The warrior spoke first. “You sent word that you’d found the ruby.”
Chadrik promptly handed over the necklace. “It’s yours. No need to settle up; I’ll get my pay from the man what hired me.” His words tumbled over each other in their haste to be said.
None of the drow spoke. Chadrik dredged his fear-sodden mind for something to say. Remembering stories of drow hatred of surface elves, he manufactured a leer and a lie. “The elf wench was payment enough for me.”
This did not seem to endear him to any of the dark elves.
“We have the ruby,” the dandy said, gesturing to the gem in his forehead. “I can assure you that one is quite enough. Not a wise thing, to cheat the drow of the Dragon’s Hoard.”
“We didn’t know! I swear,” Chadrik babbled. “We took the elf woman just like the man said, got the necklace she was wearing. A mistake’s been made, that’s plain to see, but we stole the necklace in good faith. We’re out the coin we paid the corpse-hauler to bring us in here, and the scribes who forged the burial papers. Not that I’m complaining! Take the gems for your trouble, and we’ll be square.”
The warrior listened in silence. When at last Chadrik’s voice faded into silence, he tossed a glance toward the attentive guards. “Kill them.”
“Not yet,” said the other softly. “Many of the best tales have a circular form. The heroes or villains end as they begin. Justice is not always undesirable, provided the path it takes is sufficiently twisted.”
“Meaning?” the tattooed drow demanded.
“You go along. I’ll catch up in a bit.”
The well-dressed drow turned to the captives, and the light in his eyes was horribly familiar. The warrior scowled but did not argue. He jerked his head toward one of the doors, indicating that the soldiers should follow. The door slammed shut behind the three drow. Somehow Chadrik knew that there would be no opening that door, or any of the others.
Chadrik had few morals and no illusions. Until this moment, he’d been certain that nothing could appall him.
He thought of the elf woman and envied her the ability to die at will.
Shakti Hunzrin ducked through of the low entrance leading to a small cavern on the outskirts of Menzoberranzan. The forces the archmage had promised her were assembled, and they stood awaiting her inspection in eerie silence.
She eyed her new command with dismay. The soldiers were not mercenaries, as she had expected, but undead drow. All of them were female.
For some reason that struck Shakti as deliberately offensive. Making matters worse was the fact that all of the zombies’ heads had been shaved. Their lives gone, their names forgotten, even their luxuriant tresses stolen—reduced to this state, they were no better than males.
At least the fighters looked strong, and they were certainly well equipped. All were clothed in identical rothé-hide armor, sturdy boots, and well-laden weapon belts. Most of the zombies were dark-clad, but a few wore crimson sashes to mark them as squadron leaders. Each of these leaders held a spear, and all the zombies carried swords that were plain but well made. A small crossbow hung on every belt alongside a quiver full of poisoned darts.
Shakti walked slowly down the line, a scented cloth pressed to her nose. One of Gromph’s hirelings noted this.
“That isn’t necessary,” he said briskly. “These zombies are exceptionally well preserved and will keep indefinitely in the tunnels of the Underdark. Take them above ground as little as possible, for the spells will begin to dissipate.”
She did not contradict this assertion. Now that she considered the matter, these fighters seemed ideally suited to her purpose. They would march without ceasing or tiring, and she needn’t worry about organizing supplies or waste time hunting and foraging. Moreover, she was not unhappy to be spared the company of males.
“Will you be expecting their return?”
The young wizard sneered. “And waste magical resources laying zombie commoners to rest? Use them up, by all means. Here is the command key. They have been well trained—you shouldn’t have any problem.”
He handed her a small book bound in lizard hide. In it were a number of simple commands, most of them general enough to address a number of situations. Shakti paged through the book and found the needed command. She turned to the nearest crimson-clad zombie and issued the marching order. The zombie thumped the butt of her spear several times against the stone floor. An undead squadron wheeled smartly and headed for the eastbound tunnel. Other leaders took up the rhythm, and the zombie host set off with a seamless efficiency that no group of living drow could manage.
Shakti mounted a large riding lizard. She squared her shoulders and reined the beast toward the eastbound tunnel and the land known as Rashemen.
The spell Sharlarra had cast over herself gave way slowly. The sluggish whisper of her heart quickened and grew stronger, and the unnatural chill began to fade from her blood and flesh. Awareness returned first, and she lay in her coffin for many long moments while mobility returned to her frigid limbs.
There was no sound outside the wooden box. None whatsoever. Never had Sharlarra experienced such utter silence. The complete lack of sight and sound was profoundly unnerving. She actually took solace in the smell: mold, mostly, but also the musty, earthy scent peculiar to catacombs.
As soon as the elf could move, she braced her hands against the wooden lid and pushed, raising her knees at the same time. Fortunately the coffin was cheaply made of thin, light boards, and she was able to raise the lid.
A little.
Panic swept through her. She pushed the lid to one side and soon encountered solid stone. But at least a small opening had been created. She worked one foot out and braced it against the opposite wall, pushing the coffin as far as it would go. The top end was harder to move, but she finally managed to inch the box firmly against one wall. Then she pushed the lid back to the other side, creating the largest possible opening.
Fortunately, it was just enough. Also fortunate was the fact that the coffin had gone in feet first. She flipped over onto her stomach and then wriggled out into a round, faintly glowing room.
Her kidnappers were dead. Sharlarra glanced at the bodies and was just as glad that she’d slept while justice was being meted out.
It was easy enough to figure out what had happened. The thugs had been hired to find the necklace. They obviously didn’t know that the tattooed drow had already found the ruby. When the two men tried to collect, they were accused of fraud.
An honest mistake, no doubt, but Sharlarra couldn’t bring herself to shed tears over her fellow thieves.
One open door led out of the crypt. The elf ran up the swiftly sloping passage to the heavy wooden door. She threw her weight against it. It swung silently open, and she stepped out into a starlit night.
A copse of weathered trees surrounded the crypt entrance. They were of a type Sharlarra had never seen before. In the moonlight the leaves appeared to be an odd shade of blue, darkening with the coming of autumn to a deep violet. It was said that blue trees were common to Evermeet, but what were they doing here?
She ran her fingers over the faded inscription carved into the door. The curving marks were Elvish, a language she had never learned to read. She could make out only two words: “hero” and “Evermeet.” A wry smile lifted one corner of her lips. Offhand, she couldn’t think of any two words that were less applicable to her life.
Still, her hand lingered on the engraving that framed these words—a representation of the moon phases with a full moon framed by outward-facing crescents.
A faint whicker sounded behind her. Sharlarra whirled, then staggered back against the wooden door.
Before her stood a tall white horse, a beautiful creature with a luxuriant mane and tail so long they nearly swept the ground, and a face that was both intelligent and strangely expressive. The horse regarded her wistfully with long-lashed, silver-blue eyes that glowed like living moonstone.
These eyes were the horse’
s most substantial features. The rest of it was cloudy, almost translucent. Sharlarra could make out the shape of trees behind it.
“A ghost horse,” she whispered.
Yet there was nothing of menace in the apparition’s manner. If anything, it seemed delighted to see her. The ghost pranced a couple of steps closer, tossing its head in what looked suspiciously like a beckoning gesture.
Curiosity began to elbow fear aside. Sharlarra pushed herself away from the door and forced her shock-benumbed legs forward. She gingerly laid one hand on the horse’s neck. To her vast relief, her hand did not sink into the insubstantial form. She stroked the ghostly horse. Its coat was silky, and cool to the touch.
The creature let out a soft whicker that sounded for all the world like a contented sigh. It nosed Sharlarra’s shoulder and shifted around to present its left side.
“You want me to ride you,” the elf woman said in disbelief.
The look the horse gave her left little doubt of its opinion of those who stated the obvious.
Sharlarra held her own hands in front of her face, turning them this way and that. Yes, they were still solid flesh. Her waking death spell had successfully faded. The horse was responding to her, not to a fellow ghost.
She considered the horse for a long moment. Curiosity defeated caution, and she vaulted onto its broad back. Immediately the ghost horse launched into flight.
After the first startled moment, Sharlarra realized that they had not actually left the ground. So swift and silent was the horse’s stride that it had the sensation of flight. The elf relaxed one knee slightly, and immediately the ghost horse veered off in that direction.
A wild scheme began to take shape in Sharlarra’s mind. “Can you jump?” she asked the horse.
In response, it soared over a mossy statue depicting a trio of long-dead soldiers. Sharlarra grinned and urged her mount toward the eastern wall.
A hollow, echoing battle cry sounded behind her. She shot a look over one shoulder. Her eyes widened in panic as three ghostly soldiers roiled out of the statue. They lofted swords that looked far too sharp and solid for her peace of mind and came after her at a run.
Sharlarra leaned low over the horse’s neck, urging it onward. They dodged tombs and monuments, evading pale grasping hands that thrust up from the ground. Soon the east wall was before them. She urged the horse on, praying that the ghostly horse was equal to the eight-foot stone barrier. It might pass through unscathed, but she’d be left on the wall like a toad squashed by the wheels of a trade caravan.
An open grave yawned before them. Sharlarra screamed, and the horse leaped into flight.
Time stopped, and the moment between one heartbeat and the next seemed to last a Northman’s winter. Then the horse’s front hooves touched soundlessly down, and they began their eastbound flight across the meadows surrounding Waterdeep.
An inquiring whinny rose from the ghost horse and danced off on the rushing wind.
“I’m Sharlarra,” she responded. “I don’t suppose you could tell me your name.”
The horse’s pace slowed just slightly, and its head drooped. A pang of guilt assailed the elf. It was said that many ghosts did not realize they were dead. Some of these displaced spirits remembered pieces of their lives but were otherwise disoriented. A sure way to frustrate these ghosts was to ask them questions about themselves that they could not answer.
“Moonstone,” she decided. “Your name is Moonstone.”
Her mount bobbed its head in obvious accord, then it neighed again, louder and more insistently.
“Where are we going?” she translated and again received an affirmative response.
Sharlarra hadn’t thought this far ahead, but the answer came to her quickly. What better destination than the adventure that had captured her imagination since the day she’d stolen Liriel Baenre’s gems?
“You’ll like Rashemen,” she told the ghost horse. “I’ve heard they’re fond of spirits there.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RETURN OF THE WITCH
Dawn was still hours away when the Witchboat’s shallow hull crunched softly on the pebbles of the Rashemen shore. The two companions climbed out and gazed over the valley toward the somber tower. Liriel set off toward it at a brisk pace.
Fyodor caught her arm. “Before we go any farther, there are things you should know about this land.”
“You’ve been telling me stories since we met,” she pointed out.
“A drop in the ocean. Every place has its tales and legends. The valley between the shore and tower is known as White Rusalka Vale. We call this a silent valley. That means there are some places within it where no magic can be cast other than that which is in the land. The witches can use magic, but no one else.”
The drow’s eyebrows lifted. “Smart. In Underdark cities, we do much the same thing. It’s like a magical moat around a castle.”
“It is much the same idea, yes.” He scanned the valley. “We should make camp.”
They settled down in a small curve of the river and built a pair of fires. Liriel took the water skin Fyodor offered and made a face at the stale, musty taste.
“The water here runs fast and clear. Surely we could drink it.”
“Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “Tonight we must stay away from the river’s edge. Promise me you will do this.”
The drow bristled. “I know how to swim.”
“If you meet a rusalka, you will learn how to drown,” he responded. “Water spirits haunt this river. Some say that they are the ghosts of drowned maidens, and that may be so. Sometimes their attacks seem deliberate, but other times they cling to the living as if in remembered panic, dragging them under the water with them.”
“You’re just as dead, either way,” Liriel concluded and eyed the darkening water with new respect.
“It would be well to stay within the circle of firelight, too,” he added.
The drow acknowledged this with a curt nod. “I’ll sit first watch. Thanks to that faerie elf, I’ve had enough sleep to last a tenday.”
“Thanks to that faerie elf, you are alive,” he pointed out.
Liriel puzzled over this. “Why would she bother?”
“Honor? Decency?”
“Not likely,” the drow mused. “I suppose it’s possible that she’s honorable and decent, but she had to have a reason for what she did. Everyone does.”
Lirel’s stomach grumbled. She felt as hollow as if she’d gone a tenday without food, though she realized it had been only two days.
“Let’s hunt.” She rose and pulled a pair of throwing knives from her belt.
They had walked only a few paces into the forest when Liriel noted the rabbit emerging from the roots of an enormous fallen tree. It was beyond her accurate throwing range, but it seemed in no hurry to leave its den. She flipped her knife into throwing position and began to creep forward.
Again Fyodor seized her arm and indicated with gestures that she should wait. He unstoppered his jhild flask and took a swig.
Liriel’s eyes rounded with astonishment. “A rage for a rabbit? How does one hunt Rashemaar squirrels—with summoned demons?”
“Check the rabbit for hidden magic,” he told her. He began the chant that brought on the berserker rage.
She quickly cast the spell that revealed hidden magic. A soft aura surrounded the rabbit. Its head snapped up, and its long ears twisted this way and that as it sought the source of this disturbance. The creature bounded toward them, growing larger with each stride. Within a few paces it had changed form entirely.
A huge, hideous beast lurched toward them with the strangest gait Liriel had ever seen. The creature had two legs, but its powerful arms reached the ground, and it used them to pull itself along in an odd galloping motion. Matted gray fur covered the monster, and its face was like an orc’s with its upturned snout and large, protruding lower canines. Most peculiar were the great black eyes—not just two, but a circlet of them that seemed to surround the
creature’s entire head like a string of enormous obsidian beads.
Fyodor lifted his cudgel and ran to meet the charge. He ducked beneath a vicious, swiping blow and lunged forward like a swordsman delivering a high jab.
The driftwood club smashed into the monster’s face. The creature swore with human fluency and spat out a mouthful of sharp, yellowed teeth. It swatted again. This time Fyodor blocked. The sharp crack of wood against bone rang through the air. Liriel winced, certain that the berserker had shattered his weapon.
The creature loped away, one arm hanging useless. As danger receded, so did the berserker rage. Fyodor seemed to slip down into himself, and he swayed where he stood.
Liriel ran forward and took the club from his slack hand. She pushed him down on the grass. He took the skin flask she offered and drank deeply of the stale water.
“How did you know?” she marveled.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and pointed to the fallen tree. “See how the upturned roots make a small cave? That is too large a den for an entire warren of rabbits. The uthraki make their homes in such places.”
“It’s a shapeshifter, then. The spell should have shown its true form.”
“Not the uthraki. The usual spells for such things show no more than the presence of magic.”
Liriel pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Well, clearly you’re in no shape for hunting. Is it safe to pick mushrooms here?”
“If you know what to pick. There are many deadly mushrooms in these forests. Some will not kill you but will bring strange and terrible dreams. Better for tonight that we eat travelers’ fare.” He took from his bag some strips of dried meat mixed with what appeared to be berries and herbs.
The drow took one and nibbled off a corner. It was surprisingly good. “Where did these come from?”
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