Dark Warrior Rising

by Ed Greenwood

  She’ll betray me. This is all just an excuse. They’ve got me where they want me, now, a slave again, and that’s where they’ll keep me.

  [Orivon! Stop this! We’re blood-sworn, remember? Don’t you know ANYTHING about Nifl?]

  Aye, that they enslave humans. Get out of my mind, Nifl bitch.

  [Your trust doesn’t run very deep, does it?]

  Taerune’s lash came down for the hundredth time, its strike burning and stinging. Orivon had no idea how she was managing to wield it so he didn’t get cut by its blades, but that bespoke only her skill, not friendly intent. If she sliced up the only slave she had, she’d have to carry all this heavy gear, wouldn’t she?

  “Watch out!”

  The shout was as sudden as it was loud—and was more of a scream than a shout, at that.

  Bloodblade spun around. “That was Lharlak!”

  He stared past them, and then snapped, “Lots of Nifl, back there! Firefist, drop the bundle! Tarerune, help him! Run!”

  “Run where?” Orivon snarled, heaving his huge load sideways and ducking to get out from under it. Taerune was already clawing at the baldric buckles.

  “Up ahead! Ruse?”

  “I’m here! Lharlak?”

  “Dead—that’s his arm there, dangling! Is the Throat within reach?”

  “Aye, but look! They’re right behind us!”

  “So we fight and run—thank Olone they’re Ouvahlan: no hurlbows!”

  They ran.

  Laughing now, waving their swords, the Ouvahlan warblades sprang down the tumbled rocks and sprinted after them. One waved Lharlak’s severed head around—and then hurled it.

  It fell far short of them, thudding wetly on rocks, and Bloodblade snarled, “Crone-schooled bastard. I’ll remember that face, I will …”

  Then he was huffing and puffing too hard to say more. Stones turned and tumbled underfoot as they ran up a steeply rising, narrowing passage, ducked around a sharp bend, and came out into a tiny cavern.

  “The Throat,” Daruse panted. “We stand here, and strike at the Ouvahlans as they come along the narrow way.”

  Orivon stared across the cavern, at a wider passage running on. “Won’t they just circle around and come at us from that way?”

  “Of course, but it’s a long way around, if they know it at all. Any tricks to help us, Bloodblade?”

  “Nothing that’s any use in a battle. One healing-stone.”

  “Huh,” Daruse grunted dismissively. “Right: we fight!”

  “My turn,” Orivon growled, hefting his sword and glaring at Taerune, daring her to say anything against him.

  Gravely, she nodded, kissed her dagger, and gave him an Evendoom salute with it.

  “Firefist,” Bloodblade grunted, “if they blind you or wound you, or you start to slip, back out fast. In this direction, if you can, so we can jump in past you and hold the way.”

  “I hear,” Orivon grunted, stepping forward—and then staggering, as the first hard-running Ouvahlan charged right into him, striking his sword aside and trying to bull his way on, into the cavern. A second Ouvahlan warblade was right behind him.

  Orivon kicked the blade right out of that second warblade’s hand—and Taerune hurled herself forward like a spear to put her sword tip into his face. The force of Orivon’s kick slammed the warblade he was grappling into the wall where the narrow way started to widen into the cavern—and the flat of Bloodblade’s sword slammed into the warblade’s sword, pinning it against the stone. Orivon dared to let go of his own trapped blade long enough to punch the Nifl’s throat as hard as he could, and managed to catch hold of his sword hilt again before the gagging, gargling warblade started to fall.

  Another two Ouvahlan warblades slammed into their dying fellows from behind, driving everyone out into the cavern—and suddenly the room was full of hacking, thrusting Niflghar, Daruse was roaring in pain, and Bloodblade was snarling out a flood of curses as two or three Ouvahlans drove him back, clear across the cavern and into the passage beyond.

  Then Taerune swung her whip, shouting, “Down, Orivon!”

  Deadly blades sliced Nifl all around her; warblades shouted in pain all around the cavern. Someone threw a dagger that caught in her hair and another that struck her bodice and was turned away by the bracers Orivon had thrust into them—and then Orivon was up and hacking furiously at any bloodied, startled warblade he could reach, crouching as low as he could. Something icy sliced across his back, he heard Taerune cry, “Sorry, Orivon!” and then more Nifl screamed.

  “Motherless, Ice-loving sleeth!” Bloodblade snarled, sounding faint and far away—and then Orivon was too busy killing Niflghar warblades who were trying to kill him, to notice anything else but the frantic thrust, turn, twist, leap, and hack of his own fighting.

  He was vaguely aware of bodies underfoot, and thought he saw the staring face of Daruse among them, but really couldn’t be sure—as he panted for breath, whirled to look for a warblade he was sure had ducked past him, found that Nifl sinking down as Taerune’s whip tore out his face, and caught sight of a puffing, blood-drenched Bloodblade staggering back into the cavern.

  Then Taerune’s whip entangled the legs of one last warblade, he toppled, she ruthlessly drove the blade her left arm now ended in into his throat … and silence fell.

  There were no more Ouvahlans standing in the cavern, though the floor was heaped with them. Bloodblade peered down the passage that led back to Glowstone, swore, started to run—and then stopped, sighing. “One—their commander—getting away,” he panted. “Back to tell—”

  “I’ll take him!” Orivon snapped, and launched himself into the passage. He could hear Taerune gasping behind him as he ran, shoulders slamming bruisingly into this side wall and then that one, hurling himself along.

  Soon they’d come to the steep slope down, with the loose stones, but it was a long way before there’d be side caverns and other passages, that the Nifl could choose to take. He had to run down the Ouvahlan before then, or the rest of the army would be guided, patrol after patrol, until—

  A dagger came hurtling right at his face!

  Behind it, the Ouvahlan was rushing forward, sword up.

  Orivon slipped.

  The dagger flashed over him as he started to fall, and he heard Taerune grunt, and then sob.

  Thorar, no! She’s been hit!

  The grinning warblade thrust at him. Still falling, Orivon kicked desperately, slashed back and forth with his blade, and flung up his free hand to try to slap the darting Ouvahlan blade away.

  His kick struck only air, his blade clanged off the Ouvahlan’s sword but drove it past his shoulder—and his hand slammed into the Ouvahlan’s sword hand. He shoved at it as he slid on past, slamming into the Nifl’s legs.

  The Ouvahlan fell on him, hard. They both cursed, and Orivon saw a Nifl hand plucking at a sheathed dagger. He slammed the hilt of his sword into his foe’s head, heard the warblade grunt, and—was flung sideways as Taerune hurled herself along his body, blade-first, to bury her steel in the Ouvahlan’s neck and throat.

  The Nifl went limp, and Taerune crawled on them both, using the warblade’s own dagger to make sure the Ouvahlan was dead.

  Then things went very quiet, save for their hard breathing.

  “Are they all dead?” Orivon gasped.

  “Yes,” Taerune gasped back, her knees and elbows bruising him as she turned atop him.

  “Are you hurt?” he managed to gasp out—before her lips found his.

  They were hot and hungry, and were all the answer he got until Bloodblade grunted, “Could you two couple in a slightly roomier spot, d’you think? Taerune, you’re bleeding something fierce, and should be cuddling my healing-stone, not this huge hairy human!”

  Jalandral smiled as the glow that had claimed him faded away again. Drawing his sword, he stepped forward confidently into an unfamiliar passage, deep in the Wild Dark.

  He was walking into danger again, and that was just how he wanted
it.

  Orivon’s bundle was much smaller now. Taerune walked ahead of him, her painful healing done, and Bloodblade trudged along behind. No one mentioned Lharlak or Daruse, and no one dawdled. There might be many more Ouvahlan patrols looking for travelers to butcher.

  “I’m sorry you got hurt,” Orivon told Taerune. Again. “That dagger should never have got past me.”

  Taerune sighed and turned. “Don’t be. It was battle. Behave cruelly more often; you’ll find it gets much easier.”

  Orivon gave her a dark look. “That’s precisely what I fear.”

  “Enough, you two,” Bloodblade growled from behind them. “We’re almost at the way up into the Blindingbright—and there’s always beasts lurking thereabouts to deal with.”

  By the time he reached the Hidden Gate and found its guards gone, Lord Evendoom was more than tired of burning Nameless rabble, crones, and Evendoom servants. Moreover, spellblade magic doesn’t last forever, and he did not want to end up beset by Lord-murderers in his own bed-chambers, defending himself with nothing but a dagger and a no-longer-magic sword. So he had to remember all the places battle-magic had been hidden in the Eventowers, and hope by Olone that the crones hadn’t gotten to all of them first.

  Trudging down the long tunnel that served as the back way into the Eventowers, he passed the time thinking up new curses.

  “I’ll wait down here in the Dark for you two to kiss and slobber and all of that,” Bloodblade grunted. “Don’t go throwing any temporarily discarded clothing down on my head, now.”

  Orivon and Taerune both gave him withering looks; he just grinned and waved them up the narrow, winding way that led up into everbrighter light.

  Despite Bloodblade’s dire warnings, there’d been no beasts, though they’d seen gnawed and scattered bones in plenty. Taerune shivered as they stepped up into a boulder-strewn cavern whose far end was one blinding wall of light.

  “The Blindingbright,” Orivon said roughly. “My home.”

  “Another world,” Taerune mumbled, trembling.

  Orivon put an arm around her. “It’s just light. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “For you,” she hissed, her fingers over her eyes. “Humans slaughter Nifl, remember?”

  Orivon stroked her hair awkwardly, drawing her against his chest. “I hated you so much,” he muttered, “for so long.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t hate you,” she said, in a small voice. Then she added firmly, “Have my thanks, Orivon. I owe you my life. Dark Warrior.”

  Orivon looked over her head at the sunlight. He could just see green leaves, now. “I won’t forget you,” he said, suddenly very weary.

  “I know that. We’re blood-sworn … and you’re Olone’s Dark Warrior.”

  “And what is Olone, but a name priestesses threaten other Nifl with?”

  “Be not so sure of that.” She shivered violently, and then hissed, “If ever you are in need, get back down into the Dark, away from this light, fill your hand with your own blood, and say my name. I will hear.”

  “And?”

  “And come to this place, if I can. I stand in your debt, Orivon Firefist.”

  “For lashing you? And turning your city into a battlefield?”

  “Oh, Olone damn you, human, don’t make this harder!” Taerune’s finger caught hold of his ear, she dragged his face down and kissed him fiercely, her tongue like a sword—and then tore free and strode away from him.

  They gazed at each other in silence, and then Taerune slowly drew her dagger, gave him an Evendoom salute, and turned away.

  “Taerune—lass—” Orivon blurted out, and she turned to face him, already two strides down the cleft that led down into the Dark.

  “Keep safe,” he said roughly. “And may we meet again as friends, by Thorar. And Olone.”

  Taerune gave him a smile, blew him a kiss, and was gone.

  Orivon stood for a long time staring at where his last sight of her had been, remembering those eyes staring at his, wet with tears.

  And then he sighed heavily, felt for the hilt of his sword, and started the walk out to the waiting sunlight.

  Taerune wiped her eyes and stood still in the gloom, with the light of the Blindingbright behind her and the deep and familiar darkness ahead.

  She was an Evendoom no more.

  Whether Maharla or her father were alive or dead, no matter who was Eldest and who ruled the Place of the Goddess, the family she knew—and knew her place in, a place she still sorely wanted—was gone. Gone to her. No one-armed Nifl-she could stand in the favor of the Goddess.

  This one-armed Nifl-she no longer wanted to. Merely thinking of the cruelty and endless striving, blood against blood, family against family, city against city … no.

  Not for her.

  Nor was she truly a Ravager, embracing their endless skulking to survive. It was still fighting, always fighting.

  Something she’d had a taste for when she was a pampered Lady Evendoom, able to sneer at so many, take what she wanted, and never fear danger nor hunger. Something that held no glee at all now, when she would have to struggle to seize everything, from her next meal to freedom from a slave chain or the pawings of every Nifl-he stronger than she was, who had two arms to defeat her one.

  “I am alone,” she murmured to the waiting darkness. “Loyal now only to myself, and those who’ve proven their loyalty to me.”

  She stood silent for a long time ere adding in a whisper, “Like the hairy beast who just left my life. Olo—no, Thorar damn you, Dark Warrior.”

  Her sigh trembled almost into another sob. Tossing her head angrily and sweeping her surviving arm through the darkness as if she could hurl Orivon Firefist and Talonnorn and every last Talonar Nifl away from her, she set off back down into the darkness.

  It was a very short time before she reached the jutting edge of rock. Beyond it, when she turned the corner, fat Bloodblade would be waiting to greet her with some smart remark about the lovemaking of humans, no doubt.

  She went around the rock. Someone else was standing there, with a grin on his face and a drawn sword in his hand.

  “Sister,” Jalandral purred, “I’ve been hunting you for a long time.”

  Taerune stared at him, open-mouthed.

  Her brother took a slow, smiling step toward her.

  Behind him, Old Bloodblade stepped silently out of a dark side cleft, sword and dagger raised.

  Epilogue

  Coming home is seldom as easy as the tales have it.

  —saying of the priests of Thorar

  Two strides out of the cave, Orivon started to cry.

  He’d been so afraid he’d find unfamiliar countryside and villages full of folk he didn’t know, who’d see him as some sort of marauder to be slain or driven out.

  But there were Old Larthor’s fields—all overgrown, mind—and the roofs of Ashenuld below him. He hurried down the slope.

  Birds called and flitted, but there were no shouts, no beasts in the fields …

  Nothing but silence and empty homes, their stones tumbling into an overgrown street.

  Ashenuld was an abandoned ruin.

  “A welcome?” Orivon bellowed, loudly enough to set birds shrieking up into the sky to wheel squawking overhead. “Anyone?”

  No voice replied.

  Orivon drew his sword. Jaw set, he tramped to his home. Its door was open, the inside dark and empty, nothing greeting him but the faint reek of mold. No one had lived there for a long time.

  The next house was the same.

  And the next.

  Silently raging, fresh tears almost blinding him, Orivon sought the holy hut.

  It was fallen and gone, trees standing thickly where its door had been. He could see the worn threshold, between some roots, but …

  Ashenuld was gone. These were but its bones.

  Orivon looked back at the cave, hefting his sword in his hand, and then shook his head.

  He looked slowly all around at what had been his home, shoo
k his head again, and then whispered, “Farewell, Mother. I hope you died well, and lived better.”

  The same empty words he’d heard the old aunts say so often, at one death or another.

  “Thorar be with me now,” he whispered—and set off down what had been Ashenuld’s main street, the way that led down out of the hills to the village of Orlkettle, and then on to the market-moot of Blard’s Brook, and then a long, long way to the fabled many-kings’ city of Orlpur.

  Orlkettle was almost a day’s walk, and—he looked up at the sky—he had less than a day left, before nightfall.

  When the wolves and worse came out.

  Orivon smiled mirthlessly, and strode on. That “worse” would now be him.

  It did not seem to him that he’d walked all that long before he saw the plumes of smoke climbing the sky. Three or four; the thin ribbons that rise from chimneys. Orlkettle. That largest, darkest plume would be the smithy.

  He strode to it, ignoring the cries of fearful children and goodwives running for the fields to fetch their men.

  There were shouts, and someone came to the door of the smithy before he reached it. Someone old, and scarred, and bristle-bearded, who fixed him with a hard gaze.

  “Who be you, stranger, and what want you here, with drawn sword and all?”

  “Orivon am I, of … a far place. What befell in Ashenuld?”

  “Nightskin raids, until none were left but old Ralla and her kin, who tarried in hopes that her son would return.”

  “And where are Ralla and her kin now?”

  “Dead, all of them, in the hard winters and the jaws of the wolves and nightskin raids.”

  The smith eyed Orivon’s scars as if he recognized them.

  “Now I’ve given answers, and it’s your turn. Where’d you come by that sword?”

  “Made it,” Orivon said simply.

  The smith nodded, looking not surprised in the slightest. “New to these hills?”