Daughter of the Drow (21 page)

“Oh, yes. My sister carried it for a time, many years ago. The Windwalker, she called it. It is a tiny dagger in a rune-carved sheath.”

With great difficulty Liriel cloaked her excitement. “How does it work?” she asked as casually as she could.

“I do not know all the details,” the older drow said. “Sylune—my sister—told me the amulet will store magic from places of power, but only temporarily. Few Witches leave their land for very long, so that is enough for them. But legend suggests the Windwalker can make such powers permanent. How, I do not know. The knowledge has been lost.”

Maybe, maybe not, Liriel noted silently. Her nimble mind leaped from one possibility to another, weaving the disparate threads into a new and hitherto unsuspected whole. If the far-traveling Rus had settled Rashemen, the Windwalker could well have been of their making. If this were so, then rune magic was the key to the amulet’s power. If the amulet Fyodor sought was indeed the Windwalker, then this ancient device was somewhere in the Underdark. If she could find it, perhaps she could adapt it to store her own magic. And why not? The draw’s inherent magical powers, and the magic of most of their crafted items, were magnified by the radiations peculiar to the Underdark. Was that not a form of place magic?

If, and if again. There were far too many ‘ife’, but in her excitement Liriel was not discouraged. For the first time, her dream of travel and exploration in the Lands of Light seemed within her grasp. Some drow—such as these priestesses—might abandon their heritage and forsake the Lady of Chaos, but that was not an option for Liriel. She loved the wild beauty of the Underdark, and although she longed for adventure in the world beyond, she wanted to be able to return home. If she could find this amulet and test its powers, there might be a way for her to come to the surface whole, on her own terms: silent, unpredictable, mysterious, powerful, magical, deadly. Drow.

On impulse, Liriel reached forward and embraced the regal female. “I have to leave now, but I can’t tell you what this visit has meant to me!”

Qilue regarded the girl’s excited face and shining golden eyes for a long moment. “The Promenade Temple,” she repeated softly. “Remember that name, if ever you should need it.”

Fleet and silent, Liriel ran through the forest back toward her magical gate. Her flight surprised a strange creature, a large dun-colored beast with enormous brown eyes and a pair of many-pronged horns. The animal bounded off and was soon lost among the trees. For just a moment Liriel paused to watch the graceful creature. Any other time, she would have followed it, perhaps to hunt, perhaps just to learn more about the strange and fascinating beast. Tonight a more important prize awaited her.

She had an idea where the Windwalker amulet might be, and her time to find it was short. Quickly she stepped into the gate that returned her to the Underdark. The magical flight was swift and brief, and it brought her near the place where she and the human had joined in fighting the deepbats.

Liriel retraced her steps to the glowing cave where she had met Fyodor of Rashemen. There was a mystery here, one that she must solve. She crouched down to examine the body of a deepbat the human had slain.

Even in death, the creature was imposing. The crumpled wings spanned a good seven feet, and the dagger-sharp fangs jutting from the deepbat’s slack mouth were fully the length of her fingers. It was a marvel the human had managed to kill such a creature, but even stranger that the giant bats had attacked at all. Although they were dangerous in the extreme, dragazhar were highly intelligent creatures who rarely attacked anything larger and more threatening than a scurry rat. Something must have happened to embolden or threaten them, to force them beyond their normal behaviors.

Seizing the dragazhar’s wing with both hands, she hauled the creature over onto its back so she might examine its underbelly. There she found the answer she sought. Scoring the creature’s abdomen and legs were several long, thin cuts: the interweaving marks of twin blades. Such wounds were too fine, too precise, to have been inflicted by the human’s dull blade. Draw steel had marked the dragazhar.

She examined the bodies of three other dead bats and found similar markings, including the telltale poison darts from a drow crossbow. These bats had most likely come across Fyodor as they fled from another, larger battle. After tangling with a band of drow fighters, a lone human must have seemed very easy prey.

This discovery supported one of her suspicions: in pursuit of the amulet, Fyodor had followed a band of drow into the Underdark. What the man planned to do once he caught up with the drow, Liriel could not begin to fathom. He fought well enough, but he was one lone human against the deadliest fighters of these deep realms!

It did not occur to Liriel to ask what she herself might do, alone against a band of drow fighters. After all, she was a Baenre princess and a wizard, and deadly determined to find the Windwalker amulet.

She searched the rocky floor until she found a series of blood drops leading out of the cavern. Some of the bats had survived Fyodor*s sword and cudgel, and one of them had been wounded badly enough to leave a trail. Since wounded deepbats invariably returned to their lair, she suspected its flight would retrace the path that had brought it to this cav-ern. Liriel conjured a globe of faerie fire so she might follow the trail. Excitement sped her steps as she traced the way toward the site of the first battle.

The blood-drop trail ended in a vast, dark cavern. There was no light here, none of the phosphoric rock or glowing plants that lit what she had come to think of as Fyodor’s cavern. But Liriel saw well enough. Patterns of heat in the air, in the rock, gave the grim landscape a precision and nuance the light-sighted could not begin to imagine. In the Underdark, even the coldest stone held some heat.

And the corpses of two drow males, as cold as their stone tomb, gave off the dull, bluish glow peculiar to lifeless flesh.

Liriel hurried toward the dead elves. She dropped to her knees and began to search the bodies. Her efforts turned up a number of fine knives and trinkets, but not the amulet she sought.

Swallowing her disappointment, the female sat back on her heels and considered the situation more closely. The males had been commoners, and neither wore an insignia that claimed alliance to one of Menzoberranzan’s noble houses. They were well armed, but even so it was odd there were only two. Liriel dared the Underdark alone because of the magic she commanded, but only drow wizards went out in such scant company. These males had no spellbooks, no bags of strange components, no wands or other magic weapons. They were definitely trained fighters, probably thieves, and nothing more.

Both of the dead males had suffered strikes from the dragazhar’s fangs and wing claws, but none of these wounds were deep enough to prove fatal. These drow had likely been killed by strikes from the deepbats’ poisonous tails.

Liriel rose to her feet and conjured another globe of faerie fire. Holding it high, she surveyed the cavern. The bodies of a dozen dragazhar littered the cavern, attesting to a long and bitter fight. Was it possible these two drow had fought alone?

But no, there were weapons scattered on the cavern floor, more than these two dead drow could possibly have wielded. Two fine matching swords, slender and carved with runes, caught Liriel’s eye. She stooped and ran her fingers along one of the shining blades; magic throbbed through the sword like a pulse. These were priceless weapons, the pride of the drow who had wielded them. She abandoned the idea that the surviving drow had fled, leaving the bodies of their two comrades behind. No dark-elven fighter would leave such weapons unless he was long past need of them.

A few paces beyond the discarded weapons, Liriel saw a spattering of cold, dried blood. She searched for several moments before she found the next splotch, some ten feet away. Suddenly she understood what had happened here.

Deepbats usually took their prey back to the lair for leisurely snacking, especially if they felt threatened. A battle with drow would certainly qualify as that—Liriel marveled the dragazhar had persisted so long against such odds. They must have needed food very badly. It was odd, though, that they’d left two bodies behind.

After a moment’s hesitation, Liriel once again began to follow a bloody trail. The deepbat lair must be very close. As large as the dragazhar were, they could not carry the bodies of full-grown drow very far.

As she suspected, the cave was not far away. Its mouth was placed high on the rocky wall of the tunnel, a near-horizontal slit that seemed too narrow to admit the giant bats. Liriel leaped up, grabbed the ledge, and hauled herself up for a peek.

Only a few adult dragazhar were in the cave, asleep and hanging by their tails from the cavern’s ceiling. There were also many young, perhaps forty or more. These baby dragazhar were rather cute, with their well-groomed, jet black fur and plump, small bodies. They hung sleeping in a neat row, by all appearances sated and content.

Liriel nodded as several pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The necessity of feeding so many young had driven the dragazhar to attack a drow party. The bats had left the two poisoned dark elves behind, probably because the baby dragazhar could not feed upon poisoned flesh. Judging from the number of young, Liriel estimated the cave was home to several hunting packs of bats—at least three or four score of adults. That was certainly enough to destroy a small party of drow fighters-She carefully scanned the low-ceilinged cave. Few drow ventured into such areas, but those who did claimed they were veritable treasure troves. Liriel had a very specific treasure in mind.

The drow cast a cautious glance over each shoulder. The tunnel was dark and silent for as far as she could see. The bats were out hunting again, except for the few nursemaids left behind to tend the young. Liriel realized her chances were not good; on the other hand, they’d never be better.

Liriel pulled herself up onto the ledge. Clutching her piwafwi close, she edged into the lair. The acrid smell of bat guano assaulted her, and she blessed the enchanted boots that allowed her to walk without the sickening crunch that should have heralded her intrusion. She had not gone far when her foot nudged something soft. She crouched for a closer look.

It was the body of a tall drow male—or what remained of him. Fine chain mail had turned aside the fangs of the deepbats and left the torso mostly intact, but the limbs were little more than bone. Two other bodies lay nearby, in no better condition than the first.

If Liriel had needed a reminder of the importance of stealth and silence, she could not have asked for a better one. Carefully she patted down the partially eaten bodies. She found a good supply of poisoned darts and several very nice knives. Usually she would have taken such items, but these bodies would be searched later, and she did not want anyone to suspect she had already been hi the cave.

Several moments passed before Liriel found what she sought. One of the dead drow wore a leather pouch, suspended from his neck by a long thong and hidden beneath the chain mail vest. In the bag was a three-inch dagger, tucked into a rune-carved sheath that hung from a broken chain. Clutching the amulet triumphantly in her hand, Liriel backed out of the lair.

She hurried back to the relative safety of the glowing cavern and examined her trophy more closely. Yes, it was the very trinket she had glimpsed in Fyodor’s mind. She understood now how such a thing could lure a man into the Underdark. This, if it was indeed the Windwalker, was a unique magical treasure, an artifact from a long-gone era of strange and powerful sorcery. Finding such a thing was a worthy We quest. Possessing it was worth all the risks Fyodor had taken.

Would take. With that thought, Liriel’s triumph evaporated and her face creased in a scowl. Of course the human would return, and if she had found the dead merchants, he might also. The man had certainly shown himself to be strong and resourceful. But without the benefit of elven boots and the shielding invisibility of a piwafwi, he would no doubt join the drow fighters as food for the deepbat young.

Liriel did not stop to ponder why she should care about the matter one way or another. There was no time to waste, and she quickly formulated a plan that would accomplish what needed to be done. She took out her spellbook and summoned the magic gate that led to Kharza’s tower. What she had in mind would require the wizard’s help.

But Kharza was not alone when she stepped into his study. Her tutor sat behind his desk, his pale-knuckled hands clasped tightly before him. Lounging in a chair nearby was a drow male, probably the most strikingly exotic dark elf Liriel had ever seen. His long, copper-colored hair was bound back in a single thick tail, and in the faint candlelight his eyes gleamed as black as his ebony-hued skin. His angular face was defined by fine, high cheekbones, a sharply pointed chin, and a thin blade of a nose. He was slender and richly dressed, and his manner suggested both pride and power. Liriel took in all this with a glance, and just as quickly dismissed him. Another time, she might be interested, but now more important matters absorbed her attention.

“Kharza, we must talk,” she said quickly, glancing pointedly at the stranger.

Before the wizard could respond, the red-haired drow rose to his feet and swept Liriel a polite bow. “I would greet you, lady, but I do not know your name and house,” the male said. “Kharza-kzad, would you be so kind?”

The wizard’s worry lines deepened into veritable canyons, but he launched into the formulaic introduction. “Liriel of House Baenre, daughter of archmage Gromph Baenre, may I present to you my associate Nisstyre, captain of the merchant band Dragon’s Hoard.”

Nisstyre’s black eyes lit up and he bowed again. “I was not expecting such an honor. Our mutual friend assures me you were pleased with his recent gift?”

“The book of human lore,” Kharza said reluctantly, noting Liriel’s blank expression. “Nisstyre was the source of it.”

“And I would be happy to supply you with others, if you should so desire. The Dragon’s Hoard is famous for procuring anything, regardless of cost. I’m sure the wizard would be happy to attest to our discretion. We have been supplying his house for many years.”