When the mistress comes again,

  Chicken-legs will let her in.

  Stara Baba casts this spell.

  Listen, hut, and hearken well.”