Windwalker (27 page)

The official studied the papers, gave the men an odd, almost pitying look, and waved them in.

“Make it fast,” he warned. “You’ve not much time before full dark.”

All three men knew what that meant. The iron gates closed with nightfall and would not open again until dawn. The carter lashed his horses into action, and the carriage took off with a lurch.

They rumbled down the narrow, winding path, passing massive monuments and moss-draped trees. They passed the potter’s field, where the indigent and the nameless took their final rest, and finally stopped at a stand of bizarrely twisted trees.

The carriage could go no farther, so the two ruffians slid the coffin out and shouldered it, going on afoot. Although twilight had not yet come, the shadows seemed deeper here, the night fright-eningly close at hand.

They stopped before a small grassy mound and tapped out a rhythmic code on the ancient door. It swung open, unaided. A soft, phosphoric glow seemed to beckon them in.

The men exchanged a glance, shrugged, and started down the well-worn stone steps that led to a swiftly descending passage.

At the end of the tunnel was a circular crypt. Glowing lichen grew on the walls, and the soft light revealed a number of shelflike openings carved deep into the stone. They shoved the coffin into the first available place and eyed the several doors leading out of the room.

“Which one?” Chadrik wondered aloud.

The other man shrugged and settled down on a boxy stone tomb. “Don’t hardly matter. The Serpent’s man said the buyer would come to us. Break the summoning stone and let’s get the deal done.”

Chadrik removed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from his bag and took from it an azure stone. It was a costly thing, but never once did he think to keep or sell it. There was money to be made in the Serpent’s employ, but any man who thought to cross the moon elf ended up mysteriously and messily dead.

He tossed the stone to the crypt’s floor. It shattered into sparkling bits of lights. They rose like a swarm of tiny blue bees and disappeared into a crack in the stone wall.

Chadrik sent a nervous glance toward the stone ceiling and thought of the coming night. “Let’s hope they’re quick about it.”

His partner took out a small knife and began to carve the dirt out from under his nails. “Worse comes to worse, we spend the night here. I wouldn’t wander the City, mind you, but what harm could come to us in here?”

“What about Dienter?”

The other thug snorted with laughter. “Think that corpse-hauler would risk his hide on our account? He’s likely long gone, and the carriage with him. Might as well settle yourself down.”

Not seeing an option, Chadrik took this advice and took a seat on an old marble sarcophagus.

The glowing lichen suddenly ceased to cast light, throwing the room into utter darkness. The two men leaped to their feet and dragged out their weapons.

“Put them away,” suggested a sonorous male voice—a voice too deep for a halfling, too fluid for a dwarf, too musical to be human. “Drow can see quite well in the dark, you know, whereas you can see nothing at all. You can’t possibly hurt anyone but yourselves.”

Drow.

An invisible fist of dread clenched around Chadrik’s throat. His companion started to whimper. The moss began to glow again, faintly at first and growing gradually brighter, pushing back the shadows at a tantalizingly slow pace—as if to grant the dark elves time to fully savor the men’s misery.

Finally their doom stood revealed. There were four drow, all of them male. Two hung back, taking the unmistakable posture of subordinates standing guard. Of the other two, Chadrik was unsure which led and which followed.

One of them wore a warrior’s leather armor and carried more fine weapons than Chadrik had owned in his most extravagant dreams. The drow’s white hair was cropped close, probably to deprive his foes of a handhold, and a stylized dragon tattoo was emblazoned on one cheek. The other was clad in fine garments and gems, his long hair carefully woven into a multitude of braids. A large red gem was set in his forehead like a third eye. He regarded the men with a smile, the meaning of which was unclear to the terrific ruffian.

The warrior spoke first. “You sent word that you’d found the ruby.”

Chadrik promptly handed over the necklace. “It’s yours. No need to settle up; I’ll get my pay from the man what hired me.” His words tumbled over each other in their haste to be said.

None of the drow spoke. Chadrik dredged his fear-sodden mind for something to say. Remembering stories of drow hatred of surface elves, he manufactured a leer and a lie. “The elf wench was payment enough for me.”

This did not seem to endear him to any of the dark elves.

“We have the ruby,” the dandy said, gesturing to the gem in his forehead. “I can assure you that one is quite enough. Not a wise thing, to cheat the drow of the Dragon’s Hoard.”

“We didn’t know! I swear,” Chadrik babbled. “We took the elf woman just like the man said, got the necklace she was wearing. A mistake’s been made, that’s plain to see, but we stole the necklace in good faith. We’re out the coin we paid the corpse-hauler to bring us in here, and the scribes who forged the burial papers. Not that I’m complaining! Take the gems for your trouble, and we’ll be square.”

The warrior listened in silence. When at last Chadrik’s voice faded into silence, he tossed a glance toward the attentive guards. “Kill them.”

“Not yet,” said the other softly. “Many of the best tales have a circular form. The heroes or villains end as they begin. Justice is not always undesirable, provided the path it takes is sufficiently twisted.”

“Meaning?” the tattooed drow demanded.

“You go along. I’ll catch up in a bit.”

The well-dressed drow turned to the captives, and the light in his eyes was horribly familiar. The warrior scowled but did not argue. He jerked his head toward one of the doors, indicating that the soldiers should follow. The door slammed shut behind the three drow. Somehow Chadrik knew that there would be no opening that door, or any of the others.

Chadrik had few morals and no illusions. Until this moment, he’d been certain that nothing could appall him.

He thought of the elf woman and envied her the ability to die at will.

Shakti Hunzrin ducked through of the low entrance leading to a small cavern on the outskirts of Menzoberranzan. The forces the archmage had promised her were assembled, and they stood awaiting her inspection in eerie silence.

She eyed her new command with dismay. The soldiers were not mercenaries, as she had expected, but undead drow. All of them were female.

For some reason that struck Shakti as deliberately offensive. Making matters worse was the fact that all of the zombies’ heads had been shaved. Their lives gone, their names forgotten, even their luxuriant tresses stolen—reduced to this state, they were no better than males.

At least the fighters looked strong, and they were certainly well equipped. All were clothed in identical rothe-hide armor, sturdy boots, and well-laden weapon belts. Most of the zombies were dark-clad, but a few wore crimson sashes to mark them as squadron leaders. Each of these leaders held a spear, and all the zombies carried swords that were plain but well made. A small crossbow hung on every belt alongside a quiver full of poisoned darts.

Shakti walked slowly down the line, a scented cloth pressed to her nose. One of Gromph’s hirelings noted this.

“That isn’t necessary,” he said briskly. “These zombies are exceptionally well preserved and will keep indefinitely in the tunnels of the Underdark. Take them above ground as little as possible, for the spells will begin to dissipate.”

She did not contradict this assertion. Now that she considered the matter, these fighters seemed ideally suited to her purpose. They would march without ceasing or tiring, and she needn’t worry about organizing supplies or waste time hunting and foraging. Moreover, she was not unhappy to be spared the company of males.

“Will you be expecting their return?”

The young wizard sneered. “And waste magical resources laying zombie commoners to rest? Use them up, by all means. Here is the command key. They have been well trained—you shouldn’t have any problem.”

He handed her a small book bound in lizard hide. In it were a number of simple commands, most of them general enough to address a number of situations. Shakti paged through the book and found the needed command. She turned to the nearest crimson-clad zombie and issued the marching order. The zombie thumped the butt of her spear several times against the stone floor. An undead squadron wheeled smartly and headed for the eastbound tunnel. Other leaders took up the rhythm, and the zombie host set off with a seamless efficiency that no group of living drow could manage.

Shakti mounted a large riding lizard. She squared her shoulders and reined the beast toward the eastbound tunnel and the land known as Rashemen.

The spell Sharlarra had cast over herself gave way slowly. The sluggish whisper of her heart quickened and grew stronger, and the unnatural chill began to fade from her blood and flesh. Awareness returned first, and she lay in her coffin for many long moments while mobility returned to her frigid limbs.

There was no sound outside the wooden box. None whatsoever. Never had Sharlarra experienced such utter silence. The complete lack of sight and sound was profoundly unnerving. She actually took solace in the smell: mold, mostly, but also the musty, earthy scent peculiar to catacombs.

As soon as the elf could move, she braced her hands against the wooden lid and pushed, raising her knees at the same time. Fortunately the coffin was cheaply made of thin, light boards, and she was able to raise the lid.

A little.

Panic swept through her. She pushed the lid to one side and soon encountered solid stone. But at least a small opening had been created. She worked one foot out and braced it against the opposite wall, pushing the coffin as far as it would go. The top end was harder to move, but she finally managed to inch the box firmly against one wall. Then she pushed the lid back to the other side, creating the largest possible opening.

Fortunately, it was just enough. Also fortunate was the fact that the coffin had gone in feet first. She flipped over onto her stomach and then wriggled out into a round, faintly glowing room.

Her kidnappers were dead. Sharlarra glanced at the bodies and was just as glad that she’d slept while justice was being meted out.

It was easy enough to figure out what had happened. The thugs had been hired to find the necklace. They obviously didn’t know that the tattooed drow had already found the ruby. When the two men tried to collect, they were accused of fraud.

An honest mistake, no doubt, but Sharlarra couldn’t bring herself to shed tears over her fellow thieves.

One open door led out of the crypt. The elf ran up the swiftly sloping passage to the heavy wooden door. She threw her weight against it. It swung silently open, and she stepped out into a starlit night.

A copse of weathered trees surrounded the crypt entrance. They were of a type Sharlarra had never seen before. In the moonlight the leaves appeared to be an odd shade of blue, darkening with the coming of autumn to a deep violet. It was said that blue trees were common to Evermeet, but what were they doing here?

She ran her fingers over the faded inscription carved into the door. The curving marks were Elvish, a language she had never learned to read. She could make out only two words: “hero” and “Evermeet.” A wry smile lifted one corner of her lips. Offhand, she couldn’t think of any two words that were less applicable to her life.

Still, her hand lingered on the engraving that framed these words—a representation of the moon phases with a full moon framed by outward-facing crescents.

A faint whicker sounded behind her. Sharlarra whirled, then staggered back against the wooden door.

Before her stood a tall white horse, a beautiful creature with a luxuriant mane and tail so long they nearly swept the ground, and a face that was both intelligent and strangely expressive. The horse regarded her wistfully with long-lashed, silver-blue eyes that glowed like living moonstone.

These eyes were the horse’s most substantial features. The rest of it was cloudy, almost translucent. Sharlarra could make out the shape of trees behind it.

“A ghost horse,” she whispered.

Yet there was nothing of menace in the apparition’s manner. If anything, it seemed delighted to see her. The ghost pranced a couple of steps closer, tossing its head in what looked suspiciously like a beckoning gesture.

Curiosity began to elbow fear aside. Sharlarra pushed herself away from the door and forced her shock-benumbed legs forward. She gingerly laid one hand on the horse’s neck. To her vast relief, her hand did not sink into the insubstantial form. She stroked the ghostly horse. Its coat was silky, and cool to the touch.

The creature let out a soft whicker that sounded for all the world like a contented sigh. It nosed Sharlarra’s shoulder and shifted around to present its left side.

“You want me to ride you,” the elf woman said in disbelief.

The look the horse gave her left little doubt of its opinion of those who stated the obvious.

Sharlarra held her own hands in front of her face, turning them this way and that. Yes, they were still solid flesh. Her waking death spell had successfully faded. The horse was responding to her, not to a fellow ghost.

She considered the horse for a long moment. Curiosity defeated caution, and she vaulted onto its broad back. Immediately the ghost horse launched into flight.

After the first startled moment, Sharlarra realized that they had not actually left the ground. So swift and silent was the horse’s stride that it had the sensation of flight. The elf relaxed one knee slightly, and immediately the ghost horse veered off in that direction.

A wild scheme began to take shape in Sharlarra’s mind. “Can you jump?” she asked the horse.

In response, it soared over a mossy statue depicting a trio of long-dead soldiers. Sharlarra grinned and urged her mount toward the eastern wall.