Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  The drow reached out to Thorn, felt the powerful dual nature of the elf-wolf—and a depth of pain she would not have thought the stoic hunter capable of feeling. A lone voice, a wolf’s plaintive howl, rose to the moon in unwilling solo. With all her heart, with all her being, the exiled hunter longed for a pack.

  Liriel brought to mind the sundering of the tapestry and the healing circle of ravens that had guided the spirits of the captive elves home. Little raven, she thought. Fyodor had named her well. Following the example of her namesakes in this world and the one beyond, Liriel called the wolves.

  With one voice, the witches and drow sent Thorn’s plaintive wolfsong out into the surrounding mountains. Lithe, silvery creatures slipped from the forest as the lythari came to battle. Thorn’s people, if just for this one time, would fight with her as a pack.

  Packs of natural wolves came as well. With intelligence remarkable for forest creatures, they fell upon fallen zombies, dragging them toward the ravine.

  A booming crackle came from the forest, and the thud of titanic steps. Cries of mingled fear and triumph rose from the villagers as a fifty-foot monster burst from the trees. Feet the size of hillocks slammed down as it stomped the zombie army, crushing the undead creatures into the soil. The wood man, legendary protector of Rashemen, had answered the song. The battle was over, and the surviving drow fled into the forest.

  Power flowed through Liriel, burning her as if somehow the blood in her veins had turned to the acid venom of a black dragon. She began to sway on her feet. One task remained, she told herself.

  But the song began to slip away, driven off by the terrible fire kindling over Liriel’s heart. Time stopped, caught and immobilized by the searing agony. The stone beneath Liriel’s feet seemed to turn molten and drift away. Vaguely familiar shapes took form in the dense gray mist, but Liriel was beyond knowing or naming them. Power swept through her, terrible power that merged the sun’s fire, the crushing weight of stone, the screaming force of wind, and the immortal anguish she had sensed in the displaced elven souls woven into the tapestry.

  She could not say when the agony peaked or when she could no longer bear it. It washed over her like waves of the sea or echoes in an Underdark cavern. Eventually she began to sense that the waves were receding, the echoes drifting into silence.

  Someone slapped her awake none too gently. Liriel cautiously opened one eye. The sun was fully risen, and her chest burned with heat every bit as fierce. She looked down. The Windwalker hung over her heart, its gold blackened and its magic silenced.

  Zofia took Liriel’s hand in both of hers. Her aged face was radiant with joy. “The ghosts are free. The link between spirits and land is healed.”

  Liriel thought of the drow magic and the horror she had inadvertently unleashed upon the surface. “What about the other link?”

  “Strong,” the witch said somberly.

  The drow buried her face in both hands. “I thought only of myself. I never once thought this could come of it!”

  Zofia reclaimed Liriel’s hands in hers, and her blue eyes gazed earnestly into the drow’s. Her face showed deep concern but no condemnation.

  “What you did was not done alone. When one thing is bound, another is broken. When one thing is healed, another is destroyed. This is the nature of magic and of all life. Your sisters know this.”

  She looked up at the black-robed women. They nodded silent agreement.

  Liriel sat bolt upright, ignoring the wave of vertigo the sudden movement caused. “Lolth spoke to me of this. If she would speak to one, why not another?”

  She pushed herself to her feet. “There was a priestess with the drow, a female who fought me before over the goddess’s favor. If Lolth speaks to this priestess, the drow of the Underdark will know everything!”

  “Have you any reason to think that they don’t already know?”

  Liriel nodded grimly. “These warriors were sent by my father and his sister. They are among the ruling elite of the city in which I was born. These warriors were their personal troops,” she stressed.

  “So they wish to keep this secret to themselves,” Zofia reasoned.

  “It will come out in time,” the drow said with the surety of long experience. “Sooner, if Gorlist and his band learn of it.”

  She looked around for Fyodor. A black-furred bear paused in the act of savaging a drow warrior, looking up as if it sensed her seeking thoughts. She gestured and headed for the forest, her legs becoming steadier with each step.

  An unseen presence went with her. The ghostly woman whose form Liriel had worn for many days walked beside her, and her gait was no steadier than the battered drow’s. Sylune was deeply shaken by what she had witnessed. In many ways she deeply regretted her impulsive journey to Rashemen. She’d reconciled herself to her death, but it was difficult to walk unseen through a land she had known as a living woman, to see Zofia, who had been like a sister, as a powerful but aging woman.

  Sylune had never been an ordinary woman, and she was no ordinary ghost, but she, too, had felt the call of the Windwalker and the cool brush of ghosts and spirits as they passed her on their way into the powerful circle.

  She could have been part of that. Perhaps her magic would have changed the outcome, shattered the link between the Underdark and the surface rather than strengthening it.

  Perhaps. Even one of Mystra’s Chosen did not know all of magic, nor did a ghost understand all there was to know of the Afterlife. If Sylune had heeded the Windwalker’s call, what might have become of her?

  The ghosts and spirits released with the Windwalker’s greatest and final task had dispersed, each going to the place it belonged, the place it most wanted to be. Where would she, Sylune, have gone?

  Most likely she would have returned to Shadowdale and resumed the existence she’d known for years: a spectral harper, more solid and sentient than most ghosts. Perhaps she would have returned to life. Or would she have moved on at last?

  For a moment Sylune allowed herself to hear the poignant call of her goddess, to feel the warmth and healing that would change this half-life into something immeasurably better. Joy and pain filled her in equal measure as she contemplated what might have been and what might yet be.

  At the end, Sylune did what she had always done. She chose duty.

  With a sigh, the witch of Shadowdale turned her silent steps homeward, and left Rashemen to the living, and to the spirits who were as much a part of this land as stone and sky.

  Sharlarra saw the drow girl leave the battlefield, walking unsteadily at the side of an enormous black bear. Her first impulse was to follow, then she remembered her own guardian animal.

  The elf sprinted toward the place where she’d left Moonstone half-hidden among the trees. Dread filled her. She’d heard the swift-spreading stories about the Windwalker and the powerful magic it had drawn from summoned ghosts and spirits. What if Moonstone had been among them? The thought was beyond bearing. There was more than a comrade’s bond between her and her horse: there was a soul-deep recognition. Sharlarra remembered little of her early life or her people, but she knew in her blood and bones that the ghost horse was a link between her and her forgotten ancestors.

  She whistled for the ghost horse and was rewarded with a crescendo of cantering hoofs. Sharlarra watched in puzzlement as a tall, silver-gray horse, its black mane and tail nearly sweeping the ground, came running toward her.

  Realization struck the elf like the effects of too much bad brandy. Her legs gave way, and she sat down hard on the forest floor.

  “Moonstone?” she breathed.

  The horse’s strangely expressive face registered mild exasperation, as if to say, “Who else?” He bobbed his head, inviting her to climb onto his back. The elf scrambled up. Together they cantered off in search of trouble.

  Liriel caught sight of a tall, slender drow female ahead, running lightly through the underbrush. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called, “Ysolde!”

  The drow t
urned toward Liriel’s voice. “We pursue a priestess of Lolth,” she called. “Join us.”

  With that, she turned and disappeared into the shadows. Liriel heard the unmistakable hiss and crack of a snakehead whip and the ululating cry of the Dark Maiden’s warriors as they ran to aid one of their own.

  She glanced down at Fyodor, still in bear form. He had taken advantage of her stop to rest, settling down on his haunches and panting like a hound run too long and hard. His muzzle was stained with blood, his thick fur damp and matted.

  Deep foreboding filled the drow. She ran her hands over her friend’s bear form and found the gashes where drow steel had parted the thick hair-and-hide armor. Berserkers never felt their wounds during battle frenzy, never felt cold or thirst or weariness. The fact that Fyodor needed to rest told her he would soon change back to his own form. Weakened by the frenzy, wounded as he was, he would need healing.

  “Go back with the others,” she told him. The berserker rose, responding instinctively to a wychlaran’s command.

  Liriel watched him plod off, noting the weary, limping shuffle. Her heart ached for him, but there was nothing more she could do. She turned and ran along the path Ysolde had taken.

  The sounds of a whip led her to the bank of a stream. She skidded to a stop.

  Shakti Hunzrin stood over the body of Qilué’s daughter, wielding her whip. A trickle of blood ran down her face from a wound on her scalp, but her mouth was twisted in malicious triumph. Skeletal snakes rose and fell, their bony jaws and blood-soaked fangs diving again and again.

  Liriel called the priestess’s name. The beating stopped—too late for Ysolde—and malevolent crimson eyes settled on Liriel’s face.

  The surrounding underbrush parted, and several dark maidens stepped into the clearing. Shakti gave a shriek of frustration and struck the ground with the whip. The pebble-strewn soil parted, and she disappeared into the small chasm. Just as swiftly, the escape tunnel closed, and a thin trickle of Ysolde’s blood collected in the fissure.

  Two of the priestesses knelt beside Ysolde’s battered form. One of them looked to Liriel with hate-filled eyes. With a start, she recognized Dolor, the priestess she had battled in the High Forest.

  “I should have killed you then,” the priestess said coldly. “First Elkantar, now Ysolde. How much grief must Qilué bear on your behalf?”

  Liriel had nothing to say. Unshed tears burned in her eyes as the drow priestesses shouldered their slain leader and disappeared into the trees. Grief filled her: for Ysolde, the first priestess of Eilistraee she’d ever met, and the first living being to welcome her to the surface world. For Qilué, who would live on without the joy and comfort to be found in the company of those she loved. More unexpected was grief for a dream that had died before Liriel understood that she harbored it: the dream of finding a place for herself among the priestesses of Eilistraee.

  The followers of the Dark Maiden might revere Eilistraee, but they were still drow. No one could hate more bitterly, or cling so persistently to a grudge. Liriel suspected that she would find no welcome from Qilué and her followers.

  Perhaps Eilistraee herself would accept her. The goddess had shown her favor to Liriel more than once. And what of the moonmagic Liriel had cast, the sound of moonsong that echoed through her senses still? Surely that was sign that the goddess had not turned away! Perhaps she could live as Thorn did and find a solitary, goddess-blessed purpose of her own.

  As if in response to her thoughts, a wild cry rose from among nearby trees, a voice that was not quite elven. She to ok off toward the sound and soon picked up the clatter of steel.

  She leaped the tangle of roots that stood in her way and burst into the clearing. Her eyes took in Thorn in battle against Gorlist. The drow warrior caught sight of her and stopped in mid-lunge. He quickly recovered and stuck aside Thorn’s riposte with a brutal slash. He shouldered past the elf woman and lifted his blade overhead to catch and parry the strike she aimed at the back of his neck.

  Liriel thrust out one hand, warning Thorn back. “Go hunt down some of the others,” she said. “This battle is mine to fight, and it has been long in coming.”

  “Too long,” Gorlist snarled. He crossed the distance between them in a running charge, holding his sword high overhead and screaming with a fury too long repressed.

  She got her sword out in time to haul it overhead with both hands. The blades met with a force that sent her staggering backward.

  Gorlist pressed his advantage. He thrust in hard with a high lunge, deftly disengaged from Liriel’s parry and struck again a few inches to the side. The tip of his sword thrust hard against Liriel’s breastbone, where the Windwalker rested over the mark it had burned deeply into her skin The amulet saved her, but she gasped in pain.

  Wild, triumphant laughter burst from the warrior. He slashed his blade across one shoulder, cutting through her shirt and tracing a long, stinging line across her shoulder.

  “Now you are marked,” he gloated. “Your first scar. Let’s see how many more you can bear before you die.” Spittle flew from his lips.

  His sword flashed up toward her face. Liriel managed a high parry that turned his blade aside. It skimmed through her hair. Gorlist wrenched it free, tearing a lock from her scalp.

  “That’s another,” he said as he came in again.

  The two drow danced along the stream bed, their swords clattering in a deadly duet, but the long night and the powerful spellcasting had drained Liriel’s strength. She felt as if she were moving through water or slowed by a nightmarish lethargy. More than once the vengeful warrior got past her guard.

  His blade skimmed the knuckles of her sword hand, opening a long red line. Blood poured over her hand and the hilt it gripped.

  Gorlist leaped into a deep, lunging attack. Liriel parried, knowing what was surely to follow. As she expected, he moved his sword in a small but powerful circle, twisting the sword from her wet hand. He kicked the falling sword and sent it spinning into the stream.

  Liriel dived under his next attack and rolled aside, reaching for the throwing knives in her boot. She threw these at the advancing drow. He batted them aside and kept coming.

  Again she rolled, grabbing and throwing whatever knife came to hand. Gorlist struck them down with contemptuous ease. The cold waters of the stream closed over her, shocking her into full awareness of her situation. Her weapons were gone, her spells all cast.

  She leaped to her feet and faced her enemy with defiant pride. It was all she had left.

  An enormous black bear paused at the forest’s edge, gazing out over the battlefield with pain-clouded eyes. The rocky ground was littered with the bodies of the slain, and the wheeling multitude of ravens formed dark clouds against the morning sky.

  The bear’s wounded paw gave way, and he stumbled to the ground. Fyodor felt the chill embrace of Rashemaar soil against his skin.

  Naked and bleeding, chilled to the very bone, he pushed himself away from the ground and looked about for something to cover himself. Not a difficult task, since the berserkers’ clothing had all torn away with the coming of the change. He found a pair of boots—judging from the size, his cousin Petyar’s—and a shirt and breeches. The lacings along the front of the shirt and both sides of the breeches had been torn away when their owner took on bear form, but that presented no problem. By Rashemaar custom, all warriors’ garments were fashioned with a second pair of laces just below, in honor of the time when berserkers changed form at will.

  Fyodor threaded and tied the second laces as quickly as his shaking hands would allow. He pulled on Petyar’s boots and looked around for his sword.

  A few weapons littered the ground, Rashemi and drow alike, but he reached for none of them. According to tradition, the black sword would be the last he wielded.

  He looked for Liriel, his gaze following the black-robed witches as they moved with the other women around the field. She was not among them.

  As the haze of his battle frenzy receded,
he remembered when and where he’d last seen his friend. A priestess of Lolth awaited her, and so did a deadly drow swordmaster. She had bidden him leave her.

  And he had left.

  Fyodor turned and stumbled into the forest. He had no strength, no sword. There was nothing left to him but the drow girl he loved and the knowledge that he need never leave Rashemen again.

  The water beside Liriel exploded upward, reforming in the familiar blue shape of the genasi. Azar gave the drow a fierce smile, and the light of insanity burned bright in her eyes. She showed Liriel the sword Gorlist had tossed into the water.

  “The illithid wanted you dead,” she said. “Live to spite her!”

  Liriel had no time to respond, no time to claim and lift the blade. Gorlist’s running charge was almost upon her. She did not see Fyodor streaking toward her, moving with the preternatural speed granted by his berserker frenzy.

  The young Rashemi thrust himself between the girl and the warrior, accepting the thrust meant for Liriel. Drow steel sank deep and true. Fyodor fell heavily to his knees, and the strength of his final frenzy slipped from him like a sigh.

  Liriel’s keening wail tore through the clearing. She hurled herself at Gorlist, tearing at him with her nails and teeth like a wild thing. They fell together, but the stronger male quickly rolled her beneath him.

  He captured her furious hands and pinned them above her head. Holding her captive with one hand, he reached in his belt for a knife and raised it for the killing stroke.

  He froze, hand uplifted and neck chorded with an unvoiced scream. A crimson fountain spilled from his open mouth, and the light of hatred at last faded from his eyes. He fell slowly to one side and lay with Liriel’s sword impaling his throat.

  Azar stood over him. “The illithid wanted you dead,” she explained to Liriel, “and so did this dark male.” She extended a slim blue hand to the drow girl.

  Liriel took it and allowed the genasi to pull her to her feet. She ran the few steps to Fyodor’s side and fell to her knees beside him. Dimly she was aware of the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and of Sharlarra’s bright head close to her own. “What can I do?” the elf said softly.