Pendaran, however, was easily twice Sorrell's age, well into his third century of life. He was armed, that morning, with a bow that was black as night and strung with a blood-red string. A quiver at his hip, next to a sheathed dagger, held a dozen arrows with red fletching.
The sweepers moved aside with their brooms. The portal was a mosaic made from thousands of pebbles set into the forest floor; dark green stones formed a pattern of oversized leaves that spiraled in toward the mosaic's center. Only by stepping on the leaves in a specific pattern could the portal's magic be triggered. Sorrell had never used the portal before. He'd have to watch where the others stepped, or be left behind.
He expected Pendaran to set but immediately, but the dhaeraowathila was busy untying the strings of a small silk bag. The others in the war band gathered around him expectantly. They gave Sorrell sharp glances as he joined them.
Pendaran tipped the bag's contents into one calloused palm: five rings made of a brownish material that looked like carved horn. He held out his hand; Koora, Nairen and Adair each took a ring. Sorrell hesitated, then took the fifth ring. He slid it onto the second finger of his left hand, next to the invisibility ring. Immediately, his awareness expanded fivefold. He was aware of everything around him, as if he were looking and listening in several different directions at once. His mind filled with voices.
… filthy spider kissers. A male voice-either Nairen's or Adair's.
Five silver pieces says I take down more than you. Similar to the first voice, but deeper, more human sounding.
Good hunting. That voice was female, with the distinctive lilt of a wild elf. Koora.
Cut the chatter, Pendaran ordered.
The voices fell silent.
Pendaran turned to Sorrell. "To use the ring, imagine yourself speaking to the person you want to talk to," he said out loud.
Sorrell concentrated. Like this? He saw Adair wince. Not so loud, Nairen snapped. Novices, Adair grumbled, shaking his head. Sorrell gave the half-elf a sharp look. Adair had obviously intended him to hear that. Let's go, Pendaran ordered.
Sorrell expected Pendaran to take the lead, but it was the wild elf Koora who stepped onto the portal first. Pendaran followed.
You're next, said Nairen, gesturing with a jerk of his head. The new man goes in the middle, where he can do the least harm. Remember that.
Sorrell shrugged off the comment. The Silent Slayers had worked together as a team for nearly six years-he'd overheard someone mention that the night before-and were obviously used to doing things a certain way. And Sorrell had yet to prove himself. He nodded and stepped onto the first leaf, observing where Pendaran placed his feet. Nairen and Adair followed.
Koora reached the center of the spiral and vanished. Then Pendaran. One moment the grizzled knight was just ahead of Sorrell; the next, he was gone. Only a faint shimmer in the air marked the transition. Sorrell hesitated for a heartbeat, then stepped on the center leaf himself.
It was as if he'd stepped into a cyclone. The world spun crazily around him, trees flashing past in a blur. Reeling sideways like a drunken man, he fell to his hands and knees. He glanced up and saw Pendaran staring down at him, a slight frown on his face. Sorrell scrambled to his feet, ignoring the scrapes on his hands-and on his dignity.
Nairen, then Adair stepped out of the center of the portal.
The mosaic they'd been transported to looked identical to the first, save for the fact that the leaves on it were red. Pendaran glanced around, then waved the group on.
Sorrell trudged along at the middle of the group, as instructed. In the Yuirwood, it wasn't snowing. The ground was clear, though icicles tinkled in the branches above. And it was cold; Sorrell's breath fogged the air. In years gone by, he would have wrapped a cloth around his throat and mouth to protect his voice.
He inhaled, savoring the bite of cold air inside his lungs.
A short time later, an outcropping of granite could be seen through the forest ahead. Pendaran halted the group and pointed out a crack, no more than a palm's breadth wide, that ran up the face of the rock. There it is.
He glanced around, then whistled softly. A moment later, a patch of brown detached itself from a nearby tree. It was a half-elf, her hooded cloak and trousers the exact shade of the forest around them, her face and hands stained a mottled brown. Save for her bright blue eyes, Sorrell would have had difficulty spotting her, even close up. Her boots must also have been magical; she moved without making a sound. She held a bow with a nocked arrow in one hand. She assured Pendaran that nothing and no one-visible or invisible-had passed through the crack since morning.
Pendaran glanced at Nairen.
The wild elf stood with closed eyes, her arms extended toward the crack in the rock. Pendaran nodded.
Adair leveled his spear at the crack and whispered under his breath.
Pendaran nodded again.
Nairen caught his leader's eye, shook his head.
Sorrell realized the Silent Slayers were talking to one another, comparing notes as they used magic to examine the cave. He felt like an outsider, watching a performance he wasn't allowed to participate in.
Join up, Pendaran said. We're going in. He repeated the latter, out loud, to the half-elf who had been standing watch in the forest. The woman saluted them, then resumed her vigil.
The other three Slayers each laid a hand on their leader's shoulder. When Pendaran glanced impatiently at him, Sorrell did the same. He noticed that the others were crouching slightly, and bent his own knees. Pendaran's lips moved in silent prayer, and he took a step forward. Sorrell felt a tearing sensation, as if his body had been yanked thin, and found himself standing inside a cave. The walls were jagged and rough; ice-split granite. Loose stone shifted underfoot. Sorrell started to straighten Watch your head, fool!
The warning was in Nairen's voice. And it was a heartbeat too late. Sorrell cracked his head on a bulge of rock that he hadn't noticed in the dimly lit cave. Wincing, he sank back into a crouch.
Koora squatted beside a hole near the back of the cavern, her hands extended over it, palms down. Adair and Nairen stood to either side of her, weapons ready. Pendaran scowled, then nodded as if he'd made a decision. Koora began to whisper: another spell. Not sure what was expected of him, Sorrell snuck a glance out through the crack in the rock at the trees of the Yuirwood. He tried to fix the image in his mind; it might very well be the last time he saw a forest.
Switch to Shevarash's sight, everyone, and activate your rings.
Sorrell heard whispered voices. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Slayers disappear from sight, one after the other. He was about to speak his ring's command word when something in the cave's entrance caught his eye. He at first dismissed it as a large bug, then realized it had a square shape. Curious, he took a step closer.
The moving thing was a tiny wooden chest, just the right size for a child's doll house, with eight legs that looked like they were made of stiff black string. As it crawled into the cave, Sorrell jerked his foot back from it.
What in the Abyss is that?
What? Pendaran asked.
Sorrell hadn't realized his exclamation had gone out to the group. He started to answer aloud, then caught himself. No more mistakes.
On the floor near my foot. A tiny chest-probably magical, he guessed. It looks kind of like a spider.
He heard Koora whisper. Sparkles of magical energy streaked from where she had been crouched and crackled around the miniature chest. Its legs fell still.
Sorrell felt a hand nudge him aside. Don't touch it. Pendaran's voice echoed in his head.
Sorrell stepped back. He heard a slight rustle, and guessed that Pendaran was squatting to examine the miniature chest. A faint metallic rasp announced a dagger being drawn from its sheath, then he heard a pop that sounded like a cork being drawn. The miniature chest shifted slightly as an invisible dagger tip poked it. Slowly, its lid lifted. Inside was a bright red powder that rose into the air in a puff as the lid
was raised. A stream of liquid appeared, pouring onto the chest from an invisible container; the liquid quenched the cloud and filled the chest, making the remaining powder hiss and bubble.
Poison spores, Pendaran announced.
Sorrell heard a rustle as Pendaran stood.
There will be more, the leader continued. Following their makers, slowly creeping their way toward the chimney to tumble in and dump their poison on us. But by the grace of Shevarash, we have discovered them.
Sorrell was certain the lengthy speech had been for his benefit: a morale booster. Or perhaps for the enlightenment of those around him; he heard low-pitched, grudging acknowledgement from the two brothers.
Find the rest of them, Koora, Pendaran continued. Dispel them.
Sorrell heard a female voice whisper a prayer. Sparkles of magical energy shot out of the cave's entrance and coalesced around tiny objects on the ground beyond. He felt someone move close-Pendaran.
Close your eyes, the leader instructed.
Sorrell did, and felt a fingertip touch each eye. A whispered prayer followed. When Sorrell opened his eyes again, he could see the others again. Or rather, he could see the shifting auras that were their heat signatures. Their bodies were tones of red: a dull ruby where clothing masked body heat, bright orange-red on exposed faces and hands. White plumes bloomed at their noses each time they exhaled, quickly fading to yellow, then dusky orange, then purple-blue. Their extremities-ears and fingers-were blobs of darker, purplish red. Behind them, the stone of the cavern was dark purple, almost black, colder than the air that filled it. As they moved, fuzzy afterimages of lingering heat briefly streaked the air, then faded. Their boots left dull smudges of blue warmth on the colder ground.
The effect was stunning in its beauty-so riveting that for a moment Sorrell found himself starting to hum a tune under his breath and wondering how he would possibly convey it in verse.
Then Pendaran's gruff voice-thoughts ordered them into the chimney. Weapons at the ready, he instructed. There's a larger cavern below. If we missed anything, we'll have a fight on our hands. Fan out as soon as your feet hit the floor.
Sobered, Sorrell readied his club. He watched as Koora stepped onto the empty space above the chimney and sank slowly from sight. Pendaran followed. Then it was Sorrell's turn.
"Descenthallan," he whispered aloud, and stepped onto empty air.
As he drifted down into the tight confines of the chimney, gripping his club against his chest, he wondered if the warriors in the ancient songs had felt as frightened as he did just then.
The time for songs, however, was long over.
They traveled through the Underdark for a long time-it must have been well past Night's Heart in the World Above-before Pendaran at last called a halt and set a watch. The trek had been exhausting and not what Sorrell had expected. He'd pictured the passageways through the Underdark as something like forest trails: a bit rough underfoot, and winding, but something that could be negotiated at an upright, walking pace. The reality was far different. They had clambered down slopes of jagged stone, squeezed through passages so tight that Sorrell had been afraid to inhale fully, lest he get stuck, used their boots to levitate up and down connecting chimneys, and crawled through caverns with ceilings so low they had to worm their way along on their bellies, nose to boot with the person ahead. They'd pushed themselves hard, stopping only once, and just long enough for Adair to murmur a prayer that filled their hands with nutbread and their leather drinking cups with water, a meal that was consumed in haste and silence. And still they were no closer to catching their prey; the drow simply had too good a start.
By the time Pendaran admitted that there was no point in running themselves to utter exhaustion, Sorrell was filthy, sweaty, and stumbling. He didn't complain when Pendaran chose him as one of the first, together with Koora, to be allowed to slip into Reverie.
It was over much too soon. Sorrell felt as though he'd barely begun his meditations when Pendaran shook his shoulder.
You're on watch, the leader said. He pointed down the passage. Take overNairen's position. He's about fifty paces back, at the mouth of the large cavern.
Sorrell nodded, uncrossed his legs, and rose to his feet. Despite his fatigue, he was glad to stand a watch. Glad to be included. Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, he clambered back the way they'd come, his magical boots silent, even when they slipped on the rough stone.
When he got to the spot where the moon elf should have been he couldn't see anyone.
Nairen? he asked.
He stared down into the cavern. It was as wide as a tree was tall, and three times the height of a man. Its floor was dotted with dull red dots-luminescent, ball-sized fungi that grew in clusters amid the jumble of rock. They were bright spots of true color against the cold black-purple of the stones they grew upon. "Crimson spitters," Pendaran had called them. If disturbed, they released a cloud of deadly spores, similar to the ones the miniature chests had contained.
The drow had gone that way, but not along the floor. There were tears in the blue-glowing, fan-shaped lichen that clung to the cavern's ceiling where the drow must have brushed against them. Koora had pointed the smudge out, suspicious, at first, that the drow had been so careless in their passage. Sorrell would otherwise have completely missed it. He peered at the ceiling, wondering if Nairen had somehow found a way to hide himself there.
Nairen? he called again. Where are you?
A hand touched his shoulder. Sorrell whirled and saw that the hand had emerged from solid stone. Nairen stepped out of the wall, his skin warming from deep blue to red as the stone released him. He shivered, then pointed at a crack in the wall near the cave mouth.
You'll have to hide yourself the conventional way, he said. Unless you have magic?
The latter was phrased as a question, but the tone suggested a challenge. Sorrell did have some magic-his voice. With his singing, he'd been able to captivate even the most unruly audience. His songs could calm quarrelsome drunks before they came to blows, could make his listeners laugh so hard their eyes streamed with tears, and could soothe to sleep the most restless babe. Many were the nights he'd used the latter, back when Remmie was small…
The lump of ice was back in his throat. He blinked away the sudden sting in his eyes, and shook his head. A little bardic magic, he replied. Nothing useful.
Nairen gave the mental equivalent of a grunt. Keep, your eyes open, he warned. Don't assume that just because we already came this way, the cavern isn't worth watching.
Koora's voice: s he in position?
Sorrell squeezed his body into the crack in the rock.
Nairen: He is. I'm coming in.
The moon elf crept silently away. Sorrell watched, fascinated, as Nairen's dull blue boot prints slowly faded from the floor of the passageway, then remembered his duty. He turned his head, keeping watch on the empty cavern.
There was a brief flurry of mental conversation as Koora reported to the group that she had replaced Adair, and as the half-elf hooked up with Nairen and Pendaran, back at the place where they'd halted. Then silence, as the three not on watch settled into Reverie.
Time passed.
Sorrell found himself wondering if dawn had broken in the World Above. While they'd been on the move, it had been easy to distract himself with the necessity of constantly surveying the terrain around them-searching for handholds and places to put his feet. Easy to focus on their objective: catching up to, and killing, the drow who had broached Cormanthor's defenses.
Now that he was simply standing, he was all too aware of the depth to which they'd descended, of the weight of the stone above his head. He stared at the cold dark purple walls, wondering if he'd ever see daylight again.
Lonely, isn't it?
Koora's voice. It sounded as though she was standing right next to him. Sorrell startled, wondering if the ring had been broadcasting his thoughts. It was only supposed to relay intentional messages-and only to the intended recipient. fel
t the same way on my first hunt, the wild elf continued. An outsider. I had nothing when I came to Shevarash. The Silent Slayers became my clan-in time, you will feel the same. You earned yourself a place among us by finding the crawl-chests-something I should have spotted. Nairen and Adair will come around, eventually.
And Pendaran has already trusted you with a watch. Her silent voice developed a chuckle. Though a safe one. Had we passed a side passage, it might have been different.
Sorrell kept a watchful eye on the tunnel as he listened, determined not to let his attention waver a second time. Koora's accent reminded him of someone-a centaur he'd once met.
Where are you from? he thought back.
For several heartbeats there was only silence. Then, The Satyrwood.
Sorrell knew it well. The forest-called the Chondalwood by humans-lay south of Arrabar, a city he and Dalmara had performed in more than twenty years ago. Dalmara, intent upon collecting more folk songs, had insisted on making a trek to a wild elf camp deep in the Satyrwood. The centaur had been their guide. Sorrell searched his memory, looking for the name of the harpist they'd met there.
Do you know a woman named Bronwynn, of the Redleaf Clan?
Koora's mental voice, when she answered, was small and tight. There is no Redleaf Clan. Not any more. A pause, then, I was deep in the forest, hunting, when it happened. Now I hunt drow.
Sorrell blinked in surprise, but said nothing. What could be said? He remembered the murmured kindnesses, the polite words that had been spoken after his own loss. He knew that nothing he said could banish the grief he heard, loud as a tolling bell, in Koora's silence. His fists were clenched around his club; glancing down, he saw that his fingers had faded to a dull red.
Did you… He had to blink furiously before he was able to continue. Was there a child?
I was not yet a mother, thank Angharradh for small mercies. But my sister was. Three daughters, all dead.
Sorrell felt a tear furrow its way through the dirt on his cheek. It dripped, a bead of dark blue, onto the stone at his feet and faded to purple. He didn't want to hear any more. Lisa Smedtnan
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