第 34 页

When all was silent, Henge, priest of the Masked God of Night, crept cautiously from the cave where he bad hidden during the battle. He was by nature a wary sort of drow, and the sight before him convinced him of the wisdom of discretion.

His brother Brizznarth, who was famed for his stunning swordplay, lay in a pool of his own blood. Since the young drow was clearly beyond help, Henge did not linger over him or waste any energy on grief. There was only one other drow fighter in sight, and he did not seem to be feeling any better than Brizznarth. So Henge moved on to the still form of his leader. He crouched beside the red-haired drow and realized—with decidedly mixed emotions—that Nisstyre was yet alive.

"What can be cured must be endured," he muttered, in a dark parody of a human proverb.

There was a smear of blood on the wizard's temple, and Henge's seeking fingers found an impressive knot on the side of Nisstyre's head. The wizard would have a headache the size of Tarterus when he awoke, but he'd only been stunned. The club had hit a glancing blow. If that battle-mad human had connected directly, it would have split Nisstyre's skull and scattered his brains so far that the remaining pittance might transform the wizard into a credible priest of Lloth, mused Henge with a touch of dark humor.

A quick examination assured the priest that Nisstyre had sustained only the one injury. The priest framed the wounded drow's head with his hands and began to chant a prayer to Vhaeraun, a plea for healing and restoration. The Masked God was with him;

Nisstyre's eyes opened, focused on the priest, and then narrowed in suspicion.

"You are unharmed," he muttered thickly. "Did you join the battle at all?"

Suddenly the cleric wished he'd had the foresight to daub himself with some of the blood his younger brother had, shed so freely. "Only the two of us survived," Henge said, calmly sidestepping the wizard's accusation, "and neither one of us got off much of an attack."

"The human escaped?"

Nisstyre's voice rang with incredulity. Brizznarth was the finest blade under his command, and Gorlist was fully the match of any five human warriors. The tattooed fighter had proven this, time and again. Nisstyre simply could not credit that his elite drew force might have met defeat at the hands of a single human.

He hauled himself to his feet, ignoring the throbbing ache in his head. That Brizznarth and Codfael were dead was plain to see, but he would not accept Gorlist's fate until he beheld the body with his own eyes.

"Where is Gorlist?"

Henge pointed toward the ravine. The wizard staggered over to the edge and peered down into the stream.

"He breathes," Nisstyre snapped. "See to him at once!"

The priest spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I have used all my healing spells for the day."

"Then use this, and be quick."

Nisstyre produced a vial of glowing green liquid from his spell bag and thrust it into the cleric's hand. He watched intently as Henge slid down the rocky incline and carefully poured the liquid into the fighter's mouth. The outcome was important, for Gorlist was valuable to the Masked Lord's cause. He was also Nisstyre's son, a fact that would have mattered far less if Gorlist had not been so skilled a fighter.

The injured drow groaned and began to stir. Nisstyre cast a spell that brought Gorlist's battered body floating up and out of the ravine. The wizard noted the pink froth at the fighter's lips. He stooped and ran his fingers over the younger drow's torso.

Three, maybe four ribs broken, Nisstyre thought grimly. He hesitated for just an instant before reaching into his spell bag for a second potion. This one was in a vial shaped like a candle's flame, and it gleamed like captured fire. It was a potion of last resort, for although it healed grievous wounds in remarkably short order, there was a price to pay for such healing. The rapid knitting of bone and tissue was agonizing, and the magic was fueled by the life-force of its recipient. The cure stole more energy, and caused more pain, than many wounded drow could bear. It killed at least as often as it cured.

But Nisstyre had an idea. He handed the vial to the cleric, who had just scrambled up over the edge of the ravine. "Pray to Vhaeraun," he commanded. "Ask the God of Thieves to steal the life-force of another being to empower the potion. And if we are fortunate," Nisstyre muttered to himself, "the Masked Lord will take the life-force of the ore-sired human who did this!"

Henge took the vial and began to chant in prayer. The wizard busied himself with another sort of preparation. He cut a length of stout green stick from a scrubby tree nearby and peeled off the rough bark. Gorlist would need something to bite on during the agonizing cure.

The wounded fighter drifted back to consciousness, and his gaze settled on the fiery vial in the cleric's hands. A gleam of fierce approval lit his eyes, and he gestured for the priest to administer the potion at once. Henge hesitated in midchant.

"Do it," commanded Gorlist in a faint, blood-choked whisper. He spat and then tipped back his head so Henge could pour the potion into his mouth. The priest complied, and the fighter downed the fiery liquid in a single swallow.

Convulsions gripped him at once. The other two drow lunged for the fighter and tried in vain to hold him down. Gorlist tossed them aside without thought or effort, utterly unmindful of their presence in the midst of the agony that seared through his every vein and sinew.

Since he could do nothing but wait, Nisstyre found himself a comfortable rock and sat down for the duration. He had seen many fearful deaths—most of them of his own plan and execution—but never had he witnessed such suffering. Yet he watched impassively as the magic fire seared through his son's body.

Finally Gorlist lay limp and still. "Did he survive?" ventured Henge.

"He did."

The answer came from Gorlist himself. The fighter spat out splinters of green wood and climbed slowly to his feet.

Nisstyre noted the bloodlust in his eyes. It would be difficult, he realized, to keep the headstrong young drow from pursuing the human who had so grievously wounded him. Nisstyre hungered for the taste of revenge, as well, but he needed Gorlist to focus on an even greater prize.

"By all reckoning, I should have died," Gorlist said. He walked over to the wizard, all the while unbuckling- the leather bracers that protected his arms. "I say you owe my bloodprice. Since I have no heirs, I'll collect it myself."

Nisstyre did not doubt what the fighter would demand. "The human was badly wounded," he lied. "Although he escaped, he will not long survive."

The fighter shrugged away this news and thrust his fist high, turning it so Nisstyre could see the thin line of scar that ran down his forearm.

"I want her," Gorlist said through clenched teeth.

The wizard rocked back, momentarily at a loss for a response. Nisstyre tended to indulge his followers, encouraging them to enact revenge as the spirit moved them. Drow needed a focus for their inbred hatred, an occasional vent for their simmering rage. It was unfortunate Gorlist had chosen such a valuable target.

"Then you will lead the search to find her," the wizard told him smoothly. "However, you are not to kill her. She is too important for that, both for the magic she wields and the children she may bear to follow Vhaeraun. You know the importance of bringing drow females into the Night Above. I will not have her destroyed."

Gorlist scowled.

"There are more ways than one to humble the little princess," Nisstyre said softly. "I want this female for Vhaeraun, and for my own pleasure, but I am not averse to sharing. In time, you shall have your revenge."

The fighter's eyes widened as the meaning of the wizard's words became clear. Drow routinely inflicted horrors upon their own people and slaughtered the surface races merely for the pleasure of the kill, but what Nisstyre suggested was beyond the unspoken code of dark-elven behavior. No female, not even one conquered in battle, was taken against her will. Centuries of indoctrination had forged a taboo that was seldom questioned and rarely violated.

Females wielded power in their society, and all female drow, even commoners, were viewed as the mortal incarnations of Lloth.

And yet … "We follow a god, not a goddess," Gorlist mused aloud.

"You begin to understand," Nisstyre said approvingly. But as he spoke, his hand lifted to rub the ruby that gleamed in the center of his forehead. He wondered if his "partner" had heard his words, and if so, how Shakti Hunzrin would regard such heresy.

It would take him time, remembering to tailor his words and actions to please a priestess of the drow goddess. It was not a task Nisstyre relished.

Chapter 19

FULL CIRCLE

Fyodor awoke sometime later that night, shaking with chill and the familiar, dull sickness that followed a berserker rage. He struggled to his feet, dimly understanding what had happened. Often it was that berserker warriors wandered, still in the grip of the battle rage, until brought down by exhaustion or by the wounds suffered in battle. This time he had wandered long and far, for the shallow creek that bordered the battlefield had widened to a cold, deep stream, and its restless waters reflected the light of a waxing moon risen high in the sky.

Quickly the young warrior took stock of his injuries. His head throbbed, and the skin on one side of his neck burned with fierce pain. He touched it, gingerly, felt the raised blisters and remembered the gout of flame the drow wizard had thrown. Fyodor noted that the fabric of his shirt and jacket had been slashed repeatedly, and the garments were caked to his arms with dried blood. He unlaced his leather jerkin and peeled off the damaged garments. As he did, several cuts opened and began to bleed anew. None of them were terribly deep, but all needed tending.

Fyodor took from his pack a travel samovar—a small, narrow tin kettle prized by the Rashemi—and dipped up water from the stream. He soon had a fire going, and he heated the water along with herbs that were both healing and good to drink. When the tea was strong and hot, he poured some over a cloth and carefully cleaned the cuts. One arm was not so bad, and he bandaged it as best he could. The other required a bit more work.

Thankful he always carried a spare flask of Rashemi firewine, Fyodor took a large swig of the potent spirits. Then he threaded a curving needle and began to stitch up the deepest cut. It was not an easy task, with his hands shaking from exhaustion and chill. Fyodor recognized that his body was in shock; if he did not warm himself at once, he would die as surely as if a drow sword had pierced his heart.

When the cuts were closed and bandaged, the young fighter gathered up all the deadfall wood in the area and built the fire into a roaring blaze. Then he stripped to the skin and plunged into the icy waters of the stream.

The shock stole his breath and sent the blood racing through his limbs. Fyodor waded to shore, comforted by the familiar, invigorating sensation of outer cold and inner heat. The Rashemi were a hearty race, and both men and women avidly pursued the sport of snow-racing—grueling relays undertaken in winter, slightly clad and on foot. Fyodor excelled in such sport, but knew that in his current state he could not abide the night chill for long.

The young fighter hurried to the fireside and picked up his sword, intending to warm himself with a practice routine. But the weapon was too heavy for him to wield effectively except in the midst of a berserker fury; the stitches on his arm itched and burned with the strain of merely lifting the sword. So he discarded it for his cudgel and began a simple but vigorous routine of swings and parries.

Before long the exercise and the heat of the fire sent rivulets of sweat trickling down Fyodor's chest. Again he plunged into the stream, and again he sparred against an invisible enemy. Finally he slumped by the fireside, warmed but utterly weary. He wrapped himself in his cape and poured a mug of strong tea from the samovar. Sipping it, he allowed himself for the first time to think back over the battle.

Fyodor remembered it dimly. There had been several drow, one of them the copper-haired wizard whom he had battled in faraway Rashemen. As this thought registered, the young berserker's brow furrowed in puzzlement.

That couldn't be right. He had followed five drow into the Underdark. By his own eyes, he had accounted for all five: two killed by giant bats in the cavern, and three dark warriors fallen in battle this very night. Five drow. The wizard made six.

As Fyodor pondered the matter, other details, equally as disturbing, came back to him. He remembered the elaborate tattoo curving up along the side of one drow face. Fyodor was fairly certain none of the dark elven thieves had been so marked. And the drow fighter's hair had been cut short, so short that Fyodor had barely been able to get a solid grip on it. All the drow he'd seen in Rashemen had worn their hair long and tied back. Was it possible he had followed the wrong band of drow, or were his memories of the night's battle distorted?

The young warrior glanced at his sword and remembered slaying the sword-wielding drow. He had no memory of taking it from the dark elf'sbody. This was disturbing, but Fyodor knew it was often so. Weapons were precious and expensive, and berserkers retrieved them apparently by instinct. Still, it bothered him that he could not remember.

Then another fact hit him with the force of a blow. He had retrieved his weapons, but he had neglected to attend his most important task. He had not searched the bodies of the drow for the Windwalker amulet!

Fyodor"s head sagged forward, and a groan of pure despair escaped him. His berserker rages were becoming worse, more uncontrollable. He remembered less each time and wandered farther; now he had become so engulfed in the fighting frenzy that he'd lost sight of his quest. He had to recover the amulet soon, or before the battle fever raged too hot and fierce. He did not want to think about what he himself might do in the moments before death claimed him.

In some corner of his mind, Fyodor resolved to trace his own steps back to the battlefield and remedy his omission at once. If the Windwalker amulet were there, he would find it. But his battered, exhausted body simply would not heed this command. Nor was the pale moonlight sufficient for tracking.