Dark Warrior Rising

by Ed Greenwood

  Orivon turned to look at her, as if he could see her. His eyes looked unharmed, but stared through her, at nothing. “Slaves breathe fear, eat fear, drink fear. Fear is in every thing we do. We have no time to indulge it, for there is always the work. Waiting. And the punishment, waiting if the work gets not done. I learned—very long ago—not to have time for fear.” He was silent for a moment, and then added expressionlessly, “You taught me that.”

  A breath later, as she wondered what to reply, he spoke again. “I can see shapes, a little.”

  “Good,” Taerune sighed, her relief strong and swift. “Hopefully the spellrobe’s wards merely clawed at the darksight spell we cast on you, and as its chaos calms, your sight will ret—Nooo!”

  Her shout was startled and despairing.

  Orivon turned toward the faint, somehow familiar rippling sound Taerune was shouting at, pawing at his eyes in a desperate attempt to see.

  And then, a moment before cruel Nifl laughter began to sweep down on them, he heard the deep, wet burbling of an eager darkwings, and knew.

  The Hunt of Talonnorn was flying, and here, and swooping down at them!

  For the first time, Jalandral Evendoom and Shoan Maulstryke exchanged meaningful glances that held mutual exasperation, rather than sneering scorn or open hatred.

  Their escorts had halted again, hands raised against them in preemptory “halt” signals, to cast another tracing spell. Reminder had woven the last such magic, so Gentle cast it this time. Grounding their swords, the two heirs swallowed sighs, glanced around at the nigh-featureless cavern, and then watched the priestesses work. Both knew they’d have little chance of finding the fleeing Nameless one and her slave without these castings, but that knowledge did nothing to make them enjoy being treated as disobedient—and stupid—children by holy shes whose hauteur far outstripped their own.

  And the Olone-exalted shes took so damned long in their castings, adding wholly unnecessary implorings of the Goddess and little “face this way, and pose just so” rituals to add an air of mysterious power and importance that fooled no one, and afforded them many opportunities to coldly make clear their disdain for the two Firstbloods. All of this preening, moreover, was presumably being paraded before an unseen audience of worthies back in Talonnorn.

  This particular Outcavern was lofty, bare, and of purple-white stone; aside from its choice of two tunnels at the far end from the one they’d entered it by, even a casual glance could tell it held nothing of interest. So Jalandral and Shoan had plenty of time, as the manyfold gestures, elaborate positionings, and ever-holier prayers droned on, to gaze into each other’s eyes and wordlessly agree on certain matters.

  Their hatred was mutual; each was seeking a chance to slay or at least wound the other—but both were also awaiting opportunities, even if seizing such would mean they must work together, of slaying their infuriating escorts and winning the freedom to fight each other.

  The Consecrated of Olone seemed to sense this, or to have learned the Firstbloods’ thoughts through magic. From the moment they’d stepped outside the main cavern that held Talonnorn, they had taken care never to get too close to either heir, turn their backs, or allow one rampant to block their view of the other.

  “Merely helping us hunt Taerune, my left dancing eyeball,” Jalandral murmured under his breath, smiling coldly at the last elaborate flourishes of what should have been a simply muttered, over-in-two-instants tracing spell.

  The flourishes ended at last, and Gentle closed her eyes, her slender fingers cupping air in an attitude of devout prayer.

  As she contentrated, trembling, Reminder warily watched the two heirs. Her needle-slender spellblade was aimed oh-so-casually at Jalandral Evendoom—and Gentle’s blade, temporarily in Reminder’s other hand, was coincidentally trained upon Shoan Maulstryke.

  The Firstbloods’ own spellblades could hurl spells but were real swords, not dainty near-needles. Those borne by the Eyes of Olone—as they were so unsubtly being warned—must be delicate arsenals of deadly spells.

  So Jalandral and Shoan calmly ignored the swords aimed at them, leaning on their own blades in elegantly posed silence, and waited for Gentle’s playacted trance to end.

  Which it eventually did, with a gasp and a shiver, a murmured prayer to Olone, and a straightening and sudden turn to point dramatically at one of the tunnel mouths. Whereupon Gentle frowned sternly and commanded overloudly, “We go that way.”

  “Fair hearing,” Jalandral and Shoan replied in rough unison, nodding. As Reminder returned Gentle’s spellblade to her, with the priestesses watching the heirs steadily, the Firstblood of Evendoom drawled, “A question, holy guides: just what, precisely, are you tracing? I understand the magic of the Nameless hides her from you quite effectively, so … ?”

  “Olone’s secrets,” Reminder informed him stiffly, “are just that. And must remain so.”

  “Ah,” Shoan Maulstryke said brightly then, “but Aumaeraunda, Holiest of Olone, has told us the Goddess has ordered her Consecrated to inform the Houses fully of all they learn that is vital to the honor or interests of Talonnorn. And as the Holiest herself confirmed this task to be vital to the honor of our city …”

  He spread his hands, one eyebrow lifting, his gaze a clear challenge.

  Reminder scowled at him, but Jalandral murmured, “Talonnorn watches. Talonnorn expects.”

  The priestess went pale, eyes glittering in fury, but Gentle came to stand beside her, and said quietly, “You are correct, twice: we are not tracing the Nameless one, whose magic indeed masks her whereabouts from us, and that we should impart truthful answer to you as to what we are tracing. Know, then, that our spells trace tokens built into the boots of the escaped slave we believe to be accompanying her. The Nameless was neither a crone of her House nor a Consecrated, and so was unaware—as I believe both of you were, until this moment—that such tokens are put into all slaves’ boots for just this purpose.”

  Jalandral decided it was time to arch one of his eyebrows. “Really? And how many other tokens are we all carrying around, for you to use for other secret purposes whenever it suits you?”

  “Ah,” Gentle said with the most fleeting of smiles, “as to that, I fear I must remind you that Olone’s secrets are Olone’s secrets—and must remain so.”

  Like a hurtling shadow of talons and great leathery wings, the foremost darkwings of the Hunt raced down upon Orivon and Taerune on the ledge, its bulk blotting out the rest of the cavern, its long neck undulating as it thrust its head out and to the side, poised to scour along the ledge with jaws agape.

  “By Olone and Talonnorn,” its rider cried out, hauling it back from that scouring in an angry flurry of flapping wings that slapped the very lip of the ledge, “these aren’t Ravagers! It’s the slave and the Nameless we’re seeking! Keep their faces intact, remember; the Eldest wants to see the heads!”

  As if in reply, but before any of the other laughing riders on the line of darkwings behind it could shout a word, there came a sudden burst of bright magic in the air—a blast that made the head of the darkwings vanish, and its spasming body, neck flailing blindly and bloodily, crash into the cavern wall just below the ledge.

  Again Taerune and Orivon clung to each other, bouncing helplessly as the rock shook under them. Neither of them saw the Nifl dashed to broken-limbed death, or rider and steed rebound off the wall and tumble limp and lifeless down to the littered rocks of the cavern floor below.

  Depths from which angry Nifl cries arose, even before the astonished Hunt riders started shouting.

  “Bloodblade, what’re you doing?”

  “Oriad-head! Are you trying to get us all killed?”

  “Ha-ha!” Old Bloodblade roared, stepping away from the overhanging cavern wall into full view of the Hunt above, and triggering his wand again to blast the next darkwings. “I always wanted to do this!”

  His target burst into bloody spatters, rider and all.

  “By the Ghodal Below and the Blind
ingbright Above, the wand works!” the aging Ravager roared. “Alathla promised me I could bathe armies in flame with this, and she told the truth for once! Ha-ha!”

  Amid his delighted shouts, the third wandburst missed its darkwings but struck the cavern ceiling beyond—bringing a rain of rock onto the heads of the rest of the Hunt, that dashed them down, down to a rolling, buried death far below.

  Blinding, roiling dust shrouded the ledge, and in the heart of it Taerune rolled herself hard against Orivon—and awakened her Orb.

  It burst from his hiding into her hand, even as she thrust her face against his, and forced her tongue into his startled mouth. She slapped the Orb against their locked-together lips and held it there.

  [DON’T move] she ordered, her mind-voice—boosted by the Orb—sliding into his head like a slicingly sharp silver dagger. [I’m magically keeping us from coughing or choking, so the Nifl below don’t find us. Just—lie here. Please.]

  She convulsed against him. What—what’s wrong? Orivon thought, and heard his mind-voice, anger and apprehension warring, roll around both their heads loudly enough to make him wince as swiftly as she did.

  [Ignore me. I’m just gagging.]

  “Just gagging”? Why?

  [Take this not the wrong way, Orivon, but to Niflghar, humans reek.]

  Orivon was silent for a time. I see. Well, to humans, Nifl-shes smell, too. But they taste quite nice.

  Taerune squirmed and wriggled on the ledge, seeking to keep their mouths together but to thrust her body as far from him as she could.

  Take that not the wrong way. His mind-voice was mocking.

  It had been good to watch the Hunt wheel and laugh, chasing each other around city spires and flourishing their blades in salute. Yet after they’d flown forth from Talonnorn for the first time since the battles, winging out of the great cavern into the Dark beyond, Ravandarr Evendoom had turned away with a surprisingly heavy heart.

  The ramparts suddenly seemed a cold and unfriendly place. Jalandral was out there, somewhere, and so was …

  Savagely Ravan put all thoughts of his sister Taera out of his mind, his head swirling as wildly as his cloak, and stalked down through dark and deserted passages, seeking his own chambers. There to brood, perhaps summon some Nameless shes to dance for him, or whip each other while he watched … yes. None of them would be Taerune Evendoom, but—

  Something moved in the darkness ahead; something that was blocking his way. Ravan’s hand went to his sword hilt out of habit, even as his wards flared. He let his real, rising anger put sparks into his frown. “Who—”

  His wards faded away before a stronger radiance, a ruby-red glow that outlined a dark and slender figure. Shorter than he was, curvaceous … and all too familiar. Astonishment made him blurt out, “Maharla?”

  “The same,” the Eldest of Evendoom purred, even before he could curse himself for not greeting the most senior crone of the House properly. “I am very pleased to have found you so swiftly, Ravandarr … and alone.”

  Deepening astonishment. Friendliness? From Maharla? He was speechless as her hand—tingling with power, surging magic that swirled sparks from the hilt of Ravan’s blade that almost certainly marked it being magically bound into its scabbard—took his, soft and warm and strong, and drew him toward the wall.

  It parted before her, a door opening soundlessly to reveal a chamber awash in moving, surging red glows of her magic. Prepared beforehand, obviously; Ravan’s bracers tingled with life of their own as his wards tried to awaken again, but were overwhelmed.

  Maharla drew him firmly inside the room, her magic sealing them in together, and murmured, “Be not alarmed, Secondblood of Evendoom. You stand in the favor of Holy Olone.”

  Ravandarr blinked. “I—I do?”

  The Eldest was towing him, ever so gently, across the room of billowing red smoke to a chased oval coffer. It stood up out of the swirling smoke atop a plinth of smooth-carved, upswept stone, that was shaped like a frozen wave of water.

  “You do,” she confirmed softly. “The Goddess has sent me a vision. A vision of you.”

  She stopped beside the coffer. “You were walking alone, sword in hand, through the caverns of the Wild Dark—and you were pursuing your Nameless sister.”

  “I …” Ravandarr realized he knew nothing safe to say, and so said merely, “I know not what this might mean, Eldest. Guide me.”

  Maharla nodded, satisfaction in her solemn eyes. “You must go forth into the Outcaverns in secret, telling no one, and do what Jalandral will undoubtedly fail to do, and so prove your true worth to your father.”

  “I must hunt T—ah, the Nameless.”

  Maharla nodded and put her hand on the coffer. Her slender fingers slid into some of its carved grooves; using them as a handle, she lifted the top half of the oval, revealing its bowl-like base. Dipping her other hand inside, she lifted out a small stone threaded on a long, fine neck chain, and held it out to him.

  “This,” she whispered reverently, “is the most precious thing in all Talonnorn!”

  They gazed at it together as it swayed slightly, her fingers spread above it to hold the chain apart and let it dangle. No matter how hard Ravandarr stared, it remained a small, rough, nondescript stone. A thumb-sized fragment of cave rock, not a gemstone.

  “This was once touched by Holy Olone herself,” Maharla told him, her voice still a whisper of excitement, “and holds great power. You shall wear it around your neck, and through it I can mind-whisper directions to you from afar, guiding you unerringly after … the one who must be slain. With this, you cannot fail.”

  Dumbfounded, Ravan blurted out, “But I thought—you—”

  “Despised you as a weakling? I did. Yet Olone is all-seeing, and Her will guides us all. Ravandarr, I despise you no longer, but admire you—for Olone has chosen you, which makes you greater than us all.”

  Setting the lid back down on the coffer, the Eldest of Evendoom raised the necklace in both hands, stepped forward, and put it around his neck.

  “Hurry, now!” she murmured, as they stood face to face. “It may take time to do Olone’s will, but you must begin now.”

  Then, as Ravan gazed at her in deepening disbelief, Maharla Evendoom took his head in her hands and kissed him.

  Whereupon, as the old Nifl tales put it, it was too late.

  Ravandarr stirred under her lips as her spell flooded into him, awakening the pendant’s mind-link, and flooding him with waves of love, pride, and admiration.

  Erlingar Evendoom himself could not have withstood that conquering—and Ravandarr was young and frustrated and weak-willed, a yearning rampant, not a wise and hardened foe.

  He stiffened, against her, and moaned into her mouth in rapture, and threw back his head wearing the widest smile it had ever worn, eyes a-glow. “Eldest, command me!” he gasped. “Hurry where, exactly?”

  “Back to your chambers—speaking to no one of this—to properly arm yourself, and take pouches of food and water. Then go, seeking the Outcaverns by any path that will get you out of Eventowers unseen. Call on me—in your mind—for guidance if you encounter difficulties, and call on me again when you reach the Outcaverns, for the right way to take onward. Go.”

  “Eldest,” he gasped, bending to kiss her open hands in reverence. Then he spun around and departed in eager haste.

  Maharla did not allow herself to smirk in triumph until her mists had quite hidden the door that had opened before him and closed behind him again by its silent self and without Ravandarr Evendoom even noticing it.

  What a fool.

  When Lord Evendoom discovered his second son gone, his rage would be terrible. Whereupon it would be trifling ease itself to goad him into saying or doing something that would let her bring down Olone’s doom upon him.

  Then she would choose the pureblood who would rule the Evendooms. In her name, of course. In her bed it would take but moments to drift into the mind of that new Lord Evendoom and put it in thrall—probably, if
she did it at a moment of rapture, without him even noticing.

  Ravandarr could serve her as that Lord. If he returned. Even with one arm, Taerune could probably slay him in moments—and if Shoan Maulstryke hadn’t managed to fell Jalandral, Ravandarr would be her sacrificial dart, hurled at his own brother heedless of what harm he took, to wound that laughing fool as sorely as he could.

  No, Ravandarr was as good as dead already.

  Ah, Olone was such a hungry goddess.

  “What can you see?” Taerune asked cautiously.

  Orivon opened his tightly shut eyes, tears swimming, blinked, swiped at his eyes with his forearm, and blinked again. “You,” he growled at last, trying to ignore the blurring that kept creeping back in long after he was sure the tears had gone, which his knuckling and grimacing had brought on. He shook his head several times as he strode up and down the ledge.

  “Aye,” he said at last. “I can see.” He said nothing about his weak, sick feeling inside, and the searing pain down his left side. Wizards’ wards, it seemed, were … painful things. Next time, he’d throw a rock.

  “So let’s be moving,” he added. “It seems half Talonnorn can’t help but find this ledge.”

  Taerune smiled—the first time he could ever recall seeing a smile on her face that hadn’t held a sneer, or cruel excitement, or pain. It changed her face completely.

  His lingering stare made her flush—that creeping paleness Nifl got—and turn away. “Yes,” she agreed, her back to him. “Let’s … be moving. The Ravagers are quite gone. On to raid Talonnorn.”

  It was a shapely back. Looking at it, Orivon could forget the sting of her lash. For a breath or two.

  “We need to find a cavern, or some crevice, where we can hide,” he growled. “One where we can roll a stone across like a door, or some such. A place we can rest without the Hunt being able to see us if they swoop past.”

  Taerune opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t think there was enough of the Hunt left, now, to fly anywhere—and then shut it again, without saying a word. What did she know, really? There had always been young rampants eager to join, lesser flyers scorned by the veterans—and the riders of other Houses forbidden or unwilling to fly under Evendoom command. Talonnorn was different, now. Too badly ravaged to merely forget a day of battle, rebuild and shrug aside sharp lessons and pretend it had never happened. Talonnorn had been changed, leaving her knowing … nothing.