by Ed Greenwood
Snatched off his feet, the human awkwardly tried to cradle the Ravager, wrapping himself around Bloodblade as they struck stone, skidded along, found air again, crashed bruisingly down again, bounced up—and came to a solid, bone-jarring halt against the stump of a scarred old stalagmite.
“Ohhh,” Orivon gasped, wincing, as he straightened himself, still lying on his side with Bloodblade wedged against him on one side, and the unyielding stone fang on the other. Nothing seemed to be broken, but …
Bloodblade rolled away and up to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and then reached down a hand to haul Orivon up. “Thanks, Firefist. You make a better cushion than a lot of shes I’ve … ahem …”
Taerune waved at them. She was standing unscathed among the corpses, grinning at them both. “Bloodblade, come see what madness your magic toy has wrought now.”
Daruse and Lharlak were already tramping past them. “Hmmph,” the Nifl with the eye patch commented. “We go chasing Talonar Lords at great risk to ourselves, and you two lie down for a little nap. Think yourselves decadent Haraedran Lords or suchlike?”
Then they saw where Taerune was pointing, stopped, and started to chuckle.
On a blasted-clear ring of stone floor, a faint shimmering glow remained, and at its heart lay a Niflghar battle kit: gleaming armor, boots, and all manner of weapons, neatly laid out as if on a Lord’s wardrobe bench.
They gathered to stare at it. “Well, that’s new,” Bloodblade muttered. “And that battle plate won’t fit me.” He looked at Orivon. “Or him.”
Daruse and Lharlak looked at the armor, and then at each other, and shook their heads. “Not interested,” said Daruse.
“Prefer what I’m used to,” Lharlak added. “Besides, that armor might come with spells on it that force me to go and do something, or hate all gorkuls, or something.”
They both looked at Taerune, who just shook her head—and then reached down and plucked up one weapon: a Niflghar battle-whip, three braided wire tails about as long as two Nifl stood tall, tipped with barbs that looked like daggers. She smiled, and purred, “I’ve always wanted one of these.”
Daruse smirked, and murmured in Orivon’s ear, “I’d be glad you just did the blood-swearing, if I were you.”
“Looks like a pack-snout drover’s whip, with blades where the club ends should be,” Lharlak said, peering at Orivon’s broad shoulders. “Aye, it’s going to leave marks.”
“Will you two jesters leave off?” Taerune growled, in mimicry of Bloodblade’s usual tone.
“Aye,” Bloodblade echoed her perfectly. “Will you two jesters leave off?”
They all laughed, and then Bloodblade growled, “Let’s just leave everything else right where it is. I’ve about had enough of magic; I’m getting too old for surprises.”
“So what do we do now?” Taerune asked, looking from one Ravager to another.
“Get far from here, deep out into the Dark, and start over,” Bloodblade growled. “If I know Talonnorn—and Ouvahlor—they’ll be all over this cavern, and scouring the Dark around it, before long. Coming with us, Dark Warrior? I know two ways up to the surface, and we’ll be going right past one of them!”
Orivon stared at the fat Ravager. “So you know,” he said slowly.
Bloodblade gave him an amused look. “I’m an outcast Nifl, not a stupid one, human. And thanks to these two skulkers”—he waved at Daruse and Lharlak, who obligingly bowed and struck preening poses—“I have very long ears. Armies! Throwing off oppressors in Talonnorn! Dream-spew, lad; pure dream-spew! They’re probably sitting in the city sipping wine right now, with a gleaming army or two of their own standing ready to greet us!”
He trudged away—and then topped, whirled around, and pointed at the corpse-strewn cavern floor behind them. “Grab some blankets. At least three each. Oh, and a cookpot or two; it’s hard to feed this many cooking out of a codpiece! Firefist, make yourself useful! Pretend you’re a slave again!”
Maharla Evendoom passed her hand over the flickering glow of her scrying-spell to end it, and sighed. “Erlingar almost back here, all the crones of the city thirsting for my blood … my time as Eldest of Evendoom is done.”
She strode across the spell-sealed chamber to the long table where she’d laid out most powerful magic items of House Evendoom, and made some swift selections.
“I must flee Talonnorn,” she mused aloud, tapping her chin with a scepter that winked warningly, “and that means hiding in the Dark. And that means becoming a Ravager, at least until the temple is stable again, and I can slay whoever rules there and replace them with my shapechanged self.”
Biting her lip, she pondered, frown deepening. “If I can take the shape of a Ravager slain in that cavern …”
Suddenly brisk, she strode to her robing room. “I must get there and find a body that’s not too damaged, to shape myself on …”
“Thorar, this is hot and heavy!” Orivon complained, hefting the huge load on his shoulders. Pots swayed and chains jangled. “Do all Ravagers go loaded like pack-snouts?”
“Yes,” Lharlak told him sweetly, so hung about with salvaged waterskins that he looked like a gigantic sphere of hide. “Who’s Thorar?”
“What? Why, Thorar’s the god of—uh, a human god. Of storms and rain and … lightning … night …” Orivon caught sight of the mocking expressions Daruse and Lharlak were wearing, and growled, “Well, I was young when I was … dragged down here.”
Amid their chuckles he heaved, swung, and set down his gigantic lashed-together assembly of rolled blankets, pots and pans, rope and tools (with sad, silent thanks he’d taken those he’d used to make Taerune’s blade from a Ravager who was now far beyond needing them again). Off came his robe with the bracers stuffed into it, and the tunic, to be thrust through the ropes binding the load together. Stripped to the waist, he swung the huge load back up onto his back and shoulders, snugged the buckled-together baldrics into place, and growled, “That’s better.”
“Good to hear,” Bloodblade replied, from behind a stalagmite up ahead. “Are we ready to see all too much of the Dark?”
“We are,” Taerune replied, putting herself between Bloodblade and Orivon. Daruse went on ahead, Lharlak fell to the rear—and they set off into the Wild Dark.
“Do we have a map?” Orivon asked, as the passage narrowed and the stone floor under their boots started to rise.
Bloodblade looked back at the human incredulously. “Map?” He tapped his head. “This is my map!”
Aloun took another sip of his elanselveir, and yawned again. “Ahh, but this is good! Why can’t we have whorls-off times more often?”
“We can, if those who lead Ouvahlor and its foes take more time off from trying to destroy each other,” Luelldar replied, leaning back in his chair with his feet up on a sculpture and the arc of scrying-whorls in front of him dark and silent. It was the first occasion Aloun had ever seen them that way. “However, as long as they’re hurling armies and patrols and flying Hunts and Klarandarr-only-knows what else at each other …”
“Oh! Klarandarr—where do you think he’ll spell-smash next? Glowstone?”
“‘Spell-smash’? Wherever do you pick up these clumsy expressions? Really, I—no, he won’t strike Glowstone just yet. Not until after our army has passed through.”
23
Glowstone and Beyond
And I’ve fared far into the deadly Wild Dark,
As far as lawless Glowstone, and beyond.
—The Words of Dounlar
Daruse was waiting for them as they trudged up a slippery passage and around a bend into a low-ceilinged, foul-smelling cavern.
“This is about close enough,” he said, and Bloodblade nodded.
“Pack-snout dung?” Orivon asked, sniffing. The stout Ravager nodded.
“Traders often pen their snouts up here.”
“Traders? Who trades hereabouts?”
“Ravagers. Up ahead is a Ravager-moot, a market. Glowstone by name. Which is why y
ou’re going to have to walk tethered from now on.”
“‘Tethered’?”
“Remember the blood-swearing, Orivon,” Taerune said quickly. “Trust us, please. We have to make you look like a slave. A rope around your neck, Bloodblade holding its other end, leading you long—and I’ll have this whip out. If I crack you a time or two, act as if you’re used to it; don’t turn on me, or we’ll have half the Ravagers in Glowstone charging at you, trying to ‘help tame the uppity slave.’”
Orivon glared at her.
“Please?” she asked quietly. “I still stand in your debt, for saving my life—or so I see it. Trust me.”
“Aye, but these Nifl with us don’t,” he growled.
Bloodblade laid a hand on Orivon’s arm. “Firefist,” he growled in almost identical tones, “we’re Ravagers, not Haraedra. Doesn’t matter to us if you’re human, or gorkul, or Holy Olone herself: you’ve fought Talonar alongside us and dealt with us fairly. You’re one of us. Now trust us, and perhaps we’ll all get through Glowstone alive.”
“And we can’t go around?”
“Firefist, have you seen any heaps of handy food in all the caverns we’ve walked thus far? In Glowstone we’ll trade some of those swords and boots that’re weighing you down so heavily for food. Our friends are too dead to need the boots and warsteel longer, but we can use the meals.”
Orivon sighed and set down his load. “Put the rope on me.”
Lord Oondaunt turned. “Naraedel, I need you to deliver these words to her: ‘Come now. The time is right.’ She will know their meaning.”
The envoy bowed low. “Of course, Lord. ‘Come now. The time is right.’ I shall not fail you.”
Raudreth Oondaunt smiled. “You never have—and never will.”
Naraedel gave his Lord a grateful smile, whispered his thanks as ardently as any lover, rose and turned in one smooth movement, and hurried away to where his darkwings was waiting.
Never will, indeed, he thought. She’ll slay me as soon as I speak those words; you’ve agreed on it. I KNOW that smile, Raudreth Oondaunt. And she’ll cast her spell and step right into your chamber—and from there into the Place of the Goddess. She’ll seize rule over the temple ruthlessly—and between you, you and she will do the same to Talonnorn. I think NOT.
Secure against the ever-probing Oondaunt spellrobes in the mindshield he’d bought in the Araed, Naraedel strode on. This was the last time he’d ever see these walls—Olone spit, this city.
This would be the first—and last—message he’d fail to deliver. And no one trusts an envoy who decides for himself which messages to impart, and which to bury. So, how much could he get for a tamed darkwings in, say, Arnoenar?
Once past the hard-eyed sentries with their racks of ready bows and longspears, Glowstone was a crowded, noisy place.
Orivon looked around in astonishment; there were a lot of Ravagers dwelling out in the Dark, if this place was any indication. It was a large cavern—not as big as the one that held Talonnorn, and much lower-ceilinged—crowded with stone storefronts, pens, carts, hurrying and haggling Nifl of all descriptions, few of them unblemished enough to have been tolerated in Talonnorn at all. An unending market.
They’d passed only the first few stalls when someone called, “Ho, Bloodblade! Where’re the rest of you?”
Old Bloodblade grinned, waved, and made no reply.
About then, a Nifl rampant looked up from what looked like small blocks of pressed dung, but were probably dried fruits of some sort. He peered hard at Orivon, grinned in recognition, and said, “Good disguise!”
Orivon blinked, and so (he saw) did Bloodblade.
They crossed a street, and another Nifl said the same thing. A stall later, someone looked up and jeered, “Ho, Dark Warrior! Lost your army?”
“I don’t recall anyone standing in that cavern but us,” Lharlak murmured, from close behind Orivon, and Taerune hummed a wordless, puzzled agreement.
They came to another cross street, and a shrine to Olone so small and simple that it would have been sneered at in Talonnorn, or thrown down as an insult to the Goddess. A Nifl priestess swaying there in quiet personal prayer broke off her chant to cry, “Hail, Orivon Firefist, sent by Olone!”
“What?” Taerune’s murmur was bewildered. “I made all that up! Or … did I?” She stared at the face of the Goddess, sculpted above the altar of the open shrine.
“We’d already figured as much,” Bloodblade muttered. “Yet decided we liked you enough to spare your lives, regardless.”
“Thank you,” Taerune told him. “I … misjudged you. All of you.”
“Many do,” Lharlak intoned. “Many do.”
“May the favor of Olone find us all,” Daruse said piously, bending to kiss the hands of the priestess and leave the tiniest gems Orivon had ever seen in them.
The Consecrated smiled as if delighted, and thanked him profusely as they walked on.
“Yonder’s the trader whose food I prefer,” Bloodblade said, pointing ahead.
“Whose wine you like, you mean,” Daruse teased. “Try to remember to buy something solid, this time.”
“Consider yourself expendable,” Bloodblade growled.
“As long as you never have to run anywhere,” Daruse agreed, “or think about anything …”
Jalandral sighed. “Klaerra, dearest, are we fated to tarry in Evennar forever ?”
“No. We’ll depart soon, now. Yet patience, my bright young blade, patience. Some things you learn all too slowly.”
Jalandral winked, grinned, and struck a pose. “Would your teaching preferences have anything to do with that?”
“Of course. A crone’s hard life has to hold some rewards.”
Jalandral snorted. “Let me know when to start noticing the ‘hard’ part.” Then he saw her eyes start to twinkle. Rolling his eyes, he sighed, “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Yes, you’re tired, and yes, they have soft sleeping beds—for outrageous fees—but I never tarry in Glowstone long,” Bloodblade answered a complaining Orivon, four caverns past the market-moot. “It gives sneak-thieves and a few personal enemies time to prepare something unpleasant for us. In and out, before they can tear themselves away from the business of the moment. We’ll turn off the main passage soon, and take a side way I know, and then sleep in a tight place we can wall up with rocks.”
“I—” Orivon started to say, and then fell silent because Daruse was hurrying back toward them, his face grim.
“There’s an army ahead, scouts far that way and right along that far, too. Heading this way,” he snapped. “Ouvahlor.”
Luelldar swung his feet down and waved one hand across the arc of whorls. They flashed into spinning life in an instant.
Aloun stared. “What—?”
“They’re about to attack Glowstone, by now,” the Senior Watcher replied crisply. “Awaken your whorl.”
“But how do you know that?”
“I watch, and learn, and so I know. You’ll get used to doing so, too. In about a thousand thousand Turnings from now, at the rate you’re going.”
He pointed down at the junior Watcher’s whorl. “Watch. See. Learn. And don’t glower at me: most Ouvahlans never learn to, all their lives long.”
“Hurry,” Bloodblade snapped. “Taerune, unlimber that whip. Orivon, she’ll lash the load as much as she can, but you’re going to get stung. Bah! Where’s that Olone-blasted Ouvahlan tunic? At the bottom, the one you want’s always at the bottom …”
“What’re we—?”
“Pretending to be Ouvahlan slave-traders, with one slave. You.”
Orivon glared at the fat Ravager. “This’d better not be a trick …”
“Firefist,” Lharlak said quietly, “this had better be a trick, and one that works well. Or we’ll all be dead very soon.”
“Be glad we’re out here,” the Talonar patrol leader grunted. “Beasts prowl out here, aye—but everyone’s killing each other back in the city.”
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“What I want to know is what comes and gnaws on dead Nifl like this,” a warblade said bitterly, using his sword to turn over a corpse that was more bone than flesh.
“Nothing’s touched them, over here,” another warblade called—and then sprang back. “Hoy! This one’s not dead!”
The patrol rushed forward—as Faunhorn Evendoom struggled to sit up and menace them with his sword.
“Easy, Lord, easy!” a warblade said quickly. “You’re of Evendoom, right?”
“Yes.” The reply was grim. “What’s this about killings in Talonnorn?”
The patrol leader took a deep breath. “Lord, I know not if you’ll believe this, but …”
“Not much of a slaver,” a battlemar smirked. “One slave.”
“Ah, but it was big one!” a lanceshar joked. “No, Arlarran, he just sold them all off in Glowstone, see?”
“Arlarran,” the Ouvahlan commander snapped, silencing the banter. “Small that slaving band may be, but kill them for me.”
“Lord? He was of Ouvahlor.”
“What of it? He’s one more tongue that can wag about our presence. Take some warblades back to silence him. Mind you witness every death; you’ll be describing them to me. If you hurry, you might not miss the slaughter.”
“No more Glowstone,” the lanceshar murmured.
On a ledge high above the Talonar patrol, Grunt Tusks lay very still. The knotted-together chains made a crude but mighty flail, but metal moving on stone would make a noise the Nifl below couldn’t miss. Their dooms would come, but not here and not now.
It had been a slow, hard job to batter that collar off; Grunt Tusks intended to live a long, long time. And kill a lot more Talonar Nifl than just one patrol.