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Authors: Ed Greenwood

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BOOK: Dark Warrior Rising
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He strode over to the warblade until their wards touched, flaring slightly, and let their magic carry his nigh silent whisper to Tersarr's ears. “Take Goraun and Imbrel down this side of the cavern, and around. Peer
carefully; expect hidden foes. Only when we know no one is about to pounce on us will we examine … the remains.”
Without waiting for a reply he turned to look at Lorand, at the head of the ring of warblades holding the gorkul's chains. Grunt Tusks gave him a baleful sidelong glance that he ignored; if that collar had been around his neck, and the chains held by a ring of foes, he'd probably have felt far less than friendly, too.
Faunhorn jerked his head in an order; Lorand nodded and urged the chained gorkul forward, seeking the slave's trail. He was unsurprised to see it sniff loudly, lower its head briefly, and then start right down the center of the cavern in a rattle of chain. Taerune and the slave had been in some haste.
And no wonder. Spellrobes can trace things they've helped enchant across a very great distance, even in the Wild Dark.
If this cooked carrion wasn't Jalandral, it was Shoan Maulstryke. And those severed hands, yonder, held nothing, though they'd recently been clutching something.
The spellblade that should have been there was gone.
 
 
Lord Evendoom sagged in his seat, asleep even before the servants could finish filling his favorite goblet and hold it out to him.
Behind a locked door in a chamber not far away, Maharla smiled. The spell she'd left on the throne had sent Erlingar into slumber and opened his mind to hers in two swift and silent instants. Sometimes the simple traps are the best ones.
His thoughts were a whirlwind of anger, fear, and excitement; he eagerly wanted to watch as priestess murdered priestess, to enjoy their struggle to succeed the slain Aumaeraunda as Holiest of Olone. Seeing the temple so weakened had been a joy as well as a shock to him.
Maharla watched, drifting through his welter of memories, pleased to see old foes lying dead and the spell she'd cast on Erlingar earlier—the one that would let her transport him at will from wherever he stood to wherever Taerune was, keeping herself hidden from both of them—still intact.
Olone's kiss, but this had been fast. The temple had gone from the haughty fist of true power in Talonnorn to a shell fought over by mindwounded or junior Holy-shes in a trice.
Handing Maharla Evendoom her own chance.
Yes, it was time.
Not letting herself begin to gloat yet, not even for a moment, the Eldest of Evendoom strode around the chamber, carefully preparing to cast the most intricate spell she'd ever tried. Yet.
 
 
Its glossy length gave off no glow, now, for any eye to see as it raced through the air, point foremost.
The spellblade flew in utter silence, sliding through the air as it flew, quite by itself, back through the Wild Dark to Talonnorn.
 
 
Maharla trembled, her heart pounding. If Askrautha were still alive, or Draurathra, or old Amedra, she'd never have dared do this.
Using her consecration-stone to link with everyone who wore such a stone—every crone and priestess of Holy Olone in Talonnorn—left her mind open to anyone who had the right spells and a more powerful stone.
Yet the spell was done, and nothing had come storming into her mind! Maharla fought down a surge of excitement so strong it almost sickened her. She'd done it! Olone be
praised
!
“Faithful of Olone, hear me,” she said, keeping her voice gentle and welcoming. Her voice thundered around the sealed chamber like the boom of a spellblast and rolled back at her, almost deafeningly. All over Talonnorn, now, crones and priestesses would be hearing her.
“Maharla am I, Eldest of Evendoom, and I stand now in Olone's favor. The Goddess who guides us all has sent me a vision, of the champion of my house who shall fittingly slay the murderers of Aumaeraunda, Holiest of Olone. I say ‘fittingly' because a traitor Nameless of Evendoom and a runaway slave belonging to that traitor killed the Holiest. I have sent that champion forth in obedience to Olone, who has made my reward clear to me. That the bloodshed that now afflicts Talonnorn may cease, I invite you all to watch what this my magic shows you as the champion confronts the murderers. You know I can deceive you in no way, with my magic linking our minds thus. You shall see what you see, in accordance with Olone's wishes. Watch now, and heed.”
It had not been hard to find some of Taerune's blood, and kindly old Orlarra had been more cunning than any Evendoom had guessed: She'd
used a spell Maharla had never suspected existed, to trace every last Evendoom Orb when she wanted to.
That spell was unfolding glowingly in front of Maharla right now, and so she knew Faunhorn was very near to Taerune, and Ravandarr was close behind.
She couldn't lie to all the crones and priestesses, but she could hide things in her mind from them, and one of the things she intended to keep hidden was just who the champion was.
Faunhorn, Ravandarr—and if need be, an awakened and spell-hurled into the Dark Erlingar—could all try to slay Taerune and the Hairy One. She could triumphantly claim the glory no matter who succeeded, and deem any failures not Olone's champion.
She could feel the weight of them in her mind, all the crones and priestesses. Watching; unable not to watch. All across Talonnorn, despite themselves, they'd stopped whatever they'd been doing, and were watching.
Folding her arms across her chest, Maharla allowed herself to smile.
 
 
“
Well,
now,” Lharlak murmured, sliding his eye patch out of the way to peer with both eyes at the moving figures far below. “Talonar warblades hunting someone with a gorkul's nose. Curious.”
“How so?” Old Bloodblade rumbled, as quietly as he knew how.
“Warbands from Ouvahlor lurking everywhere, their city in turmoil, and they go hunting? In numbers so few? They're hunting
someone,
or one beast, or a pair at most. Now, who could be so valuable to warrant such attention just now? Such quiet,
private
attention?”
“A Nifl fled with the treasury of his house?” Daruse offered, joining them. “That's an Evendoom, down there, and those are Evendoom warblades.”
Old Bloodblade shrugged. “I'm intrigued. So we follow them for a bit before slaying the lot of them, to see if they unfurl their little mystery for us.”
Daruse showed his teeth. “I
like
Talonar treasuries.”
 
 
It was not unusual for crones to slip out of the grand fortresses of their noble Houses from time to time, to taste the pleasures of the Araed. By unspoken agreement, crones who recognized each other among the
Nameless pretended not to, and because what a Consecrated does to other Consecrated is quite likely to be done back to that same Consecrated, it
was
unusual for Eldests and other crones to spell-reach from their towers out into the Araed after them.
Wherefore the almost bare Nifl-she dancing atop a table in the Waiting Warm Dark—who none in that tavern knew to be Naersarra of House Dounlar—was shocked indeed when Maharla's spell rolled into her mind, dashing aside the warm happiness born of her favorite wine and the eager caresses of low rampants.
She stiffened and gasped, “What
madness
is this?”
One look at Naersarra's face had the Nameless carters and pack-snout tamers hastily letting go of her thighs and ducking away, even before she raised her hands to cast a spell.
The tavern master reached under the bar for his slowsleep-tipped darts—and then swallowed, drew his hand back, and awaited his doom. More Turnings than he cared to count ago he'd seen a furious Ruling Hand of Olone clear a street with a spell that hurled, tumbled, and shredded Nifl, gorkul, and pack-snouts alike—and he knew what he was looking at now. No dart he could hurl was going to save the Waiting Warm Dark, if—
The barefoot, sweat-bedewed Nifl-she atop his corner table finished her spell with an angry flourish, her eyes blazing. She turned slowly in the tense silence that had fallen around her, met many frightened gazes, and snapped, “Watch and listen, all of you, to what the Eldest of Evendoom has the effrontery to show every crone and priestess in Talonnorn. I want you
all
to see an arrogant and dangerous attempt to claim the mantle of Holiest of Olone over all of us. For your hands are the ones that may have to clean up the rubble of our fair city in Turnings soon to come—or your backs may well feel her lash.
Behold
!”
Naersarra of House Dounlar flung her arms wide, heedless of her last scrap of garment falling away—and the ceiling of the room above her became a great window into the Wild Dark, a cavern lit by the flaring wards of noble Talonar.
Everyone in the Waiting Warm Dark was now seeing exactly what Maharla was showing the minds of the crones and priestesses. In silence they stared up at warblades with drawn swords trudging forward in that unfamiliar cavern, tightening a menacing ring around a one-armed Nifl-she in dusty battle-leathers and a Hairy One who stood tall in motley garments, bracers strapped to his upper arms, forearms, and lower legs.
His muscled bulk showed clearly through the too-small cloak clasped around his shoulders, and long, wicked-looking blades gleamed back ward-glows in both of his hands. There was a glimmering heap of swords at his feet, and a bleak warrior's look on his face that promised death to anyone who came within reach of his warsteel.
Tarlyn and Clazlathor shook their heads grimly, Munthur gaped, and Imdul and Urgel just stared frowningly. Like all the rest, they said not a word.
Not a wager was spoken in that room, but Nifl who often bet and blustered about duels and Hunt takings leaned forward eagerly, and grew bright smiles.
It seemed they were about to see a death-duel, large and clear, wherein Nifl would butcher a large, formidable, and well-armed human. It didn't get any better than this.
 
 
Taerune and her uncle stared into each other's eyes briefly, as Faunhorn's arc of silent warblades became an encircling ring, but they said nothing at all to each other. Everyone's face was grim.
“Orivon,” Taerune murmured, out of the side of her mouth, “this Orb of mine has nothing much left in it that can be of help in a fray. We're going to die here.”
“This is it, then,” Orivon said grimly—and sprang at the nearest warblade who danced aside almost contemptuously from the Hairy One's wildly slashing sword, only to be astonished by the human leaping to keep pace with him—and drive the second blade through his throat.
Orivon whirled away to meet a second, onrushing warblade even before the first started to fall.
There was a shout from behind him as Taerune flung herself at the ankles of the warblades closing in around her, and toppled one over. She had only the one arm to stab him with, so the warblade escaped with his life as she sprang up, behind him, and raced around his back as he whirled. The Talonar cursed, spinning around to follow her—and then spat blood in mewing disbelief as a sword burst through him from behind, and Daruse announced calmly, “First blood to me, Old Bloodblade.”
“Second!” Sarntor said a moment later, as another warblade started to slide moaningly off the youngest Ravager's sword. From across the
cavern there came a snarling, a wild rattle of chains, shouts—and a shriek that ended abruptly.
Groaning, another warblade went down as Daruse tugged his blade free of the dark elf's ribs.
“Ravagers!” Faunhorn spat. “Lorand! Imbrel! To me!”
“I'm afraid,” rumbled the fattest Niflghar the Evendoom Lord had ever seen, as Lorand fell like so much dead meat and his slayer rose ponderously out of the shadows behind him, “'tis me you'll have to greet instead!” He winked at the astonished Faunhorn, and his bristling mustache twisted in what might have been a grin. “Old Bloodblade himself, Sometime Scourge of Talonnorn!”
A filthy Nifl wearing an eye patch and mismatched tatters of armor now stood where Imbrel should have been, bloody sword in hand. He waved that sword meaningfully, and Old Bloodblade cast him a glance and continued, “Er, me and Lharlak here, I should have said! We've been strolling along behind you for three caverns now—and that's two caverns too many for Talonar to be tolerated, out here in
our
Dark.”
Faunhorn gave them a cold smile. “You'll find the price of my death rather high,” he promised, bending to pluck a poisoned dagger from his boots.
A rock the size of an Evendoom Lord's head crashed into the side of his face before he could straighten, and he collapsed silently to the stones underfoot.
“That,” Daruse of the Ravagers told the senseless Talonar with a grin, “is why we don't want to cross blades with you. We'll probably all throw stones at you from a distance, so all your death-spells will hurl themselves at nothing, after we deal with—”
BOOK: Dark Warrior Rising
2.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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