by Ed Greenwood
The trader chuckled. “Ha. That look earned him a taste of the lash, of course.”
They watched the slender, graceful Nifl-she wield her long lash with skilled viciousness, slicing deeply into the rippling shoulders and arms of the human slave. His glare never wavered, even when she spun the lash across his face, slicing it deeply as well.
Unflinching, the human kept his burning gaze on her, ignoring the gorkul’s heavy studded goad—and the burly, snorting tusker wielding it—completely. Through the dripping blood, his eyes bored into those of his owner, even when she spoke sharply—just what she said was lost in the clangs and crashings of forgefists at work, up and down the Rift—and struck him across the face again and again.
The gorkul moved in to join the relentless whipping, clubbing heavier blows onto the firefist until at last the human was driven to his knees.
Whereupon the Nifl-she, obviously tired, let her lash fall and stood gasping and trembling, obviously struggling to regain her temper. They glared at each other, owner and slave—until she abruptly took something from her belt, threw it to the blood-spattered stone in front of him, and turned away.
“Healing magic,” the trader said. “Repairing the valued possession she’s damaged.”
The Master of the Forges, who had seen this so many times before, merely nodded.
The gorkul lingered to watch the slave seize the means of relief, but Orivon Firefist made no move to take it up. On his knees in his blood, unbroken, he glowered at Grunt Tusks until the overseer shrugged, spat, and turned to follow Lady Evendoom.
The human slave glowered after them. Defiant.
2
Leisurely Unfolding Doom
Olone is perfection.
Olone is beauty.
Olone is all.
Be like unto Olone, and rise in her regard.
—Niflghar chant
Taerune was in a hurry, excitement building in her—and when Taerune was excited, she used her whip.
The sharp cracks of the lash, and the shouts of startled pain it caused, turned heads up and down the busy street.
She strode purposefully, viciously slashing everyone in her way aside—fools, surely they should have learned by now?—as she went. No business in Talonnorn came before Evendoom business, and none of House Evendoom’s many schemes could be so urgent, so thirsty for the soonest moment just now, as this.
The crowded street was clearing as lesser Nilfghar hastened to be elsewhere, snapping commands to hulking gorkul porters and waddling pack-snouts. A whip scar across the face brings no one closer to Olone. Taerune of Evendoom quickened her pace, gleaming boots clacking on the damp scorchstone.
She could have used the family tunnels, of course. The Eventowers and the Forgerift were both within the House grounds, and the work crew of House servants behind her—Nameless Nifl, all—could have traveled much faster within the Evendoom gates. But marching openly through the city, thrusting lesser Nifl aside, was the whole point of this journey. Making a show is what ruling Houses did—and Taerune of Evendoom loved to be seen.
She had always loved to be seen, from the first admiring or amused glances her infantile preenings had drawn, long ago, to the open throat-swallowing admirations Nifl—and even less-than-Nifl, the beasts like gorkul and the hairy humans—gave her now.
They warmed her like deepfire. And why not? Every admiring glance is, after all, a prayer to Olone. Taking care to let not the slightest hint of a wry smile touch her set and perfect lips, Taerune of Evendoom slashed her way toward the waiting fires.
Nifl take heed: House Evendoom strides first, and all Talonnorn gets out of its way.
In the gleaming depths of the watch-whorl, the sleek and breathtakingly beautiful Nifl female strode imperiously down the street, her black whip cleaving a path through the crowds.
One of the watchers bent intently over the whorl-glow growled softly, deep in his throat. It was a growl—almost a purr—of admiration and idle lust.
He never took his eyes off what the whorl showed him: ears that were ever so finely pointed, and big, tilted-teardrop eyes filled with the cold fire of cruel contempt. Graceful curves and limbs, a slender waist and flat stomach that scanty dark emerald leathers did little to cover and nothing to hide. So much skin these shes of Talonnorn left bare to watching gazes …
Ah, but what skin! Obsidian black, a supple, rippling darkness broken only by stark-white hair at brows, lashes, and—long and swirling—on her scalp. And by leathers that clung to her like a second skin: snout-hide bracers and matching boots of deep emerald green, the leather buffed to a gleaming sheen, straps studded with gems hugging jet-black hips tightly as she moved …
“My, my. If she lives, after we smash Talonnorn, I’d not mind her on my—”
“That is not what you’re here to think about, Aloun.” The cold voice from the far side of the watch-whorl held every last shard of ice Aloun had expected it to. Any straying from the task at hand always made Luelldar curt.
The elder Watcher of Ouvahlor leaned forward over the shifting glows of the whorl, the chill of the Ever-Ice in his eyes. “Those lost in the pursuit of Olone may have fixed their eyes on outward show and lost their wits in so doing, but take care you don’t drift to the same doom.”
“Luell, Luell! Rest easy! I’m not loins-lost nor gone oriad, I’m but admiring perhaps the most beautiful Nifl-she I’ve ever seen! I—well, look at her! Dark One, did you ever see such beauty? Yet I doubt not that she’s as vicious and empty-headed as the next Olone-lover! By the Ever-Ice, Ouvahlor shall triumph!”
“Ouvahlor shall triumph, indeed. Seen enough of the show? Good!” Without waiting for Aloun’s disgusted nod, Luelldar bent his will to turn what the whorl viewed elsewhere, and waved down at its flaring, whirling silence. “So, keen watcher-of-shes, tell me: What are we seeing now?”
“House Dounlar’s gates,” Aloun said, a little sullenly.
“And you know that because?”
“The oorth skull carved into the arch.”
“Which is remarkable as a House targe why?”
“The fools of Talonnorn worship Olone, who represents physical perfection, so Talonar adornments—even House emblems—are symbols of beauty. Save this one.”
“Name the six Houses of Talonnorn. And their targes.”
“Evendoom—the she we were just watching is one—are foremost, and use the Black Flame. Or the Hand of Flame, or whatever it’s supposed to be.”
“The Black Flame, they call it, but yes, it’s shaped like an open hand, cupping nothing. The others?”
“Maulstryke, the Three Black Tears. Cluster of three vertical teardrops, touching, center one lowest. Wants to be First House, so are haughtiest, swiftest to feud. Drain the lives of their slaves daily to—”
Luelldar made the circular finger wave that every Ouvahlan knew meant “Get on with it! Right now!”
“Dounlar, the Grim Skull,” Aloun said hurriedly. “Raskshaula, the Arc of Eyes; Oszrim, the Glowgem; Oondaunt, the Talon. There!”
“There,” Luelldar agreed wryly. “So many to remember. Six, and only one brain to hold them all. However do the Moaning Crones manage it, I wonder?”
“Deepspew!” Aloun snarled, his temper slipping. “Narl and worms take you, Luell! I stoop not to mocking you! Just how am I like unto a crone of Olone?” He leaned across the whorl in clear menace.
The older Ouvahlan sat unruffled. “Well, you’ve survived this long, despite a habit of letting your over-clever tongue ride riot when others cloak themselves in more prudent silence and obedience. They of Olone manage much the same trick.”
“They’ll find it hard to go on doing so, when we start butchering them,” Aloun said savagely, “and that’ll be soon enough!”
“Not soon enough for some, I take it.” Luelldar’s voice was as dry as old stone. “You sound as blood-mad as the youngest of our warblades. So tell me, Butcher of Crones: say we are to strike now, as swiftly as you can arm and make ready, and you w
ill command our warblades. I ask you: What are the weaknesses of Talonnorn? What answer have you, for me?”
Aloun stared across the watch-whorl at Luelldar, his eyes reflecting back its glows as their glare went from anger to thoughtfulness by way of resentful malice. Then he said slowly, “Their worship of Olone is their weakness.”
“How so?”
“Why … well, they breed for beauty, work spells for more beauty, and try to make themselves and their offspring ever more beautiful, so they’ll Ascend to join Olone in some sort of mindless, endless joy. Which makes them not want to be scarred, so they leave fighting and hard work to slaves and beasts and Nifl who are already maimed, or who are ‘Nameless’ and held of little account. Those who become imperfect—except the crones—are cast out, to become enemies of the faithful of Olone; and even if they do not, the city loses their prowess. So we and any other foe of Talonnorn fight inferior defenders.”
“And?”
“And these defenders are poorly commanded. Again, because of the crones.”
“So you have thought about this. Good. No, no, Aloun, save your curses; I mock you not! How are crones a battle weakness, in cities who worship Olone?”
“Such cities are ruled by conclaves of ruling Houses—six or so families—and every House is headed by a Lord,” Aloun said slowly, thinking aloud. “And the crones—all the females past birthing age—are his envoys, spies, poisoners, advisers, and even his lawmakers and keepers. If he displeases them, he meets with an accident. So they truly rule, and let him see and hear and do only what they want him to.”
Satisfaction crept into his quickening voice as he added, “So where our warlords are warblades whose mistakes are born of old habits or not understanding the newest spells, those who defend and go to war for any city of Olone are weighed down by crones who care nothing for the fate of others, and lie to them, and let them not even know about some magic they could wield against foes.”
Luelldar nodded. “You see things rightly. It makes one wonder how they’ve lasted this long, yes?”
Aloun’s glare sharpened. “Perhaps, about that matter, you can inform me.”
Luelldar nodded, and waved one long-fingered hand at the whorl. “Look you there—and there! What do you see?”
The scene of distant Talonnorn glowing in the spinning silence between the two Ouvahlan was now of a bustling street—a meandering way of smooth, dark scorchstone, winding between many stone spirals of Nifl homes, across the floor of the great main cavern of the city. The stone floor of the cavern, fissured like the parallel fingers of a massive stone hand, rose in gentle humps behind the close-crowded homes—but no spirals stood on those humps, and no side streets meandered up them. Aloun peered at where the whorl’s glow was rising eagerly, sparks swirling, to meet its caster’s fingertips, and saw something in the scene beneath that spot flicker and glimmer. A roiling in the air, a radiance seen only for moments, here and there. Half-seen flickerings that traced a line behind the homes.
Aloun frowned. “Some sort of magic. Looks like a barrier.”
“Looks like just what it is: a barrier, part of the outer wards of House Dounlar. A wall, but of flesh-rending magic rather than forged war-spikes or stone. Keeping unfriends out, and lesser Nifl from building their homes on that stretch of bare Dounlar rock. Rock that House Dounlar may find a pressing need for, in some moment or other to come. Such magical fields are why cities of Olone have lasted this long. When you do your part in the storming of this one, take care not to touch them, or you’ll die—and warn all Talonnorn of our intrusion.”
Aloun’s frown deepened. “So just how are we supposed to surprise them, if breaching their wards—?”
“We shall not breach them. Klarandarr’s spells will take our warblades past the wards without disturbing them, like a wave in the Dark Ocean rolling a long way ashore, that leaves something behind on the rocks when at last it ebbs. We’ll appear inside the wards, strike hard and fast—and then the worms will come.”
“But what of their spells? Their Hunt—”
“Are young and overconfident fools, who rely overmuch on their spell-armor and the speed of their swooping darkwings. Their whipswords are pain-gloaters’ toys, not weapons to wield against a real foe. We’ve all heard that the Hunt of Talonnorn ‘never misses,’ yes? Well, they never taste defeat because they never fight anything more formidable than fleeing slaves or Maimed Ones!”
Aloun sighed. “So you and the Elders always say. Yet we have nothing to touch them in battle! No spell-armor! No flying steeds! No whipswords! What if they snatch up the Talonar crones who can humble us with cavern-collapsing spells, and whisk them past us, to land and work their magics up our backsides? What then?”
His voice had risen; he flinched and fell silent in the wake of his own bitter words, half-expecting Luelldar to lash out at him.
Yet no snarling outburst came.
The older Niflgar stared at him, nodding slightly, face unreadable, as the whorl spun in slow silence for what seemed to Aloun a very long time.
“I am heartened,” Luelldar said at last. “You see beyond the hungry point of your blade—and dare to question what the Elders say. You may well be ready for a first taste of command.”
“A ‘first taste’ of command?” New-flaring anger made Aloun’s voice sharp. “What—”
“That,” Luelldar snapped coldly, his voice suddenly as loud and hard as a sword ringing on stone, “is why a taste is all you’re ready for, yet.”
He held out one hand, fingers spread, and the whorl flickered and died, its sparks flowing back up into his fingertips. “Temper and pride rule you,” he told the younger Ouvahlan, “and you cannot even command yourself sufficiently to curb and hide them. All that makes you more useful to Ouvahlor than the merest youngling is your strength and reach with a sword—and that you strive and struggle a little longer against adversity than a drooling babe ere you start to cry.”
Aloun half-rose, face darkening and eyes afire, gaze locked with Luelldar. His lips twisted—and then froze. Eyes still fierce and hard on Luelldar’s, he sat back down and said nothing.
Luelldar nodded as if satisfied, and said calmly, “The Talonar tactic you anticipate has been pondered by others. Ouvahlor is ready if such attacks are attempted.”
The last of the whorl’s glow died away, and Luelldar added softly, “More than ready. Klarandarr’s spells are mightier than anything Talonnorn can manage. Klarandarr—and so, all of Ouvahlor—is closer than any Talonar to what lies within the Ever-Ice you so glibly swear by. He knows how to reach closer to the cold heart of Niflheim, harnessing deeper magic than any crone of Olone.”
“And so?”
“And so they are doomed.”
“In my admittedly limited experience, brother, staring at nothing doesn’t make it become something. At least, not at any speed one might deem ‘enlightening.’ You will probably crumble to nothing yourself first.” Jalandral’s drawl was playful, even affectionate, but Ravandarr flushed. As usual.
“I was merely—”
“Of course you were. Picturing what the dread ‘Door of Fangs’ will look like in that doorway, where nothing but a curtain now keeps us from striding right into the sharp edge of Taera’s loving tongue—and closets enough of gowns for even the biggest of our gorkul to get lost and smothered in. Pretty things, but I doubt they’d fit either of us.”
Ravandarr flushed again, and said stiffly, “I—Dral, I have no intention whatsoever—”
“Of course not. You flinch back from touching gowns—and the fair shes inside them—as if they’re made of fire. Olone look down, brother, can’t you take things more easily? Laugh, wink, even smile a time or two; I can’t even remember if you know how to smile!”
Jalandral’s bright teeth flashed as he struck a grandly heroic pose, long arms crossed elegantly, one hand gripping the hilt of the wickedly slender sword at his hip. He wiggled his eyebrows, winking exaggeratedly, and broadened his smile into a parody of
a leer. “See? A smile, and it cost me nothing? Olone will be so pleased!”
Ravan regarded his older brother with the usual hot flare of envy. Jalandral was handsome, elegant, and debonair, his flippancy somehow charming—even, it seemed, to the oldest masked crones of the House—and his reputation as a deadly duelist and acid-tongued wit outshone even his standing as the heir of House Evendoom.
Whereas Ravandarr Evendoom—he made himself try to smile—was younger, taller, heavier; a shy, gorkul-clumsy younger brother standing always in the shadow of his brother’s shining fame. Hesitant and heavy-tongued beside Jalandral’s drawling elegance, slow-bladed and slower-booted against Jalandral’s almost careless agility, overlooked where Jalandral drew every eye—
“That’s a smile?” Jalandral rolled his eyes. “Or have you lost the knack?”
Ravandarr grimaced. He was rough dark stone where his older brother shone like a gem, terse where Jalandral was glib, plodding where—
Jalandral slid out of his pose like an uncoiling snake, and was suddenly gripping Ravandarr’s shoulders. “Brother,” he murmured, “we are what we are, not what we long to be. Be yourself, and be content, and wait. I’ll probably soon get myself killed in some oriad prank or other, and you’ll be heir, and—behold! House Evendoom will suddenly discover the worth of someone thoughtful and methodical and mostly silent, rather than dazzlingly annoying! Oh, our crones love you more than me right now, believe me!”
“Because they see me as too witless to be more than an trudging tool,” Ravandarr said bitterly. “I’ve not your looks, your—”
“Ravan, enough. Learn your own way to be happy—ordering Nifl to go out and get themselves killed, as Father does; or manipulating we rampants, as the crones do; or playing pranks and wenching, as I do—and do it. Glowering and glooming will get you noticed, yes, and deemed dross to be hurled away in battle and forgotten as if you’d never been. Then poor Father would have to get busy and sire more of us, and you know how he hates such work!”