第 23 页

"Where is this place, and what is it called?" Fyodor asked curiously. "You must forgive me, but I have wandered far and have lost my bearings."

The guard gave him a sharp glance. "Village is called Trollbridge, and it's a half day's travel from nowhere on every side. Trade routes and rivers everywhere, and us ?mack dab in the center of it all, like the itch you can't quite reach on the middle of your back," he grumbled.

"Trade routes?" Fyodor prodded.

To the north of us is Evermoor Way, the travel road what goes from Tribor up to Silverymoon. Just beyond is River Dessarin. Dead Horse Ford crosses over the Ironford Path, what cuts up to the Calling Horns hunting lodge. Where'd you come in from?"

The forest."

It was the best answer Fyodor could give, and apparently it was a good one. The one man's eyebrows flew upward, ami he nodded, visibly impressed.

"Ain't many men can travel alone through the High Bbrest. I thought them stories about berserkers got kinda tall, but getting out o' that place alive takes more than what most men have got. And it's no wonder you're feeling turned around. A man can wander a lifetime in that forest and never find his way out."

Although the names of the roads and rivers meant nothing to him, Fyodor had heard of the High Forest. It was a deep, magical woodland, incredibly ancient and vast, and it lay many hundreds of miles from his homeland. This knowledge was staggering, but he accepted it as he did most things: with fatalistic calm and an eye toward what needed doing.

"I would be grateful if you can tell me where I might buy supplies," he said.

The guard puckered his lips thoughtfully as he eyed Fyodor's heavy sword. "It'll be three, mebbe fours days before the caravan comes in," he said casually. "Might be you can stay on until then? We got work to be done, if you'd care to sign on for a few days' pledged hire."

It was on the tip of Fyodor's tongue to ask why the man thought he might be needed. The townsfolk worked at a frantic pace; at this rate, the booths would be finished by highsun. And why, for that matter, would he be required to sign a pledge to remain for the agreed-upon time? Was not a man's word good enough for these grim-faced villagers?

"A meal, then," Fyodor asked, sidestepping the guard's question. "Does Trollbridge have an inn?"

The guard's eyes took on a hard glint. "So you'll be staying. Good, that's very good." He hailed a passerby, a tall, rangy man who wore a stained linen coat and a dour expression. "You, Tosker! Take this man over to the Steaming Kettle and tell Saida to treat him well."

The man pulled up and looked Fyodor over. His eyes took note of the young man's weapons, measured the width of his shoulders. "You a sellsword?"

"Sir, I am not."

That was all Fyodor cared to say on the matter, and more than he could say in a civil tone. In Rashemen, warriors fought only when they must. It was no small thing, the taking of life, and the young warrior had nothing but contempt for those who killed for profit.

"Oh. Well, come along anyway," the man said grudgingly.

Fyodor followed his reluctant guide down a narrow side street to the inn. Not at all like the cozy, homelike taverns of his land, this was a big barn of a place, with thick stone walls and long, narrow windows paned with leaded glass. A wooden bar ran the length of one wall, and along it stood a row of stools. About half the seats were taken by village folk who'd stopped for a quick meal of dark ale and steamed grain porridge.

The Rashemi took a stool beside his guide. Saida, the innkeeper, bustled over to them with a steaming bowl in each hand. She was a plump, brisk matron with nut-brown hair, and she wore a no-nonsense expression and a thick shawl of practical gray wool. But the vest she wore over her chemise was tightly laced and bright red. It was the first gfint of color Fyodor had seen in this dismal place, and he took that as an encouraging sign. He greeted the woman pleasantly. "Good-day, Saida. Can you tell me where I can buy some travel supplies?"

I've got plenty of supplies on hand," she replied. "What do you need?*

Fyodor listed dried trail food, a length of rope, and as many pitch torches as he could reasonably carry. Tosker choked on a mouthful of ale and turned narrowed eyes on _tihe young man.

"Sounds like you're planning to go Below. Only a fool would do that."

"Yes, you are probably right," Fyodor said mildly, and took a long pull at his mug. The brew was bitter, but it filled his too-empty stomach with a pleasant heat.

"If it be drow you seek, you needn't leave this accursed valley to find them," came a quavering voice from the corner of the room.

Fyodor turned. A wizened man hauled himself out of his chair and staggered toward the bar. His face was crisscrossed with old scars, and the lid of one eye sank deep over an empty socket. Though the morning was young, he had clearly been drinking for some time and was already long past the point of discretion.

"Be quiet, you old fool," Saida snapped.

But the man stumbled closer to the bar, too deep in his ate and his memories to be deterred by her words. "Every year they come," he muttered, his scarred face haggard with remembered horrors. "Every year. Can't never tell when, but usually they strike during moondark."

Fyodor did some quick calculations. The moon had been waning the night he followed the drow thieves into the magic gate. If he had wandered in the Underdark for three or four days, then this would indeed be the time of the new moon. That would explain the repairs to the walls, the penned animals, the general sense of foreboding. But what of the frantic preparations for the spring market?

"If your village is hi danger, is it not strange to hold a fair?" he asked. "Or are the merchants in these lands not afraid of such a threat?"

"They would be plenty afraid, if they knew about it," Saida said grimly. "The caravans have usually come and gone by now. But the river's high this year, and the caravans late in coming. They dont like to stop here, us being so far off the path and all. If the drow attack while the merchants are here, it will likely be the last spring caravan to come through Trollbridge. And then, I ask you, what are we to do?"

A man several seats from Fyodor slammed down his mug. "All the more reason why we should hunt down the drow fiends before they can strike," he growled. "Stake their bloody corpses out in the fields to scare away the crows."

A muttered chorus of agreement rose from the bar, and the sheer hatred in the villagers' voices sent a prickle of revulsion down Fyodor's spine. He pushed aside his half-eaten bowl of porridge, his hunger forgotten. He was about to ask Saida the cost of the meal when the dark-bearded man to his left elbowed him.

"You're a likely-looking young fellow. If n you know how to use that sword you carry, you might do well to stay around Trollbridge a few days. One man's nightmare is another man's opportunity, I always say."

The bearded man drew a leather thong from beneath his jerkin. Suspended from it was a dark, triangular bit of leather. Although it had been dried and tanned, it was unmistakably an elven ear. The man brandished the trophy in Fyodor's face.

"The wizard rulers of Nesme are ready to pay good silver for every black ear we can bring 'em. You with me, son?"

Fyodor dared not answer. If he spoke his mind, the black-bearded man would surely attack him, and the young warrior knew he would meet drawn steel with the cold fury of a berserker rage. Fortunately, the bounty hunter did not press the point.

"Good silver!" the man repeated to the room at large. "Yet here we sit with our hands in our breeches! Why huddle within walls every moondark? It's time to hunt!"

They say drow are hard to kill," put in another man, a lank fellow with a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He patted the quiver strap. "But I'm thinking they'll die when you shoot 'em, same as any other wild beast."

Tosker shifted uneasily on his stool. It was clear all this talk of battle did not sit well with him. "Better yet, we could find out where they come out, and seal them in."

"And what would you know about that?" snapped the bounty hunter. He leaned forward over the bar to level a glare at Tosker. "You know the farmlands, but when was the last time you stepped foot beyond the fields? There are more eavee in these hills and woodlands than a dog has ticks. A man could search a lifetime, and not find a place where the drow come out!"

Fyodor knew of such a place, but he could not bring himself to speak. In less than two days' march, provided they had the courage to enter the Underdark, these folk could find the cavern were he had encountered tile drow girl. He could guess what would befall the lass should these hard, bitter people find her, and he wanted no part of that.

There was no doubt in Fyodor's mind that the people of Trollbridge had suffered at the hands of dark-elven raiders. He suspected the drow committed almost as many atrocities as tile stories credited them with. But he had been to war, and he knew what horrors mankind was capable of committing. He had not given up on his own deeply flawed race, and he was not about to condemn every member of another.

Young as he was, Fyodor trusted himself to make such decisions on one person at a time. His limited Sight gave him an occasional glimpse into what was or what might be. He did not depend solely upon it, but he had learned he was as good at reading character as many a wiser man. Even so, the dark elven girl was a mystery to him. Her laughter had been purely elven, a magical sound that reminded Fyodor of faerie bells and delighted babies. Treacherous she certainly was, and as deadly in battle as the stories of drow had led him to expect. Yet she was not animated obsidian, or some walking, breathing caricature of evil. Fyodor had been startled by the look on her face when he spoke ofdajemma. For a moment he saw a kindred spirit behind those strange, golden eyes. Even more troubling was the fleeting but certain conviction that this girl could become as powerful—and as important—as the Witches he had been raised to revere. Most disturbing of all was the sense that his destiny was somehow linked with hers. Yet she was drow! Fyodor did not know what dark secrets might be veiled in such beauty; he only knew he could do nothing that might give the dark-elven girl to these vengeful townsfolk.

So Fyodor kept his peace and finished his breakfast amid the morose company of the villagers. When he had eaten his fill, he bought from Saida the things he would need. The innkeeper charged him more than the goods should have cost, but he did not take the time to bargain. As precious as his moments in the sun had been, they were time stolen from his quest.

As soon as he could reasonably slip away, Fyodor left the village of Trollbridge behind and retraced his steps into the forest. He found the cave opening and wriggled his way inside. The sudden darkness closed around him, and he lit the first of his pine-pitch torches. On impulse, he searched around for a rock big enough to seal the opening, and he hoisted it into place. Then, holding his torch high, he began the steep descent back into the Underdark.

Chapter Thirteen

BOTTLED DARKNESS

Slowly, carefully, Liriel tried to pull the tiny dagger from its rune-carved sheath. Three days of almost constant study had passed, days that had impressed upon the young wizard the hazards and challenges inherent in her quest.

There was no doubt in her mind that the amulet was an artifact of great power. She had cast several formidable spells upon the amulet, spells that should have shown her the meaning of the tiny runes carved on the sheath. All were in vain. A magic more potent than hers protected the ancient secrets. And the amulet's chain, which had been broken when she'd taken it from the body of the drow thief, had simply healed itself. New links had grown to fill the gap, but so perfectly matched were they to the weathered gold that Liriel could no longer tell where the break had been. She had never heard of a magical item that could repair itself unaided. As she tugged at the tiny dagger, her concern was less for the delicate amulet—which could clearly take care of itself—than for the magic such an action might unleash.

Yet try though she might, she could not pull the dagger free. Dagger and sheath might as well have been carved from a single piece of metal, so tightly were they bonded together.

With a sigh, Liriel slumped against her chair. She had come too far and risked too much to fail now.

Getting the amulet had been the easy part. Finding time to study it had been a far greater challenge. She'd not dared approach Triel for a leave of absence, knowing the matron mistress would almost certainly deny the request out of hand. The best hope Liriel had was to keep the matter from Triel's eyes altogether. There were rumors of several challenges to House Baenre's position, so the harried matron had more important matters to attend than following her niece's every move. And if Liriel's instructors, and Matron Zeld in particular, believed the matron mistress had sanctioned the girl's absence, they would not challenge Triel's decision.

On the other hand, the Academy matrons might very well be curious and seek answers in a less direct fashion. They might be loyal to Triel, but they also kept an eye to the advancement of both their houses and their careers. Liriel fully expected to have the eyes of a dozen noble houses prying into her business, trying to discern what House Baenre might consider important enough to warrant granting one of their females time away from Arach-Tinilith's training.

And so it had been. Liriel and Kharza-kzad had placed layers of wards about her Narbondellyn home, and the air about her fairly crackled with frustrated magical probes. In the three days since she'd left Arach-Tinilith, two of her servants had disappeared. Liriel did not expect to see them again, and indeed they would be of little value to her after their abductors had finished extracting what information they could. But for the intervention of two powerful wizards—the reluctantly supportive Kharza-kzad and the archmage himself—Liriel would not have been left in peace this long.

For yes, she had decided to risk involving her father hi this plan. Doing so created an extremely ticklish situation. Gromph Baenre had the influence necessary to get her out of Arach-Tinilith, yet the Academy's matrons would assume he would not dare to do so unless it was at Triel's bidding. Liriel knew that proud Gromph would not appreciate this reminder of his limitations, and that he would not act on her behalf unless there was potential gain.