Daughter of the Drow (3 page)

la it, he had found himself in a deep forest, where he’d apparently wandered in the confused aftermath of a berserker frenzy. His arms, face, and body had been covered with stinging scratches. He had a vague memory of a playful tussle with his half-wild snowcat companion. In his dream, it slowly dawned on Fyodor that the game must have awakened his battle frenzy. He could not remember the outcome of battle, but his sword was wet to the hilt with blood still warm.

Awake, Fyodor knew the dream, although disturbing, was no prophecy of a battle to come. He had indeed tamed a snowcat once, but that had been many years ago, and they had parted in peace when the wild thing had returned to its nature. But the dream haunted him, for in it he read his deepest fear: would the time come when the battle rage gripped him entirely? Would he, in a mad frenzy, destroy not only his enemies, but those he loved?

Again and again Fyodor saw the light of life fading from the cat’s golden eyes. Try as he might, he could not banish the image, or thrust away the fear that this might somehow come to pass.

And as he awaited the light of dawn, Fyodor felt the heavy weight of fate upon his young shoulders, and wondered if perhaps the dream held prophecy, after all.

Shakti Hunzrin slumped deeper into the prow of the small boat and glared at the two young males laboring at the oars. They were her brothers, page princes whose names she only occasionally remembered. The three drow siblings were bound for the Isle of Rothe, a mossy islet in the heart of Donigarten Lake. House Hunzrin was in charge of most of the city’s farming, including the herd of rothe maintained on the island, and Shakti’s family responsibilities had • increased fourfold in the tumultuous aftermath of war.

Yet the dark elf’smood was grim as she eyed her brothers, unblooded youths armed with only knives and pitchforks. Traveling with such a scant escort was not only dangerous, but insulting. And Shakti Hunzrin was ever alert for any insult, however slight.

The boat thudded solidly into the stone dock, jarring Shakti’s thoughts back to the matter at hand. She rose to her feet, slapping aside the hands of her unworthy escorts and climbing out of the boat unaided. Donigarten might be off the traveled path for most drow, but here Shakti was at home and in command. She stood for a moment on the narrow dock, head thrown back, to admire the miniature fortress above.

The overseer’s quarters loomed some hundred feet overhead, carved out of the solid stone that rose in a sheer wall from the water. Shakti’s boat had docked at the island’s only good landing site: a tiny cove unmarred by the sharp and rending rocks that surrounded the rest of the island. The only way off the island was through the stone fortress, and the only way down to the dock was a narrow stairway carved into the rock wall. The water around the island was deep and cold, utterly black except for an occasional faint, luminescent glow from the creatures that lived in the still depths. From time to time, someone tried to swim these waters. So far, no one had survived the attempt.

Shakti ignored the stairs and levitated smoothly upward to the fortress door. Not only did this small flight grant her a more impressive entrance, but it also had a practical purpose. The proud drow, with their love of beauty, did not allow imperfect children to survive and had little patience for those who developed physical defects later in life. Shakti was extremely nearsighted and took great pains to conceal this fact. She did not trust her footing on the treacherous stairs, and was not certain which would be worse, the actual tumble down the steep incline, or having to explain why she had missed a step.

The overseer, a female from some lesser branch of the Hunzrin family tree, bowed deeply when Shakti walked into the vast center room. Shakti was somewhat mollified by this show of respect, and pleased to note that her brothers fell into guard position at either side of the entrance, as if she were already a respected matron.

She laid aside her own weapon—a three-tined pitchfork with a slender, rune-carved handle—and walked over to the far window. The scene beyond was not encouraging. Moss and lichen fields had been dangerously overgrazed, and the irrigation system was clogged and neglected. Rothe wandered aimlessly about, cropping here and there at the meager fodder. Their usually thick, long coats were ragged and histerless. Shakti noted with dismay there would be little wool at shearing time. Even more distressing was the utter darkness that enshrouded the pasture.

“How many born so far this season?” Shakti snapped as she shrugged out of herpiwafwi. One of her brothers leaped forward to take the glittering cloak.

“Eleven,” the overseer said in a (pirn tone. “Two of those stillborn.”

The priestess nodded; the answer was not unexpected. The rothe were magical creatures who called to prospective mates with faint, blinking lights. At this season, the rothe’s courting rituals should have set the island aglow. The neglected animals were too weak and listless to attend to such matters.

But what else could she have expected? Most of the ores and goblins who tended the rothe herds had been taken as battle fodder, without regard for the logical consequences. These were things the ruling priestesses did not heed, expecting meat and cheese to appear at their tables as if by magic. In their vaunting pride, they did not understand some things required not only magic, but management.

This Shakti understood, and this she could provide. She seated herself behind a vast table and reached for the ledger that kept the breeding records. A sharp, pleasurable feeling of anticipation sped her fingers as she leafed through the pages. Keeping this ledger had been her responsibility before she’d been sent off to the Academy, and no one in the city knew more about breeding rothe than she did. Perhaps no one else shared her enthusiasm for the subject, but the drow certainly enjoyed the fine meat, cheeses, and wool her expertise produced!

One glance at the current page dampened both her pride and her enthusiasm. In her years of absence, the records had been written in a small, faint hand. Shakti swore, squinting her eyes into slits in an attempt to read the careless writing. Her mood did not improve as she read.

While she had been exiled to Arach-Tinilith, studying for the priestesshood and kowtowing to the Academy’s mistresses, the herd had been sadly neglected. The rothe were highly specialized for life on the island, and carefully supervised breeding was essential.

Muttering curses, Shakti leafed to the back of the book, where the records of the slave stock were kept. These were considerably less detailed; in Shakti’s opinion, the goblins could do whatever they liked provided their efforts produced enough new slaves. But according to the records, the birth rate among the usually fecund goblins was also dangerously low. This Shakti could not afford. House Hunzrin could acquire more slaves by purchase or capture, but such things took time and money.

“How many goblins remain?” Shakti asked tiredly as she massaged her aching temples.

“About forty,” responded the overseer.

Shakti’s head jerked up as if pulled by a string. “That’s all? Herders or breeders?”

“About half and half, but all of the goblins have been herding. To help keep order, the slaves have all been moved into the main hut.”

That was more bad news, for it meant the goblins lacked both the time and the privacy needed to procreate. Not that goblins required much of either, Shakti noted with distaste as she turned back to the ledger. Once again, she cursed the fate that had taken her away from the work she loved. At least the war had accomplished one thing: the rules that kept students sequestered at the Academy had been relaxed, for many of the young fighters, wizards, and priestesses were needed at home. The students had unprecedented freedom to come and go, and permission to leave was not difficult to obtain from the distracted masters and matrons.

At that moment a drow male clad in the rough clothes of a common laborer burst into the room. He slammed the heavy door behind him and bolted it in place.

The goblins are revolting!” he cried.

The voice was familiar to Shakti; it belonged to a handsome drone who provided her with an occasional dalliance. She recognized the tone: a gratifying mixture of fear and disbelief. The faint, coppery smell of his blood drifted toward her. She was familiar with that, too. But these pleasant memories registered only on the edges of Shakti’s thoughts; her concern was with the herd and her nearsighted eyes remained fixed on the page. “Yes, they certainly are,” she agreed absently.

The male fell back a step, his jaw slack with astonishment. He well knew that Shakti Hunzrin was capable of a good many things, but humor was simply not among them. Fbr a moment even the shock of the goblin uprising paled. Yet a second look at Shakti’s peevish, squinting countenance convinced the drow of his error.

He brushed aside his momentary surprise and strode toward the desk. He thrust his wounded arm close to Shakti’s eyes, so the myopic priestess could make out the marks of goblin fangs, the long red scores of their claws.

The goblins are revolting,” he repeated. At last, he had her attention. “You’ve sent a message to the city guard?” Shakti demanded.

He hesitated, a bit too long. “We have.”

“And? What did they say?”

“Donigarten has it own protections,” the drow quoted tonelessly.

Shakti let out a burst of bitter laughter. Translated, that meant only that the ruling matrons had more important matters on their minds than the loss of a few goblin slaves and the premature slaughter of some of the rothe. The rest of the city was safe from any unpleasantness that might occur on the island, for the only egress from Donigarten was by boat, and the only boat was secured, docked behind the office. Which meant, of course, the goblins would attack this very room.

Shakti snatched up her magic pitchfork—the weapon of choice for the Hunzrin family—and acknowledged her fate with a grim nod. It had come to this: the house nobles were forced to do battle with their own slaves.

At once there was a scrabble at the door, the sound of goblins clawing at the stone with their small, taloned fingers. The Hunzrin princes flanked their sister and raised their unblooded weapons. Shakti, however, had no intention of waiting out the little monsters. It never occurred to her she might flee. The rothe herd must be cared for, and that was what she intended to do.

So Shakti leveled her pitchfork at the door. Bracing the weapon against her hip, she covered her eyes with her free hand. The tines of her weapon spat magic. Three lines of white flame streaked toward the door, and the heavy slab of stone exploded outward with a spray of fragments and a thunderous roar.

For several moments all was a confusion of blinding light, cries of pain, and smoke heavy with the smell of charred flesh. Then the surviving goblins rallied and came on. A half dozen of the creatures roiled into the room, brandishing crude weapons fashioned of rothe bone and horn bound together with dried sinew.

Shakti’s youngest brother leaped forward, pitchfork leading. He impaled the nearest goblin and flung it over his shoulder like a forkful of straw. The wounded goblin soared, flailing and shrieking, out the back window. There was a long, fading wail as it tumbled toward the luminous creatures waiting below, then a splash, then silence. Wild grins twisted the Hunzrin brothers’ faces, and they fell upon the remaining goblins, pitchforks flashing as they reaped the grim harvest.

Shakti stood back and allowed the boys their fun. When the first rush of goblins had been dealt with, she stepped into the blasted doorway to meet the next attack. A gangling, yellow-skinned female was the first to come. Holding high a bone dagger, the goblin flung itself at the waiting drow. Shakti coolly sidestepped the thrust and jabbed her pitchfork forward, stabbing through her attacker’s uplifted arm.

At a word from the young priestess, magical lightning lit the pitchfork’s tines and streaked into the goblin’s body. With the first jolt, the slave’s fierce scowl melted into an almost comical look of surprise. Lank strands of hair rose and writhed about its head like the snakes of a medusa, and the goblin’s scrawny body shuddered convulsively. The lightning flowed on and on, and although the goblin shrieked and wailed in anguish, it could not pull free of Shakti’s pitchfork. Another goblin grabbed the yellow female’s imprisoned wrist—whether to rescue its companion or to steal its weapon was unclear—and it, too, was held fast by the lethal energy flow. Two more goblins, trying to edge past the shrieking couple into the room, were caught in the chain of malevolent magic.

With practiced ease, Shakti held her grip on the pitchfork and its magic. A few goblins managed to slip past the barrier of crackling energy and burning flesh. These were promptly skewered by the Hunzrin brothers and flung to the creatures waiting silently below.

Finally no more goblins came. Shakti wrenched her pitchfork from the charred flesh of her first victim. The chain of goblins fell into a smoking pile. The drow walked over their bodies and through the door, her still-glowing weapon held before her like a spear.

A few goblins—far too few!—remained, cowering and creeping slowly away. Murderous rage rose in Shakti’s heart as she surveyed her disgusting foe, and only with difficulty did she refrain from striking again. The goblins were thin, exhausted, in no better shape than the cattle. The drow’s practical nature acknowledged that the slaves might have seen no option other than to revolt. Yet when Shakti spoke, necessity, not compassion, governed her words.

“It is clear,” Shakti began in a cool, measured tone, “there are not enough slaves to tend the herd. But what have you gained by this foolish attack? How much harder will you have to work, now that you have foolishly depleted your numbers? But know this: the rothe herd comes first, and all of you will return to your duties at once. New slaves will be purchased and all successfully bred goblin females will be granted extra food and rest privileges; in the meanwhile you will adhere to a strict schedule of labor.” She hefted her pitchfork meaningfully. “Go now.”

The surviving goblins turned and fled. The priestess turned to her brothers. Their eyes gleamed with excitement from their first battle. She knew just how to deepen that sparkle.