Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  Shakti Hunzrin worked her way steadily eastward, following the unrelenting zombie hoard and the vision granted her by the ruby embedded in the deathsinger’s forehead.

  This male intrigued her. He did not protest the pain of contact, did not respond to her mental questions. He simple allowed her to see what he saw. To Shakti, this was a revelation.

  The deathsinger’s keen eye picked up nuances she would never have noted on her own, and his keen sense of irony was a piquant frame for the grand tale of revenge that Gorlist intended to weave. For days Shakti was puzzled by the image that Brindlor showed her, but she began to suspect his purpose. He would tell a tale, but his current master would not be the hero of it.

  Shakti spent many hours on the long trek thinking of ways to use this.

  She and the undead finally reached the meeting place, a series of caverns deep below a mountain ridge humans called Running Rocks.

  The deathsinger came to meet her, extending his hand to help her down from her lizard. Ordinarily she would have declined with scorn, but the long ride had left her stiff and sore.

  “Where is Gorlist?” she demanded.

  Brindlor nodded his head toward a side cavern. The warrior stood there, his narrowed eyes taking in the orderly ranks of female zombies.

  In turn, Shakti inspected his forces. A score or two of drow stood behind Gorlist. “This is all?” she demanded.

  “We had an unfortunate encounter with some berserker warriors,” Brindlor said.

  The warrior strode forward. “You took your time getting here,” he snarled. “We will attack the humans tonight.”

  “What are their numbers? Their defenses? What magic have they?”

  Gorlist laughed scornfully. “They are human. What magic could they have?”

  “These human wizards can be surprisingly resourceful,” the priestess said coldly.

  “I have seen little evidence of this. We had one of the famed Red Wizards with us. He was killed by a bear.”

  Shakti looked past the truculent warrior to his troops. Some had been wounded. The bandages were still new, the blood that stained them still bright. “How many humans did you fight, and where are they now?” she said briskly. “If we take their raiding party now, we will decimate their numbers and weigh the final attack in our favor.”

  “A good strategy,” Brindlor observed. He shrugged aside Gorlist’s warning glare.

  “Come,” Shakti said and strode toward her silent army. She took only a score of them—more to provide protection against possible drow treachery than to bring against the humans.

  They made their way though a series of tunnels and emerged on a narrow walkway overlooking a high-ceilinged passage. A small band of humans walked along, carrying their dead and wounded with them.

  There was something familiar about one of them: the black hair, the breadth of his shoulders, his way of moving. A slow, feral smile lit Shakti’s face as she recognized Liriel’s pet human.

  She began to chant a prayer to Lolth. In response, thousands of spiders emerged from their hidden places and swarmed toward the warriors. They launched themselves from the walls, trailing silken threads. For several moments the air was dark with leaping spiders and thick with the startled curses of the Rashemi and the futile clang of their swords against the stone. Spider web was strong at any time, and the blessing of the goddess rendered it impervious to all steel and most spells.

  When the humans were firmly enmeshed, Shakti made her way down the narrow walkway. She walked around the netting, observing the struggling humans within. She took a small silver cuff from her pinky and slid it onto the curve of one ear. This, a magical gift from the illithid Vestriss, enabled her to speak and understand the humans’ coarse language.

  “I have no use for you,” she announced. “You will be set free, unharmed, in exchange for a small fee.”

  “Pay ransom to a drow?” snarled a thick, gray-bearded man. “Not a single coin, on my life!”

  “Did I mention money? How very vulgar of you.” Shakti smiled coldly. “I will trade many lives for one. Bring me the drow wench known as Liriel, and you will go free.”

  “Liriel?”

  A long, skinny young man repeated the word incredulously. He twisted in the web as best he could, turning to face the warrior beside him. “Fyodor, is not Liriel your wychlaran? What does she mean by calling her ‘drow’?”

  “Oh, but she is,” the priestess said with cruel pleasure. As an extra little sadistic twist, she added, “Who should carry this message but Fyodor, who knows this drow so very, very well?”

  The boy looked to Fyodor with shattered eyes. “You would not do such a thing, bring a drow into Rashemen. Tell me she lies. Tell me you would never betray us so!”

  For a long moment the warrior held the pleading stare. Then he turned to Shakti.

  “Send the boy with me,” he said in bleak tones, “and I will go.”

  Fyodor and Petyar did not speak until they were free of the Warrens. At last the older man spoke. “Go back to the village to warn the others. The drow are likely to attack.”

  “I have heard they can be treacherous,” the boy said coldly. “Apparently the whole of that story has not been told.”

  The warrior caught his arm. “Petyar, there are things you do not understand. Zofia herself foresaw Liriel’s coming. I am not happy that Liriel chose to present a name and form not her own, but that was her choice, not mine. She made it according to the light she had.”

  “The drow have precious little of that.”

  “I have watched Liriel’s journey into the light,” Fyodor said. “She is not what you think she is.”

  Some of the fury slipped from the young man’s face, leaving only the hurt and worry. “I hope, cousin, that you are right.”

  Fyodor hurried to the hillock hut he shared with Liriel. The burden of his task lay heavy on his heart.

  It was an impossible dilemma. In sending Petyar to take the message to the village and bring fighters to battle the drow, he was almost certainly letting his people know who and what Liriel was. If he did not, a band of his countrymen would die at the hands of Liriel’s enemies.

  He found the drow sitting at the table peeling what appeared to be melted wax off her hands and arms. She looked him over from head to foot. Only then did Fyodor remember that he was naked except for his boots and the borrowed cloak. Her eyes registered what that meant. There had been a battle, one fierce enough to require transformation to berserker form.

  “Gorlist?” she asked.

  Fyodor nodded. “There are others, too. Undead drow, female warriors all, and a priestess with red eyes and a whip of undead snakes.”

  “Nice touch,” Liriel muttered. “If that’s who I think it is, you’re not here because you managed to escape.”

  He told her the story in quick, lean words. “You must flee Rashemen at once.”

  The drow dismissed this with an absent wave of one hand.

  “I’ll just give Shakti what she wants.”

  “Little raven, we can’t know what forces they command!”

  “Who said ‘we’? I’ve faced Shakti before and defeated her. I can do it again.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, and she flicked off a bit of wax.

  “You are being arrogant.”

  Her eyes flashed to his face. “I have reason to be. I not only survived in Menzoberranzan but thrived. I have seen the worst life has to offer, and I’m more than a match for anything Shakti has in store.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you say that because you believe it or because you think I’m stupid enough to?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Not very flattering.”

  “You know what I mean! If you are determined to go, I go with you.”

  He went over to the chest and dug out some clothes. He dressed quickly, and they stepped out into the night.

  Beyond the door, Anya stood waiting for them, her staff pointed accusingly at the pair. Behind her stood a circle of witches. Anya stepp
ed forward and with a twitch of deft fingers tore the mask from Liriel’s belt. The drow’s true appearance flooded back like a dark tide.

  “There is your ‘witch of Shadowdale.’ Now you know what she truly is,” Anya said with cold fury. “You know what he is as well! I demand the penalty of death earned by all traitors to Rashemen!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  YESTERDAY’S PROMISES

  “You are wrong,” announced a musical, strangely hollow voice. “Here is the witch of Shadowdale.”

  A pale glimmer appeared beside Liriel, spreading into a misty cloud then taking a familiar form—the tall, silver-haired woman whose face Liriel had worn since the battle of the watchtower.

  The ghostly woman turned to Liriel’s accuser. “Anya, daughter of Fraeni, your mother was my friend, and in her name I invoke the oath. All vows made in shared circles must be kept, all secrets hidden. The drow who claimed my name has been accepted among us by the witch who knew me best. Do you not think Zofia had good reason for this?”

  The young witch’s lips set in a tight line, and she sent a glare toward the old woman. The Othlor inclined her head in confirmation.

  “I must do as you bid,” Anya said grudgingly. “But we Rashemi have a proverb: What good can come of alliance with evil?”

  “An excellent proverb, and an even better question,” Sylune said. She rested a ghostly hand on Liriel’s arm. “I have many questions about you. I will stay with you until I find answers. With Zofia Othlor’s permission, of course.”

  “You will ever find a welcome here,” the old woman said softly. “You have been too long away, my sister. You must find me much changed.”

  Musical laughter spilled from the spectral harper. “The dead do not age, dear Zofia, yet I suspect you would not change places with me.”

  “True enough, and truer now than in days past. It is no easy time to be a spirit in Rashemen,” Zofia warned.

  “Even so, I will not regret what comes of it. It will be good to see battle again,” she said wistfully. She turned to Liriel. “Do you agree, drow?”

  Liriel gave an ungracious shrug. “I’m none too happy about being haunted, but I suppose enduring a ghost is better than becoming one.”

  Fyodor looked to Zofia. “The witch of Shadowdale spoke of battle. Did Petyar bring the message?”

  “And came with it,” the boy said. He stepped from behind the hillock. His defiant glare challenged the older man to condemn what he had done.

  “I am proud of you, cousin,” Fyodor said at last. “The first duty of a Rashemi warrior is to the land, his first loyalty to the wychlaran.”

  Some of the ice faded from the boy’s eyes. “What will you do now?”

  “How well do you know the Warrens?” Liriel asked him.

  Petyar found it easier to regard the toe of his boots than the face of a drow. “I often go there,” he mumbled. “Why?”

  “Are there back tunnels to the place where the hostages are held?”

  He glanced up, and nodded cautiously. “Yes, but they are narrow. No more than one can pass at a time.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “Fyodor and I will go with you. I have spells that can counter the spider trap. Once the men are freed, you can lead them back to the clearing outside the Warrens. That’s as good a place for battle as any.”

  “That would be my choice, as well,” Zofia agreed. Her gaze swept the circle of witches. “Go, and prepare.”

  The three young people set out for the Warrens at a run. When they were still some distance away, Petyar stopped beside a large dead tree stump and threw his weight against it. The log fell with a crash, revealing a dark hole beyond.

  Liriel’s hands flashed through the gestures of a spell, and a sphere of blue light bobbed into existence. This earned her a wondering stare from the boy. She scowled and shoved him into the tunnel, tilting her head to listen to the clattering sound of his fall.

  “Not a bad drop,” she concluded. “It’s safe to jump.”

  “Little raven!” protested Fyodor.

  “It wasn’t that steep,” she said defensively. “Even if it was, he deserved it.”

  The Rashemi merely shook his head and followed his cousin into the cave.

  The trio rose and regarded their surroundings in the light of Liriel’s azure globe. They had emerged in a large cavern. Water dripped from jagged spires of rock high overhead and ran in rivulets toward a deep ravine. Two tunnels led out of the cavern, a broad passage leading westward and a narrow opening leading to the south.

  A sound like a rushing wind swept toward them from the larger tunnel, and a full battalion of drow warriors roiled into the room.

  Fyodor and Petyar drew their swords, but Liriel stepped between them and the drow. She flung up one hand and issued a sharp, staccato command—a word known only to the nobles of House Baenre and the forces under their command.

  The warriors came to an abrupt halt. The leader recovered his surprise first and sauntered forward.

  “That’s close enough,” Liriel said coldly. “You have not been granted permission to approach me.”

  She spoke in the drow language, dropping back into her old, imperious ways with terrifying ease. Something in her manner gave the warrior pause. “By what right do you command me?” he demanded.

  “You wear the insignia of House Baenre. Therefore you are mine.”

  His thin, cruel lips curled in a sneer. “Triel is matron mother of the First House. Who are you?”

  Liriel responded by hurling a gout of magical fire at his boots. The drow danced nimbly back. “Someone who does not care for your insolence,” she snarled.

  “A female wizard,” he muttered. “A Shobalar, then.”

  Liriel sent him a venomous glare. “Triel didn’t pick you for your intelligence, that’s clear enough, nor for your knowledge of the House you purport to serve. I was trained by House Shobalar, yes, but I am Liriel Baenre, daughter to Menzoberranzan’s archmage.”

  The male’s smile returned in full. “You have made our hunt all the easier. It is you we seek.”

  As if a signal had been given, every drow with him drew a weapon. They moved as one, swiftly and silently. Not a single sword hissed as it came free of its scabbard, not a single tiny crossbow clicked as its wielder snapped it into firing position. The silence was eerie, but no less so than the precision. Liriel had almost forgotten the preternatural skill of her people’s fighters. She had not, however, forgotten their subtle and devious ways.

  She threw up an arm to hold Fyodor back. “As I have sought you,” she retorted. “Triel took her time in sending help! Or perhaps it is you who took your time in getting here?” she added pointedly.

  Uncertainty flickered in the leader’s eyes. “We were told to meet Gromph’s forces here.”

  “Zombies,” Liriel said with disdain. “So like my dear father, to use expendable troops.” Her gaze swept the battle-ready warriors, and she lifted one eyebrow pointedly.

  “We are Matron Triel’s,” the leader said stiffly, “and as loyal to her as any zombie to its master.”

  “I don’t doubt Gromph’s zombies. He only purchases the best of anything, but they have a commander, yes? A high priestess?”

  The drow nodded cautiously. “A high priestess of Lolth?” Liriel persisted.

  “Who but?” the male said, obviously puzzled by this line of reasoning.

  She let out a small, scornful chuckle. “You’ve heard the stories of Vhaerun, the Masked God. No male in Menzoberranzan hasn’t heard them, and many dream that the rumors might be true. Some dare to do more than dream,” she said meaningfully.

  “We are faithful servants of Matron Triel and followers of the Spider Queen!” the soldier protested.

  Liriel nodded crisply. “Good. Then you will stand with me against Shakti Hunzrin, traitor priestess to Vhaerun.”

  “This is not possible!”

  “Then why does she travel with Gorlist, the leader of a band of drow outcasts known as the Dragon�
�s Hoard? They are known followers of Vhaerun who make their living trading on the surface, slaving and stealing.”

  The drow snapped a look back at his second in command.

  “I have heard of this band,” the warrior replied. “Their name is sometimes spoken when the stories of Vhaerun are told.”

  Drow steel flashed, and the speaker’s head tipped slowly to one side. The leader turned back to Liriel. “He should not have listened to such tales,” he said grimly, “but before we seek out these traitors, perhaps you would be good enough to explain the strange company that you keep.”

  “These two?” Liriel said dismissively, switching to Common and flicking one hand toward the watchful Rashemi. “They are my slaves.”

  A howl of protest burst from Petyar. Fyodor slammed one fist into the boy’s gut, and the cry ended in a wheezing gasp. “A thousand pardons, princess,” he murmured. Fyodor spoke to Liriel, but his eyes never moved from the young man’s face. “This one does not yet know when to speak and when to keep silent.”

  “You have dealt with him properly,” Liriel said. “Tell these warriors what we will face.”

  Fyodor gave a concise, accurate field report.

  When he was finished, the drow commander shook his head. “Too many.”

  “We have a wizard with us,” the Rashemi pointed out.

  “They have a priestess,” the drow shot back, “and apparently their priestess can call upon two gods. We do not know what magic this Masked Lord may grant!”

  “We Rashemi also have magic,” Petyar said stoutly. “There are no male witches among us, but those men who have the gift craft wondrous magical items, powerful artifacts that any warrior can wield in battle!”

  Liriel gritted her teeth and glared at the boy. Where drow was concerned, information like this was the equivalent of throwing blood in shark-infested water!

  “I have seen no magic of consequence in this land,” she said flatly. “Hold your lying tongue, boy, or I will cut it into three strips and braid the pieces. You,” she said to Fyodor. “If he speaks again, see to it.”