Windwalker (38 page)

The young witch’s lips set in a tight line, and she sent a glare toward the old woman. The Othlor inclined her head in confirmation.

“I must do as you bid,” Anya said grudgingly. “But we Rashemi have a proverb: What good can come of alliance with evil?”

“An excellent proverb, and an even better question,” Sylune said. She rested a ghostly hand on Liriel’s arm. “I have many questions about you. I will stay with you until I find answers. With Zofia Othlor’s permission, of course.”

“You will ever find a welcome here,” the old woman said softly. “You have been too long away, my sister. You must find me much changed.”

Musical laughter spilled from the spectral harper. “The dead do not age, dear Zofia, yet I suspect you would not change places with me.”

“True enough, and truer now than in days past. It is no easy time to be a spirit in Rashemen,” Zofia warned.

“Even so, I will not regret what comes of it. It will be good to see battle again,” she said wistfully. She turned to Liriel. “Do you agree, drow?”

Liriel gave an ungracious shrug. “I’m none too happy about being haunted, but I suppose enduring a ghost is better than becoming one.”

Fyodor looked to Zofia. “The witch of Shadowdale spoke of battle. Did Petyar bring the message?”

“And came with it,” the boy said. He stepped from behind the hillock. His defiant glare challenged the older man to condemn what he had done.

“I am proud of you, cousin,” Fyodor said at last. “The first duty of a Rashemi warrior is to the land, his first loyalty to the wychlaran.”

Some of the ice faded from the boy’s eyes. “What will you do now?”

“How well do you know the Warrens?” Liriel asked him.

Petyar found it easier to regard the toe of his boots than the face of a drow. “I often go there,” he mumbled. “Why?”

“Are there back tunnels to the place where the hostages are held?”

He glanced up, and nodded cautiously. “Yes, but they are narrow. No more than one can pass at a time.”

“Perfect,” she said. “Fyodor and I will go with you. I have spells that can counter the spider trap. Once the men are freed, you can lead them back to the clearing outside the Warrens. That’s as good a place for battle as any.”

“That would be my choice, as well,” Zofia agreed. Her gaze swept the circle of witches. “Go, and prepare.”

The three young people set out for the Warrens at a run. When they were still some distance away, Petyar stopped beside a large dead tree stump and threw his weight against it. The log fell with a crash, revealing a dark hole beyond.

Liriel’s hands flashed through the gestures of a spell, and a sphere of blue light bobbed into existence. This earned her a wondering stare from the boy. She scowled and shoved him into the tunnel, tilting her head to listen to the clattering sound of his fall.

“Not a bad drop,” she concluded. “It’s safe to jump.”

“Little raven!” protested Fyodor.

“It wasn’t that steep,” she said defensively. “Even if it was, he deserved it.”

The Rashemi merely shook his head and followed his cousin into the cave.

The trio rose and regarded their surroundings in the light of Liriel’s azure globe. They had emerged in a large cavern. Water dripped from jagged spires of rock high overhead and ran in rivulets toward a deep ravine. Two tunnels led out of the cavern, a broad passage leading westward and a narrow opening leading to the south.

A sound like a rushing wind swept toward them from the larger tunnel, and a full battalion of drow warriors roiled into the room.

Fyodor and Petyar drew their swords, but Liriel stepped between them and the drow. She flung up one hand and issued a sharp, staccato command—a word known only to the nobles of House Baenre and the forces under their command.

The warriors came to an abrupt halt. The leader recovered his surprise first and sauntered forward.

“That’s close enough,” Liriel said coldly. “You have not been granted permission to approach me.”

She spoke in the drow language, dropping back into her old, imperious ways with terrifying ease. Something in her manner gave the warrior pause. “By what right do you command me?” he demanded.

“You wear the insignia of House Baenre. Therefore you are mine.”

His thin, cruel lips curled in a sneer. “Triel is matron mother of the First House. Who are you?”

Liriel responded by hurling a gout of magical fire at his boots. The drow danced nimbly back. “Someone who does not care for your insolence,” she snarled.

“A female wizard,” he muttered. “A Shobalar, then.”

Liriel sent him a venomous glare. “Triel didn’t pick you for your intelligence, that’s clear enough, nor for your knowledge of the House you purport to serve. I was trained by House Shobalar, yes, but I am Liriel Baenre, daughter to Menzoberranzan’s archmage.”

The male’s smile returned in full. “You have made our hunt all the easier. It is you we seek.”

As if a signal had been given, every drow with him drew a weapon. They moved as one, swiftly and silently. Not a single sword hissed as it came free of its scabbard, not a single tiny crossbow clicked as its wielder snapped it into firing position. The silence was eerie, but no less so than the precision. Liriel had almost forgotten the preternatural skill of her people’s fighters. She had not, however, forgotten their subtle and devious ways.

She threw up an arm to hold Fyodor back. “As I have sought you,” she retorted. “Triel took her time in sending help! Or perhaps it is you who took your time in getting here?” she added pointedly.

Uncertainty flickered in the leader’s eyes. “We were told to meet Gromph’s forces here.”

“Zombies,” Liriel said with disdain. “So like my dear father, to use expendable troops.” Her gaze swept the battle-ready warriors, and she lifted one eyebrow pointedly.

“We are Matron Triel’s,” the leader said stiffly, “and as loyal to her as any zombie to its master.”

“I don’t doubt Gromph’s zombies. He only purchases the best of anything, but they have a commander, yes? A high priestess?”

The drow nodded cautiously. “A high priestess of Lolth?” Liriel persisted.

“Who but?” the male said, obviously puzzled by this line of reasoning.

She let out a small, scornful chuckle. “You’ve heard the stories of Vhaerun, the Masked God. No male in Menzoberranzan hasn’t heard them, and many dream that the rumors might be true. Some dare to do more than dream,” she said meaningfully.

“We are faithful servants of Matron Triel and followers of the Spider Queen!” the soldier protested.

Liriel nodded crisply. “Good. Then you will stand with me against Shakti Hunzrin, traitor priestess to Vhaerun.”

“This is not possible!”

“Then why does she travel with Gorlist, the leader of a band of drow outcasts known as the Dragon’s Hoard? They are known followers of Vhaerun who make their living trading on the surface, slaving and stealing.”

The drow snapped a look back at his second in command.

“I have heard of this band,” the warrior replied. “Their name is sometimes spoken when the stories of Vhaerun are told.”

Drow steel flashed, and the speaker’s head tipped slowly to one side. The leader turned back to Liriel. “He should not have listened to such tales,” he said grimly, “but before we seek out these traitors, perhaps you would be good enough to explain the strange company that you keep.”

“These two?” Liriel said dismissively, switching to Common and flicking one hand toward the watchful Rashemi. “They are my slaves.”

A howl of protest burst from Petyar. Fyodor slammed one fist into the boy’s gut, and the cry ended in a wheezing gasp. “A thousand pardons, princess,” he murmured. Fyodor spoke to Liriel, but his eyes never moved from the young man’s face. “This one does not yet know when to speak and when to keep silent.”

“You have dealt with him properly,” Liriel said. “Tell these warriors what we will face.”

Fyodor gave a concise, accurate field report.

When he was finished, the drow commander shook his head. “Too many.”

“We have a wizard with us,” the Rashemi pointed out.

“They have a priestess,” the drow shot back, “and apparently their priestess can call upon two gods. We do not know what magic this Masked Lord may grant!”

“We Rashemi also have magic,” Petyar said stoutly. “There are no male witches among us, but those men who have the gift craft wondrous magical items, powerful artifacts that any warrior can wield in battle!”

Liriel gritted her teeth and glared at the boy. Where drow was concerned, information like this was the equivalent of throwing blood in shark-infested water!

“I have seen no magic of consequence in this land,” she said flatly. “Hold your lying tongue, boy, or I will cut it into three strips and braid the pieces. You,” she said to Fyodor. “If he speaks again, see to it.”

She turned back to the drow warriors. “You will wait here and engage in battle any drow soldiers, alive or dead, who come through that tunnel,” she said, pointing. “Leave none alive.”

The drow snapped a quick salute, and Liriel waved Petyar toward the tunnel. As soon as they were beyond the range of hearing, she seized the hem of the boy’s vest and pulled him to a stop. “Is there another way out? A way that doesn’t go through the cavern?”

Petyar spat at her boots. “So you can escape now and abandon my comrades?”

Fyodor backhanded the boy across the face. “Think before you speak, fool!” he said softly, his voice more angry than Liriel had ever heard it. “You will lead the others to the surface, and Liriel and I will draw the drow warriors and their zombies to fight this new force.”

“Exactly,” she agreed.

The young man did not look convinced. “And if there was no second way?”

“Then we would have to fight our way clear,” the drow told him. “It could be done, but I’d rather save the men for the battle to come. There will be a battle if even one of the drow remains standing. You’ve made sure of that. Now go!”

The boy looked uncertainly to his cousin. “Fyodor?”

“Do as she says, and hurry!”

Petyar took off at a run. Liriel followed close behind. Her mind raced as she sped along behind him, planning strategy, listing spells.

“These newcomers might join the other drow in battle,” Fyodor said.

She shot a glance back at him. “It is possible, but they belong to House Baenre, and they are accustomed to following the orders of Baenre priestesses.”

“Even if the battle is won, any surviving drow will have learned much about Rashemen’s defenses and magic.”

Petyar came to an abrupt stop and whirled to face the others. “Now I understand what you meant,” he said in an appalled whisper. “I should not have said what I did about Rashemen’s magic. From my words they might conclude that Rashemen is worth pillaging, perhaps even conquering!”

“We can’t let them return to Menzoberranzan,” Liriel acknowledged.

The boy’s consternation turned to puzzlement. “You would lead them into battle, knowing that you must later slay them?”

“They won’t take it personally,” she said. “They’re drow. They expect allies to turn on them.”

Petyar turned helpless eyes to Fyodor. The warrior reached over Liriel’s shoulder and gave him a shove. “Remember the men held by these drow, and go!”

The moon was high when Liriel and Fyodor climbed out of the tunnel. Petyar and the freed Rashemi warriors awaited them. All stared at her for a long moment before the fyrra ordered them to join the forces gathering in the clearing.

Treviel fell into step with the pair. His gaze flicked from Liriel to Fyodor, and he shook his head.

“She’ll turn, my son. No doubt the others already have. There are more drow down there than rats in the sewers of Immiltar.”

“She will stand,” Fyodor said firmly.

There was no more time for talk. The mountains were suddenly alive with dark forms. A silent army marched from the mouth of a nearby cave. Drow females, larger and stronger-looking than the males who had ambushed the scouting party, advanced in grim precision. Moonlight gleamed on their bald pates and ready swords but found no answering glimmer in their dead eyes.

“Zombies,” Fyodor whispered. The memory of his last battle on Rashemaar soil flooded back in full.

A sharp pain exploded in his thigh and jolted up his spine. He dived forward and rolled to one side, coming up with his black sword in hand.

The drow female whose life he had spared regarded him with contempt. The point of her long, slender sword was wet with his blood. She snarled something at him and beckoned him to come closer.

He glanced around for Liriel, but she had already been swept away by a fierce battle with two of the males.

The drow female advanced on him quickly, Her sword slashed the air in a dazzling display of speed and grace, taunting him with her superior skill, flaunting the promise of death.

Fyodor waited, hating what he must do. The beautiful drow lunged at him. He blocked the drow’s attack with a slow, clumsy parry, one that drove her sword down toward his thigh. Contempt flared in her red eyes, and she leaned into the stroke.

Fyodor was no longer there. He spun away from the contrived blunder and swung his sword in a circle—a move many times faster and more fluid that his first. He smacked the drow hard with the flat of his sword and sent her sprawling.

An arrow sang past him and buried itself in the base of the fallen drow’s neck. She twitched once and went still.

Thorn ran past him, nocking another arrow. This she aimed at one of the drow males who fought Liriel, backing her away from battle and toward the caves. Liriel dodged his falling body and tore the arrow free. This she plunged into the throat of her second opponent. With a quick nod of thanks, she raced off toward the hillside where the witches stood.

Another male stepped into her path. Liriel kept running, casting a simple heat-metal spell as she went. The drow dropped his sword and reached for his dagger. Consternation flooded his face when he realized it was not there.

“Looking for this?”

An elf woman with red-gold hair stood several paces behind him, a smirk on her face and a drow dagger in her hands. Sharlarra gave the dagger a mocking little shake and tossed it to Liriel.