“Thorn gave them to us, but we make something very similar in Rashemen. Let’s get back to camp.”
She rose and extended her hand to him. He accepted without comment—another thing that still astonished Liriel. In her homeland, no one dared expose a weakness of any sort. An offer of help was the sort of insult that led to blood feud. Yet here between friends, this giving and accepting was a simple, expected thing.
Since even a short berserker rage was enormously debilitating, they didn’t even discuss who should take first watch. Liriel sat beside her sleeping friend, watching the moon creep across the night sky and feeding sticks to the twin fires that framed their campsite. When she was certain that Fyodor was sound asleep, she rose silently and crept into the darkness.
It seemed to Liriel that Fyodor sometimes forgot the differences between them. The firelight was no advantage to her—quite the contrary. If there was any danger near at hand, she would be more likely to perceive it in the cool shadows beyond.
The drow began to explore the valley in ever-widening circles, avoiding the forest and keeping to the open grassy areas. The valley seemed deserted but for the singing insects in the grass and a small band of stout and shaggy wild horses. She noted with interest that they stood in a small circle, the young ones asleep in the center. All the adults stood, and while one was obviously a sentry, the others slept on their feet. Their heads drooped nearly to the meadow grass, but long velvety ears twisted even in slumber, alert to the slightest sound. The drow, of course, made none, and she was careful to stay downwind of the equine sentry.
She moved carefully, using the shadows and slipping between stony outcrops and small stands of brush. As she eased around a familiar-looking pile of boulders, she found herself face to face with a small, straw-thatched hut.
It had not been there before.
Instantly she froze, reminding herself that her magic was of no use in this place and that silence and stealth offered her best defense. Slowly she eased back into the shadows of the rocks.
The hut was silent, dark, and cold. No sound came from the open windows, no smoke curled from the small stone chimney. Yet Liriel could not rid herself of the distinct sense that here was a living presence.
It occurred to her that the hut itself seemed to be breathing. It leaned this way and that, almost imperceptibly, with a long, measured cadence that brought to mind a deep and silent sleeper. Curiosity overcame prudence, and she tossed a small stone at the hut.
Immediately the hut leaped into the air. Liriel’s jaw dropped in astonishment as she found herself staring at a pair of enormous avian legs. Scaly limbs the size of young trees bent, and the huge, taloned bird feet flexed. The startled hut whirled and sped off into the night. This in turn alerted the ponies. Whickers of alarm and the swift-fading rumble of cantering hoofs filled the night.
Liriel sprinted back toward the campsite, knowing that these sounds, however faint and distant, would surely awaken the sleeping warrior. Sure enough, she saw Fyodor coming to find her, a make-shift torch in hand.
Her keen eyes saw the trap that he, entrapped in turn by his own circle of light, could not perceive. A drift of autumn leaves shifted, and the faint moonlight reflected off the teeth of a vicious steel trap.
She seized a fist-sized stone and hurled it toward him. It struck the trap, which sprang into the air like a striking pyramo fish. The warrior jumped back, and his quick glance traced the stone’s arc to the place where Liriel stood.
“Don’t move,” he cautioned. “There may be others.”
“It wasn’t there last time I passed by. It was just set. I don’t think it’s traps that we should be worried about.”
Fyodor pulled his sword and continued toward her, probing the ground with the blade as he came. Another, smaller trap sang shut with a metallic clatter. He lifted his sword and showed her the steel maw clamped onto his weapon.
“Very well, it’s not just traps,” Liriel muttered.
He worked his way over to her without incident. Together they retraced their path toward the camp. To her puzzlement, Fyodor continued to test the ground, poking at the sod on either side of their path. Suddenly the sword tip sank deep into a narrow crevice. Fyodor yanked it free and put Liriel behind him.
A square piece of sod flipped open like a hatch, and several small creatures roiled out of their hiding place. They looked a bit like goblins, only smaller and brown of skin. None of them were above Liriel’s waist in height, and all worn ragged trousers from which protruded long, hideous rat tails.
They were very like the kobold slaves who did menial chores in Menzoberranzan, but unlike the kobolds Liriel knew, and unlike the rats they resembled, these creatures did not attack in a swarm. They surrounded their larger prey, cutting off retreat but making no other move. Their round eyes caught the moonlight and reflected red.
“Traps and ambush pits,” she said softly. “What other tactics do these things employ?”
“None,” Fyodor responded, sounding genuinely puzzled. “They are sometimes mischievous but never do serious harm. I have glimpsed one before from time to time, but they are as skittish as deer.”
“They’re holding steady now,” she pointed out, “and there’s a lot of them. Right about now I could make good use of a meteor swarm spell!”
“It is bad luck to kill them.”
“Let’s hope they feel the same way about us,” she said, eyeing the waiting hoard.
A creaking screech filled the air, like the sound of stormed-tossed tree limbs rasping together or the wooden hulls of two ships scraping one against the other.
Suddenly the creatures exploded into a gibbering chorus. Lofting small, dark knives, they hurled themselves into a running charge.
Fyodor batted aside the swiftest two, using the flat of his blade to lift them off their feet and hurl them aside. He spun to meet the next onslaught, carefully using his sword as a bludgeon to beat them back without killing them.
The drow had no such scruples. She drew her sword and ran it through the first squealing rat-thing that came at her. Tugging her sword free, she delivered a slashing backstroke that downed another and sent its companion darting back, jabbering in fear.
She stooped and swept up the knives all three of the creatures had dropped. To her surprise, they seemed to be carved of stone, but the edges were keen, the balance good. Liriel tossed all three knives into the air. She caught and hurled them, one after another, into a trio of attacking kobolds.
Another creak cut through the sounds of battle. Liriel glanced back in time to see a large limb sweeping toward her. Her quick glance took in the ropes suspending the projectile, and the huge tree to which they were attached.
A tree that simply hadn’t been there a moment before.
Several kobolds stood in the branches, silhouetted against the night sky, hopping about and hooting with delight over their successfully launched trap.
The drow dived to the ground as the suspended limb swept over her. Immediately several of the creatures leaped onto her prone form. The very next instant, two or three of them were swept away, squeaking with surprise and pain, as the log pendulum swung back over them.
They were not very bright, Liriel noted. Not nearly bright enough to have planned any of this.
She bucked and heaved, trying to throw the remaining kobolds off. Fyodor fought his way over and began to peel the little beasts off her.
Finally he pulled her to her feet. She shoved a handful of disheveled hair off her face and took stock of the situation. Several of the kobolds sprawled nearby, senseless or dead, but most of the others had regrouped in a circle. The circle began to move as if following some well-rehearsed choreography, forcing the friends to keep moving in order to keep out of reach of those small sharp knives.
“They’re herding us,” Fyodor said in disbelief.
“Toward whoever planned this attack,” the drow added.
He responded with a single grim nod. “They never gather in such numbers
, never attack.”
“So let’s make their master come to us.”
Fyodor flashed her a quick smile and a nod. Together they charged the swarm, swords leading.
The kobolds reverted to nature. Surprised by the sudden attack, they scattered, hooting in alarm. The friends broke through their ranks and kept running.
A keening shriek ripped through the night. Liriel shot a glance back over her shoulder, and her eyes widened in astonishment.
Gibbering in terror, kobolds sprang from the tree. The log still swung from the upper branches, which shuddered as if in a high wind. A ghostly form was pulling itself free, a treelike woman appearing nearly as large as its host.
The creature seized small, hard fruit from the tree and began to pelt the fleeing pair. The kobolds regrouped and roiled after them.
Fyodor seized Liriel’s hand and pulled her along. “A thornapple haunt,” he panted out. “Very dangerous. I should have remembered the story and checked the forest’s edge for such trees.”
“Where to?”
He pointed with his sword to the stone tower. “When we get there, I will talk for us both.”
As it turned out, neither of them had a chance to talk. The massive wooden door swung open, and wall torches within flared into life. They ran into the tower and threw themselves against the door, pushing back the kobolds that hurled themselves with uncharacteristic determination at the door. Finally they slammed it shut and shot home the iron bolt. Small fists and stone knives clattered against the portal for a moment, then silence abruptly fell.
Before Fyodor could draw breath, a sharp snick above warned him of the coming trap. He seized Liriel’s arm and spun her aside, leaping after her. The heavy iron chandelier crashed to the stone.
Dust filled the hall with choking clouds. Just as suddenly, the dust was gone. Fyodor spat out a mouthful of grit and regarded his grinning companion. She nodded toward the circle of fresh air around them.
“My magic’s working again.”
“So, drow, is mine,” announced a stern female voice.
Dawn was breaking as Sharlarra cantered up to the travelers’ inn outside Shadowdale. Smoke already rose from the chimney, and a lad busied himself hitching a pair of chestnut draft horses to a wooden cart. He caught sight of Sharlarra’s mount, and his jaw dropped.
She stung off, painfully stiff and chilled to the marrow of her bones. “What are my chances of getting a hot breakfast and a hotter bath? My arse is frozen solid.”
He swallowed hard, and his mouth worked for a while before he managed to get a sound out. “Are you …”
“Alive? Yes, indeed. Better yet, I can pay.” She jingled her coin bag, which held the money the dwarf jewelsmith had advanced her against the rest of her teatime jewel robbery.
She whispered a few words in Moonstone’s ear. The ghostly horse inclined its head and trotted off toward the woodlands. Color began to return to the boy’s face, and he beckoned the elf to follow him in.
Sharlarra was soon seated before the open hearth, a mug of hot spiced cider in her hands and a thick woolen blanket wrapped around her. A large haunch of venison roasted over a spit. The innkeeper, a round little woman with cheeks like rosy apples, sliced off a hearty slab and set it before her guest, clucking her tongue in motherly disapproval.
“Riding all night, and alone! A pretty girl like you. You should know better. It isn’t safe, and it isn’t respectable.”
“The ghost horse tends to discourage unwanted suitors,” the elf pointed out.
The woman considered this. “That it would. You keep strange company.”
A fleeting smile touched Sharlarra’s face. She wondered what her hostess would say if she knew she was on her way to meet up with a drow wizard!
Two hours later, after a good meal and blissfully warm soak in an oversized laundry barrel, Sharlarra went out in search of her horse. Moonstone was waiting for her in the place she’d named: a small copse of slender birch trees, silver-bright against the deep pines. One of the trees suddenly uprooted itself—or so it seemed for a single startled moment.
A ghostly woman emerged from the copse of trees and extended a slender hand to Sharlarra’s horse. Fear shimmered through the elf, not fear of the spirit, but of the possibility that it might lure her horse away. She found her voice and let out a shout of outrage. Two ghostly faces turned toward her. The woman was somehow familiar, though Sharlarra could not place her. Then the ghost faded away. Moonstone did not follow.
The elf sprinted toward her horse and threw her arms around its cold white neck. “You stayed,” she marveled. “You stayed.”
Moonstone pulled away and gave her a disgusted look. A nudge of its head urged her to mount. Sharlarra swung herself up and set off on a brisk pace toward Rashemen.
With any luck, she’s have a few miles between them and Shadowdale before anyone noted the missing venison.
Liriel peered into the cloud of dust. A black-clad figure took shape in the haze, her face obscured by an elaborate black mask. The woman lifted one hand, and tendrils of vines erupted from the walls and tangled around Liriel.
The drow spoke a sharp, sibilant word, and the vines withered and fell away. She seized a throwing spider from her belt and sent it spiraling toward the witch.
Fyodor let out a shout of protest and warning. The witch gestured, and the small weapon exploded into dust.
The pieces of the drow weapon were not content to lie still. They stirred, and grew, and each skittered on eight long legs toward the tower’s guardian.
The spiders swarmed up the woman, under her robe and into the openings of her mask. She pawed at her face, screaming spell after spell that should have slain the attacking insects or at least turned them aside.
But the spells of a witch had little potency against the minions of a goddess. The Rashemi woman sank to the floor, thrashing in violent convulsions as the spider venom took hold. In moments, she lay still. The spiders skittered off, shrinking as they went and disappearing into tiny cracks between the stone.
Liriel stood as if frozen, her amber eyes darting here and there as she sought the next manifestation of the stubborn drow goddess. Moments passed, and none came. She rubbed both hands over her face like someone trying to awaken from a nightmare and walked over to the dead guardian.
Words Fyodor had spoken months before came back to her:
The penalty for killing a wychlaran is death.
She had barely entered the berserker’s homeland, and already she had placed herself under sentence of execution.
There must be some way out, some way to accompany Fyodor on his journey to return the Windwalker and to see for herself the land of which he had spoken. Yet how could she do so when she had committed an unforgivable crime at the outset? Pleading that the witch’s death had been the result of Lolth’s will would do no good. The Rashemi, upon finding the body, were most likely to slay the drow on sight without waiting for explanations.
Mechanically her eyes roved over the witch’s body, lying in a position of twisted agony on the ground. The mask covering her face was askew, her hair disheveled, her hands clenched in a rictus of agony from the poison the spiders had pumped into her veins.
As Liriel gazed at the corpse, an idea began slowly to stir in the depths of her mind. She was vaguely conscious of Fyodor moving toward her, his eyes large with horror as the full implications of what had just occurred became clear to him. She closed her eyes for a moment to shut him out. In that momentary darkness, the seed of a convoluted drow plot rooted and bloomed. Liriel’s eyes flew open. “I can become her.”
“What?” The Rashemi stared at her in confusion.
“I can disguise myself as her. Here, help me.” Liriel’s hands were busy now, her mind made up. Swiftly she began to strip the garments from the dead woman.
Fyodor shook his head, like a man caught in the depths of a nightmare. “You cannot!” he said in an appalled voice. “The punishment for impersonating a witch is death.”
“I just killed a witch,” she reminded him. “You once told me that carries the death penalty. I don’t see how things could get much worse.”
Fyodor let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Even with the vestments, you would still be a drow. There are no dark elves among the witches.”
“Not recently, no,” Liriel argued. “But what about Qilué’s sister?”
The Rashemi stared at her, not following.
“Don’t you remember what Qilué told me? Her sister Sylune trained among Rashemen’s witches.”
His face cleared as he followed her reasoning. Liriel had assumed, logically enough, that since Qilué was a drow, her sisters would also be dark elves. Before Fyodor could disabuse her of this notion—and before he could mention that Sylune was not only dangerously famous, but dead—the swift clatter of footsteps from the tower’s top room announced the arrival of reinforcements.
Liriel tugged the mask from the dead witch. The woman’s appearance changed, instantly and drastically. She seemed to shrink, and her features softened and blurred into plump middle age.
Fyodor recalled what folktales said of the power of this mask. It was a Rashemaar artifact that placed a glamour over the wearer, allowing her to change her entire appearance at will. Liriel also made the connection. She quickly put it on, and suddenly a stranger stood before Fyodor.
The appearance Liriel assumed was reminiscent of Qilué: a tall and slender female with long silvery hair. Fortunately, with the mask covering her black face and her hands gloved against the chill night, the guise was a reasonable approximation of Sylune’s appearance.
Liriel’s hands sped through a spell. A small, flowing portal opened and drifted down like a sheet of silk to cover the dead woman. She disappeared as the magical fabric settled, then it, too, was gone.
A band of three masked, black-clad women burst into the hall. They regarded Liriel with narrowed eyes. “Who are you?” demanded the tallest of the three, a very slender woman with an abundance of dark brown hair.
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