第 33 页

There were few females in the village, and of them only two were drow. One of the Masked God's main directives was to increase the drow race, particularly on the surface. And so, unlike most drow, Vhaeraun's people sought contact with other elves. Children of such unions tended to breed toward drow. Taking a long view, it was one way to eradicate the pale races of elves!

Nisstyre took his god's instructions one step further: he kept a small harem of surface elves in the settlement. It was not ideal—Vhaeraun indicated there should be equality between males and females—but it was proving effective. With the coming of night, the village's children were awakening. They ran about in play, staging mock battles and elaborate games of stealth and ambush. There was not a full drow among them, but most of the ebony-skinned elflings were as drow in appearance and temperament as any child of Menzoberranzan. There were among them a couple of black-haired, pale-skinned elf children, even a dusky half-drow lad. The boy was tolerated in the community, for Vhaeraun was not averse to a little human blood in his followers. It was a matter of necessity, for few drow females were willing to follow the Masked God into the Night Above.

Not that any of the village females were all that devout. Most of them were silver elves, and without exception the elf-women were wretched outcasts who for one reason or another had no other place to call home. It was, Nisstyre acknowledged, hardly an auspicious way to begin a kingdom.

Yes, the lack of drow females was a problem, one Nisstyre planned to end. With the inducement of Liriel's magic, he could entice more of the proud and powerful females into the

Night Above. Drow tended to be far more prolific than other elves, and only their constant, incestuous warfare kept their numbers low. Once the drow became a united people, their strength would quickly reach nightmare proportions.

With this pleasant thought in mind, Nisstyre gathered together a band of hunters and summoned the settlement's ranking priest, a drow of middle years known only as Henge. The cleric made cautious comment on the ruby glowing in the center of Nisstyre's forehead.

"A third eye," Nisstyre said casually. "A wizardly device. You need not concern yourself with it." The priest looked doubtful but did not press the point.

"You must travel swiftly through the night toward the village of Trollbridge. Not to pillage," Nisstyre added swiftly, noting the fierce smiles on every face. "Travel to the hills surrounding the human village and search there for a lone drow female."

"Find a single drow, in that network of caves?" balked the priest.

"It should not be a difficult task. From what I know of Liriel Baenre, I cannot imagine her content with a hermit's life in some remote cave. She is armed with considerable magic and will be extremely difficult for the humans to capture and kill. I would prefer, of course, that you find her before she finds the humans. You will know her by an amulet she wears: a small golden dagger in a rune-carved sheath that hangs from a gold chain."

As he spoke, Nisstyre reflected upon how little prepared Liriel—or any female drow, for that matter—was for the world Above. The proud females could not begin to fathom the surface dwellers' hatred and loathing for the dark elves. Drow expected to be feared; they were not prepared to be despised and hunted. Downtrodden males, who had survived decades of miserable existence Below, fared somewhat better than their more privileged counterparts. Despite his confident words to his hunting band, Nisstyre knew the importance of finding the princess soon, before her pride and arrogance brought about her destruction.

So with a few quick words of instruction, he set the four fighters on Liriel's trail. He thought he knew where she might have gone. There were many gates the female might have used, for dark-elven wizardry had opened portals to distant places such as Calimshan. But the price for such incredible power was correspondingly high. The caverns near Drygully Tunnel were the easiest areas to reach through magical travel. They were open, near the surface, and had little interference from the Underdark's radiation magic. At short notice, it might have been the best anyone could do. He felt fairly certain Liriel would have fled using that route.

When the hunters were on their way, Nisstyre and Henge went to the privacy of the wizard's own home. Henge looked none too pleased with the task ahead but he kept his opinions to himself. Nisstyre took note of this and saw no need to comment. There was little liking between the two drow males, but as long as the priest did not openly defy him, Nisstyre was content.

The wizard took out a medallion embossed with a curving, stylized dragon. It matched the tattoo on the face of his lieutenant, Gorlist, and enabled him to find the drow fighter at any time. The wizard fingered the metal and chanted the words that would take him and the cleric to the fighter's side.

The pair of drow materialized in a small cave. There they found Gorlist, along with his two companions, strapping on weapons in preparation for the night's journey. The drow lieutenant did not look particularly surprised to see his leader.

"How long must we maintain this ridiculous facade?" he snapped. "It is effort wasted."

"Our plans have changed," Nisstyre said coolly. "You will retrace your steps toward the caverns with all possible haste. I have reason to believe you will find Liriel Baenre there or nearby. Find her, and bring her to the forest settlement."

Nisstyre noted the fierce gleam in the fighter's eyes and vowed to instruct Gorlist in the art of balancing revenge with necessity. He led the way out of the cave, stooping low to duck through the small entrance.

A rustle of leaves was his only warning. Nisstyre spun to see a black-haired human bearing down on him, his pale club lifted high and cold fire in his blue eyes. Although it seemed impossible to the drow wizard, he recognized his attacker as the crazed warrior whom he himself had buried aüve in an icy tomb in a distant forest glade.

The drow raised one hand, and dark fire spat from his fingers to engulf the persistent human. The man's club swung right through the flame, arcing downward to meet the wizard's head.

Nisstyre heard the thud of impact, registered the way the rocky ground sped up to meet him. He suffered no pain and supposed he should be grateful, but all he felt was cold wrath. The wizard clung to this emotion as he went down into the darkness; he knew desire for revenge was a powerful force, perhaps the only one that would help him fight his way back.

Fyodor kicked aside the crumpled form of the copper-haired wizard and took in the scene before him in a glance. The heat of the berserker rage fueled his body and sped his mind, so it seemed as if the world slowed down around him, giving him time to react, to attack. In his altered state, Fyodor never felt pain, although he knew from the smell of singed leather that the drow wizard's bolt of dark fire had struck his shoulder. Nor did he feel fear, even though his mind coolly registered that he was outnumbered indeed by the three well-armed drow before him.

The first of the dark elves came on, twin blades in his hands and a cocky smile on his ebony face. As the drow advanced he put his weapons through an elaborate routine: crossing, spinning, slashing the air. The show was clearly meant to taunt and unnerve his victim, much as a barn eat might play with a captured squirrel. Despite the red haze of the battle fury that filled and possessed him, Fyodor could not help but note the drow's brilliance. Even perceived in slow motion, it was a dazzling display of swordcraft. The dark elf warrior possessed a finesse Fyodor could not begin to understand, a skill he could not hope to match.

But no fear came with this realization. The young berserker registered the drow's flailing arms, the trailing light of the enchanted weapons, and he reasoned there was a chest somewhere in the midst of all that activity. So

Fyodor hefted his sword high, sighted down a spot in the very center of that incredible swordplay, and heaved with all his might. The mighty weapon flew toward the drow, its path as true and straight as that of a thrown spear.

Instantly the whirling elven blades crossed in a defensive parry, and the three swords met with a clash of metal and a spray of sparks. But the drow's skill and speed could not deflect the sheer power of the blow. The blunt sword tore through the dark elf with such force that the hilt's cross-piece struck his chest with an audible cracking of ribs.

Fyodor had his cudgel in hand before the first drow fell, before the other two could register the death of their companion. He advanced, compelled to fight until none remained to stand against him.

Perhaps the second drow fighter perceived this, for he was not so quick to draw his blades. He snapped up a tiny crossbow and fired several darts, one after another, so fast that the flights of the individual arrows were hard for the eye to follow. Perhaps the sleep-poison faded outside the Underdark, but the drow still possessed his deadly aim and he was confident his tiny arrows would dive deep into the human's eyes, tunnel between his ribs, slice open the vital arteries in his throat and groin. No poison, perhaps, but the human would be dead before he could notice that something about the attack might be lacking.

The drow could not know Fyodor perceived the flight of the darts as a leisurely, graceful glide. He batted them aside, moving his club back and forth with seemingly impossible speed, and he did not for one moment slow his advance on the two remaining fighters. A mighty upward sweep of his club caught the drow archer in his midsection, first doubling him over and then sending him flying up and back. The dark elf fell heavily, several yards away, his body twisted into a position no living elf could have achieved.

Fyodor whirled upon the last drow—a short-haired warrior with a dragon tattoo emblazoned on one cheek—and raised his cudgel high for a smashing downward blow. With a quick, steady stride, the human advanced.

For the first time in his century-long career, Gorlist considered retreat. The moment passed quickly, and the drow fighter gripped his spear with both hands. He'd taken the weapon from a slain forest elf, and had it magically reinforced for strength and speed. This crazed opponent would test the weapon as it had never been tested before.

Gorlist snapped the spear up before him, holding it like a quarterstaff. He whirled it, once, in a defiant exhibition of his skill.

Once was all the time he had. The human's driftwood dub descended in a pale blur. Gorlist spread his hands wide and blocked the blow with the center of the spear's staff. The magic held, but the force of impact sent bright pain coursing through the drow's arms and down his spine. His knees buckled, and he went down.

The dark-elven fighter saw the club descending again. He rolled clear, and as he did he grasped the hilt of a dagger in his benumbed fingers. With the incredible speed and agility for which the drow were famed and feared, Gorlist rolled several times and came up in a crouch behind the human.

He eyed his enemy, measured the distance between himself and the man's ankles. His enspelled dagger could easily cut through boot leather and sever the tendons beneath. Hamstrung, this human would not fight so well. Gorlist launched himself forward and delivered a vicious backhanded slash.

To his astonishment, the man's reactions were even faster than his own. The human fighter leaped and whirled in a single movement. With incredible timing, he jumped over the drow's lunging attack and stomped down with both feet. Gorlist hit the ground hard, full length, and the human landed with him, a booted foot on each of the drow's kidneys.

And the proud drow, who scoffed at pain, let out a howl of pure agony. The human danced aside, and Gorlist saw the club arc down toward him again. Even if he'd been able to move, the weapon came too fast for him to avoid or deflect it.

Gorlist felt the shatter of bone as the club struck his rib cage. This time he did not cry out, but he took little pride in that accomplishment. There was no time for that, no time for thoughts of any kind. His head was jerked sharply to one side as the human hauled him upright by his hair.

Holding the slight drow easily at arm's length, the strange warrior took several strides forward. Gorlist's jfa booted toes barely touched the ground, but he notice^ the human looked much smaller at such close range. It was an odd thought, coming to him dimly through the pain of his many injuries, but Gorlist tucked it away. He had survived many fights and he had done so by knowing his enemies. It might help someday to know that this one was not the seven-foot warrior of first perception. And no matter how bad his hurts, Gorlist remained aware of the battlefield, and he suddenly realized what the human intended to do with him.

A few paces away was a steep ravine, with a fall of nearly ten feet to a shallow, rock-strewn creek. Gorlist knew the danger of such a fall. One of his broken ribs would almost certainly pierce a lung and bring upon him a slow but certain death.

Desperation gave strength to the battered drow. He seized the first weapon that came to hand: a tiny, thin knife tucked into the seam of his jacket sleeve. The drow brought it up and slashed across the man's chest. The coarse leather jerkin, the garment of a human peasant, deflected the cut as effectively as drow chain mail.

Frantically the dark-elven fighter slashed out with his meager weapon. He managed to connect a few times, scoring bloody lines across his captor's arms. Yet the human did not slow, did not register the pain by so much as a flicker of an eyelid. He merely took one hand from the draw's hair and seized the flailing wrist, easily crushing the bones and forcing the tiny knife deep into the fingers that gripped it. But Gorlist was beyond pain now, and he registered neither the ruin of his hand nor the sound of his knife falling to the rocky ground.

The man stopped and pulled Gorlist close, face-to-face, and then heaved him up and away. There was a moment's flight, and then came the punishing tumble down the rocky slope.

The drow came to sudden, jarring stop against a boulder in the center of the shallow creek. He tried dragging himself to shore, but the effort sent him into a spasm of coughing. Gorlist tasted his own blood, and knew any further effort was futile.

Almost gratefully, the drow sank into the stream. The icy water numbed his pain and swept him toward oblivion, toward whatever reward awaited the faithful of Vhaeraun.