第 45 页

At that moment the walls of the room began to shudder. Cracks appeared in the ceiling, spreading out like tree branches. The floor beneath LirieFs feet buckled and shook violently, and her ears throbbed with a dull booming roar that sounded as if the very stone cried out in torment.

Liriel's first impulse was terror and an overwhelming desire to flee. Only once before had she experienced such a tremor, but all her life she'd heard stories of the disasters that occurred when the earth shifted. Patrols lost, tunnels collapsed, whole cities buried. The drow, who spent most of their lives trapped beneath tons of rock, feared nothing so much as this.

Then she remembered the amulet and her restored powers. Summoning her ability to levitate, she rose just above the quaking floor and glided swiftly and calmly toward the doorway. She emerged just as the ceiling gave way. Stone fell with a thunderous roar, sending a cloud of dust into the empty corridor.

But beyond Nisstyre's chamber, all was calm and still. Liriel took a deep, steadying breath. The "earthquake" had been a magical attack, limited to that one room. She silently applauded Nisstyre for his strategy—the attack was calculated to utterly unnerve a drow opponent—as she made her way back to the hoard room. For what other site would Nisstyre choose for spell battle? And what better warrior to have at his back than a dragon? The wizard anticipated the advantage of overwhelming odds. He could not know a second dragon had entered the fray.

Yet as Liriel sped down the silent corridors, she had little hope Zz'Pzora would even the score. So far the mutant dragon had been unfailingly helpful, but Liriel knew the creature could turn treacherous at odd moments. Their alliance had been built on the assumption that neither could be trusted. To her sorrow, Liriel knew the dragon as well as she knew herself.

Even in his weakened condition, Nisstyre was a formidable opponent. The moment the young drow stepped into the hoard room, she was buffeted by the sweep of giant wings. Liriel dropped and rolled, coming up with a handful of throwing knives ready. She launched three of the weapons at the giant bat—a nighthunter, the largest and deadliest of the Underdark bats—before she realized the creature was merely an illusion. The real danger came from fifty paces beyond. Perched on the pile of golden coins, Nisstyre slowly lifted a wand and pointed it in her direction.

Liriel struck a seductive pose. "I've reconsidered ypur offer," she purred. "If you still desire a consort, I'd be honored to accept."

As she'd expected, the ruby eye on Nisstyre's forehead flared with sudden light. The wizard's hand faltered, and he wove unsteadily, as if buffeted by the force of the unseen watcher's anger.

"I still have the map you gave me," Liriel lied sweetly. "In just a few days, we can be together in your forest stronghold. We can share the amulet, as you promised. Think of the power we can wield together! And as I promised, I'll help rid you of the other." She pointed to the ruby, which by now was almost vibrating with rage.

"She lies," whispered Nisstyre, his face contorted with agony. "Yes, yes—I'll prove my loyalty." Again he lifted the wand and sighted down his target.

But Liriel had reached for a weapon of her own—a deadly, uniquely drow spell she had never dared try before. She snatched up a tooth from a pile of dwarven bones and hurled it at the wizard. Instantly his outstretched hand jerked into a flexed, tortured claw. His wand fell among the coins, but Nisstyre's attention was wholly absorbed by his own hideous metamorphosis. His thumb shrank, becoming a rounded head with a greedy, pincer-shaped mouth. His fingers elongated, then divided in half to become eight thin, hairy appendages. What was once a wizard's dexterous hand was now a hairy black spider. Mindless in its hunger and need, the creature twisted toward its host's arm and began to feed. For a moment Nisstyre, horror-struck and dumb with pain, merely stared at the death spider eating its way up his arm. He began to stammer out a chant that would dispel the deadly enchantment and restore his hand—if not the flesh already devoured.

Liriel, meanwhile, searched for her next weapon. She knew that wand—it was one Kharza had made—and she knew what Nisstyre's next attack would be. Frantically she dug through the piled treasure. Zz'Pzora had said there was a mirror—had the treacherous dragon lied?

Now healed, Nisstyre stooped, sliding several feet down the golden pile as he scrambled for his wand. With his undamaged hand he snatched it up and pointed it at Liriel. A gout of flame, hotter than the breath of a red dragon, sped toward the dark-elven girl.

At that moment Liriel found what she sought. Her fingers closed over the gilded frame, and she snapped the mirror up before her at arm's length. She closed her eyes and turned her head away from the searing light. The dragon-breath spell struck the silvered glass and reflected back toward its sender.

The wizard's black eyes widened with pure panic as the magical fire struck the golden coins at his feet. Instantly the metal melted, and Nisstyre sank deep into the bubbling, molten mass. His shrieks, as he suffered the agony intended for Liriel, were horrible to hear.

The results of a dragon-breath weapon were spectacular but brief. In mere moments the golden pile had cooled enough to bear Liriel's weight. She climbed the treasure heap and stooped over the dying drow trapped there. The ruby eye seemed to be rising out of his forehead, and its glow was dimming in concert with the wizard's ebbing life-force. Liriel plucked out the ruby and smiled into its fading light, as if into the face of the unseen watcher.

"You lose," she said succinctly. With that, she tossed the lifeless gem into the pile.

Crawling on his belly, Fyodor crept through the tunnel that wound through solid stone toward the dragon's lair. Zz'Pzora had preceded him in the form of a huge, purple snake. It had been odd, watching the purple drow shapeshift into a serpent. Her current form would no doubt be even more unnerving. Fyodor, for all his travel and his years of fighting, had never seen a dragon. They were not so plentiful in these times as they were in the old tales. Soon he would see not one, but two of the creatures. One of them, he was pledged to kill; the other had pledged to kill him.

It was not the death most Rashemi berserkers would choose for themselves, but Fyodor was content with his fate. Although he was far from his beloved land, he would die in battle, and with honor. It was enough.

Finally he came to the end of the tortuous journey. Beyond "the tunnel was the dragon's lair, a huge cavern riven with jagged, fanglike stalactites and cluttered with the bones of Pharx's recent meals. Within the cavern were two dragons, encoiled in reptilian embrace. One of them was undoubtedly Zz'Pzora—a beautiful creature with two heads, iridescent purple scales, and enormous wings the color of amethyst. She was huge—at least fifty feet from the tip of her tail to her dual snouts, but it was Pharx who stole Fyodor*s breath. The male dragon was fully twice Zz'Pzora's size, armored with dark maroon scales and armed with teeth the size of daggers and claws like curving scimitars. This, Fyodor realized with awe, was the creature he had vowed to help slay.

A faint hiss came from the distant tunnel, and then screams of mortal anguish. Immediately Pharx lifted his head, like a giant hound scenting the breeze. "My gold." muttered the creature in a rumbling voice. He disentangled himself from the purple dragon and sprinted toward the tunnel in a lurching run, head down to avoid the low-hanging ceiling. "My gold is melting! We must protect it!"

As the dragon neared his hiding place, Fyodor leaped into the cavern and pulled his sword. With all his strength he swung, bashing the creature between the eyes. Pharx pulled up short, shaking his head and huffing in astonishment. The blunt-edged sword had not broken through the dragon's armor, but for a moment the dragon was dazed and cross-eyed.

Zz'Pzora seized the moment. She spread her wings and leaped at Pharx like a pouncing hawk. Her claws found a foothold on the male's vertical plates of belly-armor, and her wings enfolded his spiked back. Her two heads dove in for his throat. Nothing but a dragon's teeth could pierce a dragon's armor, and Pharx, despite his enormous size, could not shake the smaller female. One head he might have dislodged, but not two. Locked in a deadly embrace, the enormous creatures thrashed and rolled. Zz'Pzora's wings were pierced, then shredded, by the male's spiky armor, but still she clung—teeth grinding and two heads tossing violently as she sought to rip through the male dragon's scales.

Fyodor circled the titanic battle, watching for a chance to strike, but so entangled were the two creatures that he could not hit one without harming the other. Finally Pharx's tail thrashed out, away from the clinging Zz'Pzora. The Rashemi leaped, hacking at the scaly appendage. It was not much, but perhaps it would distract the beast and give Zz'Pzora some small aid.

Pharx's enormous maw opened in a roar of rage and pain that shook the cavern. Then the creature lowered his jaw toward Zz'Pzora's back and exhaled deeply. A noxious, crimson mist flowed from the dragon's mouth. It clung to the female's back, and wherever it touched scales melted away like snow in a spring rain. Both of the female's heads screamed, and Zz'Pzora lost her hold on Pharx's throat.

The Rashemi stepped in, sword leading. His black blade dug deep into one of the holes Zz'Pzora's teeth had worried open, and he leaned in hard until the sword struck bone. Fyodor gripped the hilt with both hands and threw his weight to one side, wrenching the sword in a deadly arc through Pharx's throat. Blood poured from the creature's fanged mouth, quenching the strange fire that ate through Zz'Pzora's scales.

The female disentangled herself from her dying mate, and the fierce joy of battle shone in her four eyes. "Let's go," she rumbled, leading the way unsteadily from the cavern. "Liriel is in there. No sense letting her have all the fun!"

Slowly and at great cost, Iljrene and her forces made their way down the tunnel toward the hoard room. The tiny priestess had been cut more than once, and her garments were wet with mingled seawater and blood. Yet she did not falter, did not seem to register pain when she was wounded, or when one of her sister priestesses fell. She had a mission and she would fulfill it. Once the ship was breached and the drew children rescued, Qilue would lead a band of drow into the merchants' stronghold. Iljrene planned to ensure they did not walk into overwhelming odds.

Liriel looked up as Zz'Pzora ducked her way into the hoard room. "Got the wizard, I see," the dragon's left head observed in a slurred voice "Pharx is dead, too."

The drow smiled. "We make a good team, Zip."

"That we do," the dragon's heads agreed in unison. The creature seemed about to say more, but her left head swayed, then drooped, sagging lifeless onto her bloodstained purple scales.

The right head looked down and grimaced. "I was afraid of that," she said, and plunged down faces-first into the pile of gold.

Liriel's eyes widened at the horrible wound on Zz'Pzora's back. The scales had melted away, and the flesh looked as if it had been eaten away by some corrosive acid. The drow darted forward and gathered up the lifeless head of her friend.

"Damn it, Zip," she mourned.

A flicker of light returned to the left head's eyes. "My life has numbered more than twenty thousand days," the dragon said, and her voice was content. "This was the best of them all." With those words, half of Zz'Pzora died.

The right head stirred and lifted out of the golden pile. "A word of advice," the dragon added in a rapidly fading voice. "Don't trust that human of yours. An utter fool! He offered to follow me into Pharx's lair and help in battle if needed. In return, he offered to let me kill him if he should raise a sword against any of Qilue's drow. Talk about a win-win situation!" The right head grinned, and not in Liriel's direction. "You're on your own now." With that, the reptilian eyes glazed as the right head followed her counterpart into the darkness.

For a long moment Liriel sat and rocked the enormous head in her lap. So often she'd considered the high price to be paid for trust and friendship, but it had never occurred to her the price might be demanded from another. Then the sound of battle grew louder, breaking through the drow girl's pain and grief. Liriel realized Iljrene's forces had met resistance, after all.

The drow gently laid Zz'Pzora's head down and rose to her feet. She recoiled, for she found herself face-to-face with Fyodor. Suddenly the dragon's last, comradely words made sense.

"Get out of here!" she shrieked, pushing him toward the tunnel. "Stubborn, stupid… human!"

"It is too late," Fyodor said in a despairing voice. His gaze turned to the approaching conflict, and his hand closed on the hilt of his sword. Before Liriel's eyes, he seemed to take on height and power. The battle rage was coming upon him, and it would no doubt be his last.

Liriel's fingers closed around the Windwalker. For one last moment, she savored her dark-elven heritage.

The ritual to bring on a battle rage! Do it!" she commanded.

Fyodor gave her a startled look, but he was too far beyond his own control to question the order. Witches commanded the Rashemi berserkers, and he had long ago accepted Liriel as wychlaran. So he lifted his deep, bass voice in song, singing in the language of his homeland the hymn of battle to come.

The drow, meanwhile, opened the amulet. She snatched the flask of magically distilled jhuild from Fyodor's sash. She quickly twisted off the top of the amulet, then unstop-pered the flask with her teeth and tipped it slowly, carefully over the tiny sheath. Liriel had no idea if this ritual would suffice to store and control the berserker magic. If it worked at all, it would be temporary. At least it would buy Fyodor's life and those of the drow he would slay in his frenzy. No one else, Liriel vowed fiercely, would pay for the choices she had made.

Suddenly Fyodor's song stopped, and the Rashemi's eyes turned dull and hollow. Liriel caught him as he fell, not caring that the precious flask of jhuild clattered down among the treasure. The dark hair at the back of Fyodor's head was parted by a deep gash, and through the swift flow of blood Liriel caught a glimpse of bone.