第 35 页

At first light, he vowed as he sank quickly toward slumber; at first light he would once again follow the trail. If the gods were with him, he might yet find a way out of the peculiar slavery that was his heritage, and his curse.

Shortly after dawn, Fyodor traced his way back to the battlefield. To his amazement, he found only two drow bodies, and the footprints of three sets of elven boots retreating toward the east. He set off in pursuit at once, not bothering to puzzle over the addition of yet another drow.

When he realized the dark elves were circling back, he abandoned any effort at tracking and took the straightest route toward the caves that led back down to the Underdajk. He made good time, for unlike the drow, he did not have to seek a place to hide with the coming of each dawn. Even so, he took little time for rest. He was determined to catch the drow band before they slipped back into the deadly labyrinth that was their homeland.

Two days, Fyodor figured, or perhaps a little more, and he would again stand at the entrance to that horrific world. As he strode steadily over the rough terrain, he wondered what type of battle would await him there, and how many more dark elves might join the elusive band he had hunted for so many days.

Liriel staggered up into the bright moonlight some two days after she had been thrust from Menzoberranzan. Kharza's teleportation spell had sent her to a place near the caverns where she had staged a battle for the benefit of Fyodor of Rashemen. She had followed the path the human might have taken, up a steep winding incline and into a vast network of caves that lay among the hillsides of the Lands Above.

Not once daring to stop, she'd fled the Underdark and the ravenous, murderous drow greed she had inadvertently awakened. Kharza's warnings had echoed through her mind like mocking laughter as she'd run wildly through the tunnel and up into the labyrinth of caves. Her instinctual sense of direction took her unerringly upward toward the light.

Slowly Liriel edged out of the cave, alert and vigilant despite her exhaustion. She recoiled at the sight beyond, and her lips moved in a silent cry of dismay.

The landscape stretched before her was like nothing she had ever seen or imagined. Rolling, rock-strewn hills seemed to go on endlessly, and looming far overhead was the infinite depth and breadth of the night sky. This was nothing like the forest, with its comforting walls of trees and vines, and its glades that were like caverns carved out of the thick foliage. This was vast, open, and barren.

Liriel's eyes ached in an effort to take in the enormous distances. From the maps she had studied, she knew she'd emerged somewhere west of the great woodland where the Chosen of Eilistraee danced. There were fewer trees here, and none of them had the mystic grandeur of that wondrous forest. The plants reminded her of verdant dwarves: small, tough things that had won their place through grim struggle with rock and soil.

Then voices came to her on the night wind—harsh yet musical sounds that could only be drow. For a moment Liriel thought her pursuers had found her. Then she remembered the strange, linear path sound took up here in the open air, and she knew the voice came from beyond the cave.

She pulled her piwafwi close about her and spoke the words that would grant her invisibility. Even so, she shrank back behind the sheltering rock and crouched low to wait and watch. It might be that these drow were like the ones she had encountered in the forest: helpful and welcoming. Liriel hoped it would be so, for she felt very alone and vulnerable in this dismal land.

Soon the dark elves came into sight. Lithe and dark-clad, their white hair covered by the cowls of their capes, the drow walked with admirable stealth. Even so, Liriel knew at once these were not drow of the Underdark. There was no aura of magic about them, and although the night was bright, their eyes shone with the red light that indicated the use of the heat-spectrum. Even Liriel, whose eyes were trained to candlelight, could see perfectly without infravi-sion in the bright light of the moon. Were these hunters' senses so dulled that they could not?

Wrapped in her piwafwi and shod with enchanted elven boots, she had the advantage of invisibility and silence. She crept closer to see what these strange drow might be about. They grew uneasy as she closed in, looking furtively about and fingering their weapons, as if their hunting instincts perceived what their senses could not.

How long must we wait? signaled one of them in the drow's silent language of gesture and facial expression.

The wench will come this way, insisted another. We will search as long as we must.

Four males, daring to waylay a female? It was outrageous, unthinkable! Wrath burned bright in Liriel's proud heart, focusing her thoughts for the first time since she'd left Spelltower Xorlarrin.

She unwrapped a package of darts that had been coated with sleep poison and fitted the first of several into her tiny crossbow. This would be the second test of the amulet's power, for the drow poison was magically distilled in places of high-powered radiation. Its essence did not survive in the open air.

With quick, sure motions, Liriel fired the dart. The tiny arrow found its mark, and one of the dark hunters leaped in surprise. He reached behind him and tore the dart from his backside, looking at it in almost comical disbelief for a moment and then pitching senseless to the ground.

The female grinned and gave her golden amulet a grateful pat. She fired three more darts and watched as the last three hunters reeled and tumbled. When all had succumbed to the sleep poison, she threw back the folds of her sheltering cloak and strode forward, determined to get some answers. She straddled the drow who'd been last to fall and slapped him back toward consciousness.

The dark elfs eyes flickered open. Groggy, fighting the poison, he struggled to focus on his tormentor.

"Who are you looking for?" she demanded in the drow tongue.

His eyes settled on the small golden dagger hanging about her neck. "I… think… you."

Liriel rocked back in dismay. How could it be that even surface drow sought her? She grabbed handfuls of her captive's cloak and shook him, hard.

"Who sent you?" she demanded. "Who?"

But the male was beyond speech; the poison had taken him. Liriel swore and rose to her feet. With deft, certain movements she searched the four sleeping drow. Each one wore a symbol hung about his neck on a thin leather thong, much as she wore her symbol of Lloth. But these were not Eilistraee's people, of that she was fairly certain. The priestesses of the Dark Maiden claimed to help those in need, and they were nothing like these deadly, furtive drow. What, then, were these hunters, and what was their interest in her?

Liriel contemplated the sleeping drow. Practicality demanded she kill them. They were hunting her and would no doubt continue to do so. But somehow this action went against her natural impulse. When they awoke, if they came after her again, she would kill them without a qualm.

She glanced up into the eastern sky. The brilliant sapphire blue of night was fading away; soon the dawn would come. Liriel was eager to see this wonder, but she was wise enough to do so with a ready shelter at hand.

So she slipped back into the cave and made her way quickly through the winding passages that wove under the rocky hillsides. At last she came to a likely spot: a cave with a single opening placed high on a slope. It faced east, granting her a clear view of the coming sunrise, and it was also readily defensible.

Liriel wrapped herself in her cloak and settled down to await the dawn. Yet sleep claimed her, as surely as her darts had taken down the drow hunters. Exhausted by her two days of nonstop flight, weary with grief and loss, she fell into the dreamless sleep of the drow.

Fyodor had barely stepped into the cave when the attack came. There were two of them—tall, man-shaped creatures with white fur and the heads of fierce bears, and they rushed at him with deep, rock-shaking roars. Both carried crudely made swords that they swung with enthusiasm but no noticeable finesse. The Rashemi was not reassured by this. His eyes quickly measured the combined length of arm and sword and reckoned the creatures' reach exceeded his own by well over a foot. Most swordsmen asserted that skill, not size, was the key to victory. Fyodor conceded this to a point, but reach mattered; he didn't care what anyone said to the contrary.

But there was nothing else to be done, so he drew his own sword and stepped forward to meet the first wild swing.

Liriel was jarred from slumber by familiar sounds: the roar of enraged quaggoths, and the clashing of swords. For a moment she thought she was back in the Underdark. Then she was fully awake, and wondering what in the name of all dark gods a deepbear was doing so far from its native territory.

Ever curious, the drow wrapped her piwafwi tightly about her and ran lightly toward the battle. The quaggoths were hunters who lived out their lives Below. If one of them came to the surface, it was almost certainly at the command of a more powerful being. Since only drow bothered to capture and train quaggoths, Liriel had a pretty good idea who the deepbear might be hunting. What puzzled her was who or what had intercepted the beast.

She followed the sounds of battle to the very mouth of a cave. There stood Fyodor of Rashemen, battling not one, but a mated pair of quaggoth fighters.

Elation, sudden and unexpected, swept through Liriel. She tossed back her cape and took out one of her bolos. Twirling it overhead, she stepped out into full view.

Fyodor's eyes widened when he saw her, and the moment of hesitation earned him a bruising swat from the flat of a quaggoth's sword. Liriel winced. Had the creature more skill in handling the weapon, if it had turned the angle of the sword just slightly, the human would have been cut neatly in two. This was one fight best ended quickly.

So she gave her bolo one more twirl and let it fly. The weapon wrapped around the quaggoth's sword, and the momentum of the whirling rocks tore the weapon from the creature's paw. Looking positively relieved to be rid of the cumbersome thing, the monster bared its fangs and advanced upon the human, looking more than competent with the weapons granted it by nature.

The drow grinned fiercely and pulled a handful of throwing knives from her belt. "The deepbats were just practice," she shouted to Fyodor as she hurled the first knife at the attacking quaggoth. "Let's see what you can do in a real fight!"

Chapter 20

TEAMWORK

Liriel launched her knives, one by one, at the quag-goth's back. Each found its target, but the creature's thick fur and deep layers of muscles kept any of the small blades from hitting vital points. The bearlike fighter roared with pain, but it continued its advance on Fyodor.

The female quaggoth, however, snarled its rage and charged the little drow who'd attacked its mate. Liriel resolutely stood her ground, a knife in each hand. A flick, and the two small blades took flight, sinking into the quaggoth's red eyes. The beast shrieked and pawed at its face.

Liriel pulled her short sword, knowing she must finish the creature before it entered its death frenzy. Bunded or not, a battle-mad quaggoth was deadly in its strength and fury. She darted toward the wounded creature, sword in hand, and slashed it once, twice, across the belly. The quaggoth slumped, furred hands clutching frantically at the gaping wound. With one last stroke, Liriel cut its throat.

Behind her she heard an angry hiss. She spun to face a hideous visage, like that of a dark blue fiend, with scaly skin and ears like long pointed horns. Its red eyes gleamed with malevolence, and its snakelike body swayed as it spoke an arcane phrase in a sibilant whisper. Liriel had never seen a dark naga, but she knew it for what it was—a magical creature of the Underdark that was in its own way as dangerous as a rampaging quaggoth.

The naga's thin lips pursed, and a thin stream of burning black fluid shot toward the young draw. A venom bolt.

Liriel snapped up her sword and swatted at the stream with the flat of her blade. A spray of droplets—a mixture of acid and melted metal—flew back toward the naga. The creature screamed and recoiled, and Liriel hurled aside the rapidly diminishing weapon before the corrosive venom could reach her hand. The insidious liquid could consume flesh as readily as it ate through metal.

The naga recovered fast and began to hiss out the words of another spell. To Liriel's astonishment, she recognized this spell. It was one her father had created. She remembered it well, though she had been little more than a babe when she had first heard those words. That spell, and the terror and confusion that had followed it, was her earliest memory.

In response to the naga's magic, a cluster of rocks melted, elongated, and flowed into the form of a giant snake with a nightmarish elven visage. The stone naga slid toward its drow prey with the screech of rock scraping against rock.

To buy a moment's time, Liriel hurled a throwing spider at the hideous golem. The magic-enhanced weapon bit deep into the creature's throat. It would surely have killed a living creature; the golem had no blood to shed. It bared its fangs and kept coming.

But Liriel countered; she repeated that most-hated spell and summoned a golem of her own. Rock spilled from the wall of the cave like mist, forming itself into an elfmaid of pale gray stone. The stone drow ran to defend its mistress, and the golems collided with an echoing crash.

The stone naga quickly encoiled the elf-shaped warrior and tried to squeeze, but there was no give in the slender stone body. Its head reared back, and then it struck with wide-flung jaws. The next moment it spat out shards of its own rocky fangs. The drow golem wrapped slender hands around the stone naga's throat and tried to strangle it, with no more success than its opponent. Together the magical creatures rolled and thrashed, equal in strength and mindless obedience.

Meanwhile the dark naga mounted its own attack. It darted forward, holding high the barbed tip of its poisoned tail. Liriel dove to one side, rolled, and came up holding the quaggoth's discarded sword. Lifting it high overhead with both hands, she lunged forward and slashed into the naga's deadly tail. The heavy blade went through scale and bone, then met the stone floor with a muted crack. The naga shrieked and writhed with pain. Nearby, its severed tail twitched in an uncanny echo of the creature's anguish.

With the dark naga out of the fight for a while, Liriel had time to consider Fyodor. He was holding off the quaggoth male, but his sleeves were tatterefl and his arms bled freely. She snatched another bolo from her belt, twirled it briefly, and let it fly toward the quaggoth. The long strap wrapped again and again around the creature's neck, gaining momentum with each turn, and the weights on either end hit the quaggoth's head with a pair of satisfying thunks. Still, the deepbear did not go down. It merely gurgled and tore at the straps. The leather thongs snapped easily, and Liriel knew the death frenzy had come upon the creature.