Windwalker (28 page)

A hollow, echoing battle cry sounded behind her. She shot a look over one shoulder. Her eyes widened in panic as three ghostly soldiers roiled out of the statue. They lofted swords that looked far too sharp and solid for her peace of mind and came after her at a run.

Sharlarra leaned low over the horse’s neck, urging it onward. They dodged through tombs and monuments, evading pale grasping hands that thrust up from the ground. Soon the east wall was before them. She urged the horse on, praying that the ghostly horse was equal to the eight-foot stone barrier. It might pass through unscathed, but she’d be left on the wall like a toad squashed by the wheels of a trade caravan.

An open grave yawned before them. Sharlarra screamed, and the horse leaped into flight.

Time stopped, and the moment between one heartbeat and the next seemed to last a Northman’s winter. Then the horse’s front hooves touched soundlessly down, and they began their eastbound flight across the meadows surrounding Waterdeep.

An inquiring whinny rose from the ghost horse and danced off on the rushing wind.

“I’m Sharlarra,” she responded. “I don’t suppose you could tell me your name.”

The horse’s pace slowed just slightly, and its head drooped. A pang of guilt assailed the elf. It was said that many ghosts did not realize they were dead. Some of these displaced spirits remembered pieces of their lives but were otherwise disoriented. A sure way to frustrate these ghosts was to ask them questions about themselves that they could not answer.

“Moonstone,” she decided. “Your name is Moonstone.”

Her mount bobbed its head in obvious accord, then it neighed again, louder and more insistently.

“Where are we going?” she translated and again received an affirmative response.

Sharlarra hadn’t thought this far ahead, but the answer came to her quickly. What better destination than the adventure that had captured her imagination since the day she’d stolen Liriel Baenre’s gems?

“You’ll like Rashemen,” she told the ghost horse. “I’ve heard they’re fond of spirits there.”

RETURN OF THE WITCH

Dawn was still hours away when the Witchboat’s shallow hull crunched softly on the pebbles of the Rashemen shore. The two companions climbed out and gazed over the valley toward the somber tower. Liriel set off toward it at a brisk pace.

Fyodor caught her arm. “Before we go any farther, there are things you should know about this land.”

“You’ve been telling me stories since we met,” she pointed out.

“A drop in the ocean. Every place has its tales and legends. The valley between the shore and tower is known as White Rusalka Vale. We call this a silent valley. That means there are some places within it where no magic can be cast other than that which is in the land. The witches can use magic, but no one else.”

The drow’s eyebrows lifted. “Smart. In Underdark cities, we do much the same thing. It’s like a magical moat around a castle.”

“It is much the same idea, yes.” He scanned the valley. “We should make camp.”

They settled down in a small curve of the river and built a pair of fires. Liriel took the water skin Fyodor offered and made a face at the stale, musty taste.

“The water here runs fast and clear. Surely we could drink it.”

“Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “Tonight we must stay away from the river’s edge. Promise me you will do this.”

The drow bristled. “I know how to swim.”

“If you meet a rusalka, you will learn how to drown,” he responded. “Water spirits haunt this river. Some say that they are the ghosts of drowned maidens, and that may be so. Sometimes their attacks seem deliberate, but other times they cling to the living as if in remembered panic, dragging them under the water with them.”

“You’re just as dead, either way,” Liriel concluded and eyed the darkening water with new respect.

“It would be well to stay within the circle of firelight, too,” he added.

The drow acknowledged this with a curt nod. “I’ll sit first watch. Thanks to that faerie elf, I’ve had enough sleep to last a tenday.”

“Thanks to that faerie elf, you are alive,” he pointed out.

Liriel puzzled over this. “Why would she bother?”

“Honor? Decency?”

“Not likely,” the drow mused. “I suppose it’s possible that she’s honorable and decent, but she had to have a reason for what she did. Everyone does.”

Lirel’s stomach grumbled. She felt as hollow as if she’d gone a tenday without food, though she realized it had been only two days.

“Let’s hunt.” She rose and pulled a pair of throwing knives from her belt.

They walked only a few paces into the forest when Liriel noted the rabbit emerging from the roots of an enormous fallen tree. It was beyond her accurate throwing range, but it seemed in no hurry to leave its den. She flipped her knife into throwing position and began to creep forward.

Again Fyodor seized her arm and indicated with gestures that she should wait. He unstoppered his jhild flask and took a swig.

Liriel’s eyes rounded with astonishment. “A rage for a rabbit? How does one hunt Rashemaar squirrels—with summoned demons?”

“Check the rabbit for hidden magic,” he told her. He began the chant that brought on the berserker rage.

She quickly cast the spell that revealed hidden magic. A soft aura surrounded the rabbit. Its head snapped up, and its long ears twisted this way and that as it sought the source of this disturbance. The creature bounded toward them, growing larger with each stride. Within a few paces it had changed form entirely.

A huge, hideous beast lurched toward them with the strangest gait Liriel had ever seen. The creature had two legs, but its powerful arms reached the ground, and it used them to pull itself along in an odd galloping motion. Matted gray fur covered the monster, and its face was like an ore’s with its upturned snout and large, protruding lower canines. Most peculiar were the great black eyes—not just two, but a circlet of them that seemed to surround the creature’s entire head like a string of enormous obsidian beads.

Fyodor lifted his cudgel and ran to meet the charge. He ducked beneath a vicious, swiping blow and lunged forward like a swordsman delivering a high jab.

The driftwood club smashed into the monster’s face. The creature swore with human fluency and spat out a mouthful of sharp, yellowed teeth. It swatted again. This time Fyodor blocked. The sharp crack of wood against bone rang through the air. Liriel winced, certain that the berserker had shattered his weapon.

The creature loped away, one arm hanging useless. As danger receded, so did the berserker rage. Fyodor seemed to slip down into himself, and he swayed where he stood.

Liriel ran forward and took the club from his slack hand. She pushed him down on the grass. He took the skin flask she offered and drank deeply of the stale water.

“How did you know?” she marveled.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and pointed to the fallen tree. “See how the upturned roots make a small cave? That is too large a den for an entire warren of rabbits. The uthraki make their homes in such places.”

“It’s a shapeshifter, then. The spell should have shown its true form.”

“Not the uthraki. The usual spells for such things show no more than the presence of magic.”

Liriel pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Well, clearly you’re in no shape for hunting. Is it safe to pick mushrooms here?”

“If you know what to pick. There are many deadly mushrooms in these forests. Some will not kill you but will bring strange and terrible dreams. Better for tonight that we eat travelers’ fare.” He took from his bag some strips of dried meat mixed with what appeared to be berries and herbs.

The drow took one and nibbled off a corner. It was surprisingly good. “Where did these come from?”

“Thorn gave them to us, but we make something very similar in Rashemen. Let’s get back to camp.”

She rose and extended her hand to him. He accepted without comment—another thing that still astonished Liriel. In her homeland, no one dared expose a weakness of any sort. An offer of help was the sort of insult that led to blood feud. Yet here between friends, this giving and accepting was a simple, expected thing.

Since even a short berserker rage was enormously debilitating, they didn’t even discuss who should take first watch. Liriel sat beside her sleeping friend, watching the moon creep across the night sky and feeding sticks to the twin fires that framed their campsite. When she was certain that Fyodor was sound asleep, she rose silently and crept into the darkness.

It seemed to Liriel that Fyodor sometimes forgot the differences between them. The firelight was no advantage to her—quite the contrary. If there was any danger near at hand, she would be more likely to perceive it in the cool shadows beyond.

The drow began to explore the valley in ever-widening circles, avoiding the forest and keeping to the open grassy areas. The valley seemed deserted but for the singing insects in the grass and a small band of stout and shaggy wild horses. She noted with interest that they stood in a small circle, the young ones asleep in the center. All the adults stood, and while one was obviously a sentry, the others slept on their feet. Their heads drooped nearly to the meadow grass, but long velvety ears twisted even in slumber, alert to the slightest sound. The drow, of course, made none, and she was careful to stay downwind of the equine sentry.

She moved carefully, using the shadows and slipping between stony outcrops and small stands of brush. As she eased around a familiar-looking pile of boulders, she found herself face to face with a small, straw-thatched hut.

It had not been there before.

Instantly she froze, reminding herself that her magic was of no use in this place and that silence and stealth offered her best defense. Slowly she eased back into the shadows of the rocks.

The hut was silent, dark, and cold. No sound came from the open windows, no smoke curled from the small stone chimney. Yet Liriel could not rid herself of the distinct sense that here was a living presence.

It occurred to her that the hut itself seemed to be breathing. It leaned this way and that, almost imperceptibly, with a long, measured cadence that brought to mind a deep and silent sleeper.

Curiosity overcame prudence, and she tossed a small stone at the hut.

Immediately the hut leaped into the air. Liriel’s jaw dropped in astonishment as she found herself staring at a pair of enormous avian legs. Scaly limbs the size of young trees bent, and the huge, taloned bird feet flexed. The startled hut whirled and sped off into the night. This in turn alerted the ponies. Whickers of alarm and the swift-fading rumble of cantering hoofs filled the night.

Liriel sprinted back toward the campsite, knowing that these sounds, however faint and distant, would surely awaken the sleeping warrior. Sure enough, she saw Fyodor coming to find her, a make-shift torch in hand.

Her keen eyes saw the trap that he, entrapped in turn by his own circle of light, could not perceive. A drift of autumn leaves shifted, and the faint moonlight reflected off the teeth of a vicious steel trap.

She seized a fist-sized stone and hurled it toward him. It struck the trap, which sprang into the air like a striking pyramo fish. The warrior jumped back, and his quick glance traced the stone’s arc to the place where Liriel stood.

“Don’t move,” he cautioned. “There may be others.”

“It wasn’t there last time I passed by. It was just set. I don’t think it’s traps that we should be worried about.”

Fyodor pulled his sword and continued toward her, probing the ground with the blade as he came. Another, smaller trap sang shut with a metallic clatter. He lifted his sword and showed her the steel maw clamped onto his weapon.

“Very well, it’s not just traps,” Liriel muttered.

He worked his way over to her without incident. Together they retraced their path toward the camp. To her puzzlement, Fyodor continued to test the ground, poking at the sod on either side of their path. Suddenly the sword tip sank deep into a narrow crevice. Fyodor yanked it free and put Liriel behind him.

A square piece of sod flipped open like a hatch, and several small creatures roiled out of their hiding place. They looked a bit like goblins, only smaller and brown of skin. None of them were above Liriel’s waist in height, and all worn ragged trousers from which protruded long, hideous rat tails.

They were very like the kobold slaves who did menial chores in Menzoberranzan, but unlike the kobolds Liriel knew, and unlike the rats they resembled, these creatures did not attack in a swarm. They surrounded their larger prey, cutting off retreat but making no other move. Their round eyes caught the moonlight and reflected red.

“Traps and ambush pits,” she said softly. “What other tactics do these things employ?”

“None,” Fyodor responded, sounding genuinely puzzled. “They are sometimes mischievous but never do serious harm. I have glimpsed one before from time to time, but they are as skittish as deer.”

“They’re holding steady now,” she pointed out, “and there’s a lot of them. Right about now I could make good use of a meteor swarm spell!”

“It is bad luck to kill them.”

“Let’s hope they feel the same way about us,” she said, eyeing the waiting hoard.

A creaking screech filled the air, like the sound of stormed-tossed tree limbs rasping together or the wooden hulls of two ships scraping one against the other.

Suddenly the creatures exploded into a gibbering chorus. Lofting small, dark knives, they hurled themselves into a running charge.

Fyodor batted aside the swiftest two, using the flat of his blade to lift them off their feet and hurl them aside. He spun to meet the next onslaught, carefully using his sword as a bludgeon to beat them back without killing them.

The drow had no such scruples. She drew her sword and ran it through the first squealing rat-thing that came at her. Tugging her sword free, she delivered a slashing backstroke that downed another and sent its companion darting back, jabbering in fear.

She stooped and swept up the knives all three of the creatures had dropped. To her surprise, they seemed to be carved of stone, but the edges were keen, the balance good. Liriel tossed all three knives into the air. She caught and hurled them, one after another, into a trio of attacking kobolds.