The Realms of the Elves a-11

by Коллектив Авторов

  A hand which, the ranger's keen eyes had noted, had been coated in a layer of pitch.

  Sorrell had learned everything he could about the Blackened Fist in the months since then-though what he'd learned had been precious little. But Shevarash had rewarded his persistence. In just a few moments, Sorrell was either going to avenge his family, or die trying.

  Sorrell gripped his club tightly in one hand. His other hand was on Pendaran's shoulder as the leader whispered the prayer that would send them either into the drow stronghold-or, more likely, into solid rock, spilling their spirits into the Fugue Plain. Sorrell wondered which god would claim him and carry him to Arvandor. Would Corellon Larethian summon him to sing at his side? Or would Shevarash claim Sorrell to join him in his grim wanderings? Perhaps both would find him wanting, and Sorrell's spirit would linger on the Fugue Plain for all eternity.

  Nairen kissed the blade of his sword, then locked eyes with his half-brother. Adair took a deep breath, nodded. Koora raised her right hand above her head, sling trailing from her fist, in Shevarash's defiant salute. She caught Sorrell's eye. A rush of exultation filled his heart. Soon, he told himself, Shevarash willing, he might be killing the very drow who had murdered his son.

  Pendaran completed his prayer.

  Adair's voice: Here we The tearing sensation came. Sorrell closed his eyes. -Go!

  The world went white with Shevarash's holy fire. Sorrell's body was yanked through space… Dalmara, he thought, panicked, I'm coming. I'll find you.

  His feet touched solid ground.

  He gasped. Glanced down, saw the dull purple of cold stone. He wasn't dead!

  Flash! Pendaran shouted. The leader's hand swept down, releasing a flash gem.

  Sorrell had only a heartbeat in which to register the room they had teleported to. A large, circular hall, with eight arched exits leading to corridors. The statue of a spider, carved from glossy black obsidian, stood at the center of the room on fragile-looking legs. On the far side of it were three drow: two males, kneeling before a larger female. As the flash gem clattered toward them between the legs of the statue the males sprang to their feet and yanked daggers from sheaths on their belts. The female leaped into the air, levitating.

  The gem…

  Sorrell screwed his eyes shut just as a silent flash of white filled the room. The instant it was dark again he ran forward, club swinging.

  The two males stood blinking, their pupils mere pinpricks. The one that Nairen and Adair rushed had the presence of mind to cock his head sideways, listening, and to slash with his dagger. He died with Adair's spear through his chest as Nairen's sword lopped off his arm at the elbow.

  The other male turned and bolted for a corridor. Sorrell heard a sling stone whistle past his ear. It slammed into the back of the drow's head, staggering him. Sorrell swung his club in a sweeping arc. It connected with the head of the reeling drow, shattering it like a gnarlwood nut. Chunks of brain, glowing a bright red to Sorrell's magically enhanced vision, slid from the ruined head as the body fell.

  Sorrell stood, panting. His first drow kill! He should have been exulting, but instead he felt only a sick revulsion.

  He heard a sob above him. He glanced up and saw the female drow, still levitating, shudder with grief. Tears poured from her eyes. For a moment, he thought she was mourning the two males. They looked young enough to be her sons. Then he realized that Pendaran was casting a spell at her. The sun elf pointed at the drow, his lips moving in silent prayer.

  With a violent shake of her head, the drow shook the spell off.

  Pendaran cursed.

  Koora whipped her arm forward. Another sling stone whistled past, shattering on the wall just behind the female drow's head. The drow-not blinded, she must have realized what the flash gem was and closed her eyes in time-whirled in midair to stare at the spot the stone had come from and shouted something in the drow language. A spider the size of a large dog appeared in midair, and fell onto Koora's shoulders.

  Soul spider! Koora gasped. Suddenly the wild elf was fighting for her life.

  Sorrell took a step toward her.

  The priestess! Pendaran shouted, nocking an arrow in his bow. Attack her!

  The drow dropped to the floor behind Sorrell. He whirled, swinging his club. The drow dodged the blow without effort, as though she could see him. Adair hurled his spear at her, but she sidestepped it. She leaped toward Adair, one foot extended in a kick. He ducked, and she missed, spinning gracefully on her other foot directly into the path of Nairen, who held his sword ready to deliver a killing slash. The blade swept down-but then the drow seemed to blur. As Nairen's weapon slashed through empty air, throwing him off balance, the drow crashed into him, chest to chest, and sank her teeth into his cheek.

  The cheek Nairen had washed clean, back in the drider's cavern.

  The moon elf stiffened. Adair scrambled to get one of the potion vials out of his belt. "Nairen!" he gasped aloud.

  Pendaran's bow twanged. One of his black-shafted arrows plunged into the drow's back and found her heart. Twitching like a crushed spider, she fell.

  So did Nairen, his face already paling to a dull purple. His half-brother rushed to his side, ripped the cork out of the vial he held with his teeth, and fought to pull Nairen's mouth open. Locked in a death grimace, the jaw wouldn't budge.

  Sorrell heard a cracking noise behind him. He turned, saw Koora with her arms wrapped around the spider. As she slowly squeezed it, her body glowed with Shevarash's fire. A final crunch, and the spider was dead. Koora, however, staggered as she let its body fall. Despite her armor paint, her arms had several deep, bloody puncture marks. As Pendaran turned toward her, a look of concern on his face, she swayed, steadied herself with a hand against the wall.

  I'm good, she said. Just a little drained. Are the corridors clear?

  Koora held out a palm, swept it in a circle while she prayed. Nothing.

  Pendaran nodded and turned his attention to the brothers. Adair had peeled back Nairen's lower lip and was pouring the potion onto his brother's clenched teeth. Most of the liquid dribbled down Nairen's chin, a grim echo of the corpse in the drider cavern.

  Pendaran lowered his bow. He's gone, Adair, he said quietly. Gone to Shevarash.

  The half-elf turned, his eyes dangerous. No.

  Pendaran's voice was steely. Yes. He pointed at Adair's spear. Now on your feet, warrior, and grab that weapon. Don't let his sacrifice be for nothing.

  Adair hesitated.

  Move!

  Adair snapped erect. He strode across the cavern and picked up his spear.

  Pendaran, behind him, closed his eyes and sighed. His mental voice, however, retained its steely control. We've got to move quickly. Sorrell, keep watch. Koora, conceal the bodies. And Adair… collect your brother. I'll find out where the portal is. He squatted beside the dead female and whispered a prayer. Her lips began to glow with Shevarash's light.

  Holding his club at the ready, Sorrell glanced back and forth, trying to keep an eye on all eight of the chamber's exits at once. His eye kept straying, however, to the dark elf he had killed. Now that the fight was over, he noticed the drow's age. Judging by what remained of his face, he looked like a boy in his teens.

  As Pendaran questioned the dead priestess, asking where the portal was, Koora walked, slowly and unsteadily, to the body Sorrell had been staring at and prayed over it. The dull glow of warmth that remained in the body winked out as it was rendered invisible. She crossed the chamber, and did the same to the other male corpse. Adair, meanwhile, straightened his brother's body, picking up Nairen's sword and laying it across his chest. Then he pulled from a pouch at his belt a large bag of a thin, glossy material that was as thin and slippery as silk. Opening it, he tucked Nairen's feet inside. It seemed only large enough to accommodate Nairen's lower legs, but it kept going, swallowing Nairen whole. As Adair pulled the drawstring shut, the bag collapsed, seemingly empty once more. Adair folded it, and tucked it back into his pouch. The
n he picked up his spear.

  He glanced at Sorrell and touched the pouch.

  Sorrell nodded. Necessary sacrifices.

  Sorrell heard a faint noise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something in one of the corridors. He whirled…

  And saw a tiny figure. A drow child, not even as tall as Remmie. A child whose mouth was open in an O of surprise, whose eyes were wide and fixed on the dead woman whose creaking voice filled the chamber as she answered Pendaran's questions.

  "Ma?" the boy whispered, tears starting to spill from his eyes.

  The word was the same, in any language.

  Sorrell leaped forward and grabbed the boy. He clapped a hand over the boy's mouth. The boy went rigid with fear. Then he began to struggle. And to wail, behind Sorrell's muffling hand.

  Shut him up! Adair shouted.

  Sorrell glanced up. The half-elf had his spear raised. Sorrell would have to work quickly. Clutching the little boy against his chest, he started to sing. "Birds have flown home-"

  Pendaran scrambled to his feet. I've got it! The portal's close by!

  The boy twisted like an eel, nearly slipping free. Do it! Koora raged. The spider kissers' brat will give us away.

  I'm trying! Sorrell kept singing: "-to their nests. I know we all could use some rest."

  Pendaran nocked an arrow. Kill him now, or get out of the way.

  I'm putting him to sleep.

  He's a drow! Adair gritted.

  Sorrell continued his song. A moment more, and the child would be asleep. He's a child.

  Koora's swift fingers loaded a stone into her sling. He's a spider kisser, she hissed. Vermin.

  Sorrell halted his song, glanced from one face to the next. He saw the same emotion on each: hatred. And an utter lack of pity. Had their skin been black, they could have been drow.

  The fist of ice that was Sorrell's heart finally cracked. "No!" he shouted, turning his back on the others, still holding the struggling boy in his arms. "The boy's not going to give us away. He isn't even old enough to talk ye-"

  Koora's sling stone slammed into the back of his head, filling Sorrell's vision with sparks of white light almost as bright as Shevarash's cold white fire.

  Almost.

  Sorrell shook his head. He rose to his feet, and staggered away with the child in his arms. One step, two… But the pain in his head was too much. He sagged to his knees, still hugging the small boy against his chest. The boy's hair smelled like Remmie's had, brought back a flood of memories. Sorrell stared back over his shoulder at the Silent Slayers, tears stinging his own eyes.

  "Please," he begged. "Don't-"

  Pendaran's bow thrummed. Sorrell grunted as the arrow tore a sharp line of pain through his body.

  He felt a soft, startled breath against his hand as it found the boy's heart.

  Two figures stood together on a gray, featureless plain, under a sky filled with flat gray clouds. An elf with coppery skin and reddish brown hair, the hand that once held a club empty at his side-and a child with skin the, color of midnight, bone-white hair, and wide, bewildered eyes. The man glanced up at the sky, as if searching for something. The sky remained flat and empty. The man nodded, as if that was what he'd expected. He squatted next to the boy, extending his arms, and said something in a soft voice. After a moment's hesitation, the boy allowed himself to be embraced. A tear trickled down the man's cheek as he hugged the boy tightly. Then he smiled.

  The man stood, cradling the boy in strong arms, and began the long, slow walk to the horizon, singing softly as he went.

  THE GREATER TREASURE

  Erik Scott de Bie

  Eleasias, the Year of the Helm (1362 DR)

  Flames rose into the morning air, the sounds of clashing blades projected far and wide, and merchant wagons shied away from the gates. Even from a distance, it was clear that the city of Elversult rocked in dire turmoil.

  "This is it?" the cloaked maid asked in her native tongue. Her harsh tone carried not a little disgust-something that sounded discordant and almost ugly in Elvish. "You believe those bearing the relic are here?"

  The bronze-skinned elflord beside her did not bother to reply. Instead, he spurred his horse toward the city, intent on arriving in time to aid.

  She followed, albeit much more slowly. As they rode closer, it was clear that only one building burned in Elversult-the great central tower. Battle raged in the air over the city, where a handful of black-robed mages wheeled, hurling spells at a flying lass in leathers, who swatted them like gnats, one by one, with bolts of lightning and flame. On the ground, a band of adventurers fought a dozen men-at-arms, gradually triumphing over impossible odds the way only adventurers can.

  As the sun elves rode up to the gate, a great cheer sounded from within the walls. The last of the black robes dived to avoid a storm of animated blades but caught an amber ray full in the chest. He fell to earth, burning.

  It was fortunate for the sages who predicted the weather that he had not been above the blade barrier, or it might have been raining that day in Elversult.

  And so it was the Scarred Eagles adventuring band defeated the Cowled Skull dynasty of Elversult and Yanseldara-the flying lady with the slaying spells-was crowned in the Skulls' place. Some merchants cheered, some scowled, but by and large the people of Elversult took note of the radical change in government, shrugged, and went about business as usual.

  It was, after all, the Dragon Coast.

  And so it was that Yldar Nathalan, the disgraced, exiled son of a great Evermeetian family, was too late to participate in the glory-again.

  As soon as the two elves had dispensed with their fine steeds at a not-so-fine bank of stables, Yldar stomped over to the fountain in the center of town and crossed his arms.

  He looked around at the myriad faces, people going about their business. To all, he felt a sense of detachment, even more so than he felt with any of the foolish humans he had met in his travels. Life in Elversult had shifted so radically, so quickly, leaving his-a visitor's- head spinning, but no native seem to notice much.

  "Humans," Yldar cursed in Elvish.

  "Do not act thus," Cythara said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her full red robe hid her golden mane. "This was not your day."

  "No day is my day," replied Yldar. He possessed a melodious voice, but one hardened by discontent and years of disappointment. "First the Tower, then the bladesingers, even the border guards… How long have we been traveling, sister, yet you do not know this?"

  Similarly sharp of feature and lean of body, Cythara was Yldar's double in many ways, but one could never say that she suffered from his excess of pride-the flaw that ran through the Nathalan family like blood. Rather, her faults were subtler, more insidious, and altogether beyond her younger brother's ken.

  "Yldar," she said. "What would Father say?"

  "I might as well not exist." The elflord shrugged. "The feeling is mutual."

  Cythara felt her hand tense, but thought better of striking the stubborn, almost petulant Yldar. It would only hurt her hand.

  "Brother," she said. "Have you forgotten the relic?"

  His eyes bright, Yldar jumped to his feet. "Yes!" he said. "I mean-no!"

  Cythara smiled a little, but it was an irritated smile. "Let us search, then," she prompted.

  Yldar was already off and away.

  — Sunlight streamed through the window, mingled with a fair amount of flame, it seemed. With a mild oath, she rolled out from under the bedclothes.

  She had slept again.

  The Reverie came so infrequently to the moon elf these days. Perhaps she dealt with humans too much, or perhaps the elf gods truly had cursed her. The trick smacked greatly of the whims of her fickle patron.

  While she considered that, a growling sound from her stomach convinced her that it was time to head down. She even managed clothes before obeying its command.

  As she padded downstairs in her doeskin boots, the moon elf was pleased to see the gruff and
stocky men who frequented the Splitskull stepping aside, giving her space. That was polite. Trying to weasel their way into her good graces, mayhap-and eventually her bed, likely. Then again, she thought with a smile, they might simply be justly wary.

  She sat down at the bar, eschewing the tables that miraculously opened up when she entered and waved to the owner. "Keep," she called. She realized that she had never bothered to learn his name, but he seemed content with the moniker. Or perhaps that was his name, in which case it was irrelevant.

  "What'll it be, 'Light, ye heartbreaker?"

  "You're such a flatterer," she said, brushing a raven lock out of her pale eyes. "A morning meal? And drink?"

  "On your tab, I s'pose."

  Twilight inclined her head. Keep shouted a few words back to the kitchen, then pulled her an ale from a tapped keg.

  "News o' the day? The Skulls're out." Keep's voice was nonplussed.

  Dragon Coast indeed.

  "Truly?" Twilight took an unladylike swig.

  "Aye, indeed. Yanseldara an' her lover, Vaerana, done ousted the lot o' 'em."

  Twilight shook her head. Little in the realms took her by surprise these days. "Costs will rise, eh?"

  Keep shrugged. "Goods'll be safer, and competitors driven mostly underground." He wiped a tankard and grinned. "Better atmosphere, ye might say."

  Twilight raised her ale to that.

  Then the door to the dark tavern opened, letting in heinous light, and Twilight blinked in surprise. Faces of such hue were not to be seen everyday in Elversult- especially not one so handsome as the elflord who entered.

  Delicious, she thought with a wry smile.

  A gentle hush came over the Splitskull when the tall sun elf entered. His skin of polished bronze and the fine elven blade that hung from his belt seemed out of place in a smoky tavern filled with grizzled, dirty men. No one felt like taking the challenge in Yldar's eye.