Dark Warrior Rising

by Ed Greenwood

  Hurlbows hummed again, the shafts driving the two still-unharmed guardians back against the wall by the sheer fury of their arrival. Doggedly they drew their swords, heads bent against the shafts leaping at them. Then the warblades reached them—and streamed past, straight on into the temple. The guardians tried to block their way—and got driven back against the sides of the tall entry arch, pinned by the onslaught of dozens of thrusting blades. Taersor calmly took the heavy stone he’d been carrying from its sack, swung it back and forth underhanded to get some momentum—and hurled it at the face of the nearest guardian.

  Her wards flared blinding bright, but had been made to yield before stone so their wearer could walk and fit through doorways—and the guardian jerked once, spasmodically, and then slid bloodily down the wall, her dislodged helm clanging and bouncing. There was very little left of her head.

  The other guardian saw the fate of her fellow, and a warblade bending to retrieve the bloody stone sack—and whirled away to flee into Talonnorn, tearing at her armor as she went.

  Warblades started after her, and Taersor barked, “Don’t lose her! Get after her—and silence her!”

  By then, screams could be heard from inside the temple.

  Naersarra Dounlar was waiting for old Baransa’s spell to warm the waters. Sitting in a loose robe in the upstairs bathing chamber shared by all the Dounlar crones, she was flexing her feet and wincing.

  Yes, as much as it hurt to admit it, she was getting just a little too old for dancing all night on tables, and the drinking had left a truly terrible taste in her mouth. Perhaps it was time—

  Something that was shrieking and sobbing incoherently burst into being in midair above the soaking pool, and fell into it with a great splash.

  Walls of water drenched several crones and brought others to their feet, eyes flashing in alarm and hands rising to hurl spells, the moment a foe—

  Came floundering up out of the pool, weeping, and flung wet arms around Naersarra. “S-sister, save me!”

  Aelrabarra Dounlar was much changed, but Naersarra knew her sister’s eyes—even red and wide with staring terror and grief—and so had stayed the slaying magic she had been about to hurl.

  “Aelra,” she said, embracing the sobbing priestess tightly, rocking her slightly as she hugged. “What’s—”

  “Warblades! Swording us all in the temple!”

  Wrinkled old Ranauthra Dounlar was so infuriated she tore off her mask to snap, “Another attack by those Olone-cursed Ouvahlans? Is there—”

  “No,” Aelrabarra wailed, “not Ouvahlor! Talonar warblades, of all the houses!”

  “Oh! The young she’s gone oriad, she’s so upset! Someone—”

  “Enough, Ranauthra!” Naersarra commanded, loudly enough to cut through Aelra’s weeping and the angry gabbling of the older crones. “Danthra, spell-calm the water! Braerambra, use them for a scrying-whorl the moment they’re smooth enough—we’ll all see for ourselves what’s happening at the temple!”

  “Hmph,” old Ranauthra told the room sourly. “It’s not as if some of us haven’t spied on the goings-on there before!”

  Lharlak looked over his shoulder and saw that three Ravagers were all talking to Old Bloodblade at once. Well and good.

  He steered Daruse around a stalagmite larger than them both, and when they reached its far side said quietly, “I’m worried about this Dark Warrior. What if all the Haraedra get scared enough to unite, and come looking to slaughter us before we can do them harm? Patrols, even the Hunt, we can handle—armies, no.”

  Daruse nodded. “So what do we do? Kill the human?”

  Lharlak shrugged. “Easily enough done. Yet the Evendoom outcast has her Orb, and wits as sharp as blades, too. With the one, she knows how to use the other. You saw how she came awake.”

  “She’s the real danger,” Daruse murmured. “I saw that from the start. He’s but her dupe.”

  Lharlak thrust a finger under his eye patch to rub an itch in his empty eyesocket. “And if ever he realizes it, ’twon’t be us she’ll have to fear.”

  “Olone’s Bloody Burning Tears,” Naersarra Dounlar cursed, dropping every word slowly, loudly, and deliberately from her lips as she fought to ride her temper back down under control.

  The vivid scenes of butchery they’d seen in the pool were fading, but no one in the room was forgetting them. The only sound in the chamber was Aelra’s muffled sobbing, as she clung to Naersarra and wept into her bosom. Naersarra stroked her sister’s hair in comforting that she knew was ineffectual, and tried to think through her fury.

  Lords of Houses would die for this. Slowly, and knowing why.

  The blasphemous effrontery of daring to use this pretext to rid themselves of difficult Consecrated and their own kin! The danger they courted for all unwitting Talonnorn, of bringing down the righteous wrath of Olone on the entire city!

  “It’s happening all over the city,” Braerambra said flatly, looking up from the dying glow of a collapsing spell. “Some of the crones of Raskshaula and those of Oondaunt are out in the streets and saying very much the same thing: warblades are happily butchering priestesses in the Place of the Goddess, sparing only a few of the youngest. At least a dozen got out as Aelrabarra did, into the arms of crones in most of the Houses—and the crones are as angry as we are, and telling everyone the Lords have gone mad, are insulting Holy Olone, and doom will surely—and swiftly—befall Talonnorn if they aren’t stopped.”

  “That doesn’t just mean blasting a few fools of warblades out of their boots,” Ranauthra said sourly. “That means stopping the Lords of all our Houses, who’re giving them their orders.”

  An uneasy silence fell.

  Into it, Naersarra said softly, “Sisters, it very much looks to me as if it’s up to us to stop them.”

  Lord Maulstryke looked more like a perching sunderbeak than ever as he peered around the room, tall and dark, hands clasped behind his back. Every spellrobe of his household stared back at him, from rank novices to his most highly regarded spellslayers, who posed as his personal envoys and wore ward-crowns at all times, to keep their minds free of the prying of the Maulstryke crones, and so preserve as many of their secrets as possible.

  Those same crones were temporarily forbidden to enter this tower of Maulgard, and kept from stealthy approaches not only by the strongest wards Maulstryke’s row of carefully clamped, long-unused breastplates and the spellblades of dead ancestors could generate, but by wardhelmed warblades posted at every door. He’d sent only the young and expendable blades off temple-raiding, expecting grim fates for participants in that particular folly.

  Ohzeld Maulstryke knew he’d spoken plain truth to his fellow Lords: the natural magics a-crawl in the Wild Dark made hurling spells of any sort into it from afar chancy at best. Yet he had only one Shoan Maulstryke, and had devoted many, many Turnings to making him a fitting heir.

  “You know why you’re here,” he told them now, staring at many Nifl faces painted with glow-runes and set in habitual sneers. “I want to know the location and fate of the Firstblood of Maulstryke, believed to be somewhere out in the Wild Dark with a Consecrated of Olone escorting him. So long as you tell me what you’re trying, do nothing to hamper each other’s work, and nothing to ruin the future spells of others, I want you to try everything. This is Shoan Maulstryke’s spellblade, here on the table before me; arranged along it are items of his clothing, as recently worn as could be found, brought here from his chambers. Alive or dead, I want him found.”

  Lord Maulstryke paced along the table, his eyes bleak, his face expressionless. “I order you to find my heir, the future and hope of this greatest House of Talonnorn,” he told them, and then stopped, turned, and added coldly, “I will, if necessary, cajole, plead, and threaten. Accomplish this thing.”

  “We’ve arrived where every parley does, eventually,” Lord Raskshaula observed. “The time when we begin to talk again and again about matters that have already been argued over. It’s time for
this conclave to end, Lords, and all of us to return to our own homes and get to work. The Turning ahead is not going to be pleasant, but we can’t stop what’s coming by sitting here longer and—”

  For the second time at that gathering, a pair of the tall, splendidly carved Evendoom doors burst open, wards swirling in sudden bright drifts of menacing magic.

  Helmed warblades stood anxiously in the doorway, bloodied swords drawn, ignoring the spellblades hissing out of Lords’ scabbards all over the room.

  “My Lords!” the foremost gasped. “Urgent news!”

  “It had better be,” Lord Evendoom growled. “Say on, Raelaund.” The warblade bowed, stiff in his armor. “The city is plunged into armed uproar! Crones of all Houses are felling warblades with spells! There’s fighting in the streets, and many dead! Scores are being settled, and priestesses and crones in all of your towers, Lords, are crying vengeance upon you!”

  “Evendoom,” Oszrim roared, “if this is some trick of your doing—”

  “I hardly think that’s possible,” Lord Raskshaula snapped, using some trick of the rings on his fingers to make his voice louder while keeping it calm and level. “Warblade Raelaund, how do you know this?”

  The Nifl shook his blade. “This blood came from Nifl of this House, that I was forced to fell to keep them from charging in here. Spells of Evendoom crones had hold of their minds, and as we chased those crones out and down from this tower, I saw out a window many warblades of the same Houses at battle in the streets, crones pointing and shouting among them. Dare look out a window, Lords, and you can all see for yourselves!”

  “Goddess and Talon!” Lord Oondaunt swore, rising so swiftly his chair crashed over behind him. “How are we to even get home safely?”

  “Can’t your spellblade fly you?” Lord Dounlar asked, a trifle wearily. “Evendoom, have I your leave to have this good warblade of yours find me a window? Preferably when he’s not holding a ready sword in his hand?”

  “Well, try it! Slaughter every pack-snout in the stables if you have to!” Lord Maulstryke snapped, striding over to a stammering spellrobe in a frenzy that made the young Nifl cower.

  Others, busy at the tables all around, winced, looked away, and tried to pay no heed. None of them wanted the mad Nifl Lord roaring in their face next. The air was full of smokes, drifting powders, the fading glows of runes that had been drawn on empty air, and the mutters of gesturing spellrobes.

  Tirelessly Lord Maulstryke stalked among them, crossing his chambers time and time again, coldly goading them on.

  “They all got away safely, Lord,” Raelund gasped, as they hurried along a dark passage in the Eventowers together. “But you must get into armor now; the house is full of—eeurraaah!”

  Lord Evendoom turned in time to see three swords that darted and thrust by themselves—plain working weapons, not spellblades, but aswirl with the glow of a spell as they flew and flashed in the air—drive deep into his faithful warblade’s throat, leather breeches in the momentarily exposed gap between thigh-plates and cods, and armpit, racing up along the underside of Raelund’s sword arm.

  The dying warblade started the stumble that would end in him crashing to his knees, and Evendoom didn’t wait to see those blades slide back out of him again, dripping blood, and start their menacing turns in his direction.

  He could see the crone behind them, grinning at him bloodthirstily—old Opaelra, who’d never liked him; nor he, her—and behind her a crowd of servants with old swords and spears and kitchen knives in their hands. They let out a roar as the warblade’s fall let them see their Lord staring at them, and surged forward.

  Erlingar Evendoom turned away from them and hurled himself into a lumbering run, crashing bruisingly off sculptures and wall reliefs, too winded and suddenly afraid to even think of an oath to bark.

  Was this to be his ending? Hacked apart by an angry mob of his own Nameless servants, led by crones of his own blood?

  He reached a flight of unfamiliar back stairs leading down—the sweeping, curving ramps he was used to seemed in short supply in the servants’ corners of Eventowers—and took them five and six at a time, stumbling and roaring in pain when his heels caught on the edges of steps, but not, for the love of Olone and the skin of Erlingar Evendoom, slowing down one whit.

  Enthusiastically, Evendoom servants streamed after him, waving their weapons clumsily and howling for their Lord’s blood.

  That noisy parade of pursuit raced past many a dark and open door in the part of the Eventowers given over to dust, darkness, and storage, and someone came to one of them, after the hue and cry passed, to look after them and laugh softly.

  That someone was Maharla Evendoom, and her fingers were tracing the deeply graven letters of the name “Ravandarr” as she hefted the spellblade that bore it in her hand.

  “An Orb! My spell has found a Talonar Orb!” a spellrobe cried excitedly. Lord Maulstryke turned at the far end of the room and almost flew across it, to stand over him. Several wizards crowded around.

  “There!” the excited spellrobe said, pointing into the tangled glow that floated in the air right in front of him. “Closer … closer …”

  A crowd was all around him now, leaning forward eagerly, not wanting to miss anything. The glowing lines started to writhe and brighten, as if sharing their excitement.

  21

  Trust, Fell Magic, and Hunting Traitors

  In the end, my every war has come down to these:

  Trust, fell magic, and ahunting traitors.

  —The Words of Dounlar

  Klaerra stiffened under him. Jalandral’s sword was in his hand in an instant. “What is it?” he hissed.

  “A spell … probing for me,” the crone hissed, her hand darting up between them to the Orb at her throat. It flared under her fingers, brightly enough to blind him into cursing and looking away, and then faded just as quickly.

  “I’m sure that was needful,” he snapped, one hand cupped over his sightless eyes. “Are you going to tell me why?”

  The soft movement under him was almost certainly a shrug.

  “It was necessary,” Klaerra replied calmly. “I had no time to build to lethal force. Just lie still, and your sight will return. As you well know, there are times when one must be … ruthless.”

  The spellrobe shrieked as his spell flared up in his face like a windblown candle. Then it was gone, leaving those crowding around blinking at empty air—and the spellrobe slumping lifelessly, smoke curling from his ears and scorched, bubbling eyes.

  The wizards around drew back from the strong reek of cooked Nifl flesh, even before an older spellrobe clear across the chamber said quietly, “Lord, I’ve found something you should see.”

  There followed a general rush across the room, the more prudent spellrobes ducking out of the way of Lord Maulstryke, who came to a sudden, silent halt in front of a scene floating in the air, that the spellrobe had already turned away from.

  It was a view of an uninhabited cavern, somewhere in the Wild Dark, wherein lay a blackened, twisted Niflghar body—little more than a skeleton cloaked in charred flesh. The forearms ended in stumps, hands missing.

  “Whose body am I seeing?” Ohzeld Maulstryke asked with a terrible gentleness.

  The spellrobe finished his second spell—and the spellblade on the table started to glow.

  The wizard sighed, and then looked away as he whispered, “Shoan Maulstryke, Lord. The spellblade confirms it. I’m sorry.”

  The spellrobes crowding around Lord Maulstryke all carefully looked away, and edged as far from the Talonar Lord as they could, expecting him to rage and weep and smash things.

  Lord Maulstryke gave them silence. Long silence, during which he drew himself up, if possible, even taller and straighter.

  Then he remarked calmly, “Orbs, I’m told, can leave a trail when very strong magic is called forth from them. Is there such a trail leading out of this cavern?”

  All around him, wizards broke into a frenzy of
spellcasting, and it seemed no time at all before one—and then, very quickly, another—said excitedly, “Yes!”

  “Follow it,” Maulstryke told them, in that same gentle voice, and the feverish spellcasting began all around him again.

  Taerune was asleep at last, her long slow breaths threaded with the faintest and briefest of soft, gurgling snores.

  Orivon lay awake, staring at the jagged cavern ceiling high above, very aware of the slender Nifl arm draped across him.

  How did he truly feel about Taerune Evendoom?

  She’d been tender, even loving, she had—yes—saved both their lives. More than once.

  She’d refrained from killing him when she clearly could have, and … could he trust her? Truly trust her?

  With a sound that was half groan and half gasp, the fifth spellrobe toppled forward in his seat, smashing his face on the unyielding smoothness of the stone table. Another swayed, biting his lip.

  All of the nine remaining spellrobes concentrating on tracing spells were now pale and beaded with sweat.

  The lesser wizards who had no spells underway eyed the nine anxiously, looking from one to the other. Lord Maulstryke stood like a patient statue, silent and expressionless as he watched, only his eyes moving.

  Abruptly another spellrobe toppled forward, convulsing, his flailing arms striking aside a row of his own vials.

  A novice wizard plucked them up as they started to roll, that none might shatter and be lost. Another looked up at Maulstryke’s set face and said anxiously, “Lord, they’re doing all they can! Such tracing is extremely tiring, even when concentrating on ways near at hand, and not through the strange magics of the Wild Dark! This is why items and—and wanted persons aren’t traced all the time by magic, and—”