Condemnation (31 page)

“Lieutenant Jazzt!” he called.

From alongside the marching column of House Agrach Dyrr’s warriors, a small, scarred male detached himself and came trotting to Nimor’s side. The soldiers marching in the expedition knew very well that “Captain Zhayemd” was no scion of their House, but it had been explained to them that the detachment’s commander enjoyed Matron Mother Yasraena’s complete confidence and had, in fact, been adopted into the leadership of their ancient clan—a common enough practice among the high Houses of the city. Nimor didn’t doubt that Jazzt Dyrr, second cousin to the matron mother herself, had received some additional and specific orders concerning the circumstances under which he was to ignore Nimor’s commands, but as Nimor intended to scrupulously honor his bargain with Agrach Dyrr, he was reasonably certain that the Dyrr officer would offer no trouble.

“Yes, Captain?” Jazzt said.

He was careful not to show any expression at all, simply regarding Nimor with the bland curiosity of a seasoned veteran.

“Form up the company there, beside the Baenre contingent. Tell the men to make ready for a long march. I hope to set out within the hour.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jazzt replied.

The lieutenant stepped back and saluted sharply, then turned and began to bark orders to the Agrach Dyrr soldiers. Nimor turned his mount aside and trotted across the plaza to a small tent bustling with activity. There, the highborn officers and commanders of each of the various House contingents had gathered, most with some number of sergeants and messengers in train. Several arguments on all manner of different topics—the order of march, the best place to halt at the end of the day, the fastest route to the Pillars of Woe—proceeded at the same time.

He dismounted, handed the reins of his war-lizard to a nearby slave, and strode into the midst of the confusion, pushing through to the partitioned area. He had to flash his insignia of House and rank to gain admittance. Inside, a knot of captains and officers from various Houses stood engaged in several different conversations at the same time. The occasion of raising an army and marching to war seemed to displace the normal rivalries and vendettas, at least for a time. Instead of dueling each other in the streets, the rakish fellows sought to outshine each other with deeds of valor and ruthlessness on the battlefield.

Nimor surveyed the commanders, noting the insignias of six out of eight great Houses, and another half dozen of the largest and strongest minor Houses. His eye fell on a male wearing the insignia of House Baenre, as the fellow held up his hands and raised his voice to capture the attention of the other officers.

“Go back to your companies and look to your supply trains,” Andzrel Baenre, Weapons Master of House Baenre, said. “I want a list from each of you of the number of pack beasts and wagons in your train, and a general inventory of your stores. Return within the hour. Our female relations will doubtless debate many issues of high strategy, but it will fall to us to work out the details of supply trains and battle signals, and we still have much to discuss.”

Andzrel was a tall, slender fellow who wore armor of blacked mithral plate and a dark cloak. His tabard proudly displayed the emblem of House Baenre, and his eyes held iron discipline, an expression of directness and purpose that was unusual in a drow of high birth, whether male or female.

The commanders broke up and strode from the tent, heading back to their detachments. Nimor allowed them to pass by. As he moved up to speak with the Baenre weapons master, the assassin muttered a spell.

“Master Baenre,” Nimor asked, covering the last syllables of the enchantment.

“Yes,” the weapons master said, blinking at Nimor. “I … uh …”

Nimor smiled, seeing the effect the enchantment had on the drow, and knowing that for quite some time, Andzrel Baenre and he would be very close friends.

“You are familiar to me, but I do not believe I know you,” said Andzrel. “You wear the arms of Agrach Dyrr.”

“I am Zhayemd Dyrr, and I command my House’s company,” Nimor replied. “Do you have any idea when the priestesses will deign to join us, or at least allow us to start on our way?”

“I believe the matron mothers are still deciding which of them will lead the expedition,” Andzrel replied, seemingly recovered. “None of them trusts any of the others enough to voluntarily leave the city now, but they all think it’s clear that someone had better be put in charge of the males.”

Nimor laughed at that.

“You have a talent for plain speaking, sir.” Nimor glanced around at the other captains and officers in the pavilion and added, “I assume you’ve tallied which Houses are here, and how many troops—and of what type—each has brought? The priestesses will want to know that, and it will be helpful for us all to have an idea of who’s marching next to whom.”

He could think of other uses for the information, of course, but there was no need to mention that, was there?

“Of course,” Andzrel replied. He pointed at a table in the outer portion of the tent, where several Baenre officers studied maps and reports. “I’ll need you to give those fellows the strength of your complement, the number of infantry and cavalry, and some information on your supply train, as well. After which I would like to ask you some questions about the route of our march and the place we expect to meet the duergar army. I understand you’re familiar with the region, as well as the composition and tactics of the duergar force.”

Nimor straightened his cuirass and nodded earnestly.

“Certainly,” he said. “I know them well.”

Halisstra was roused from her dreams by the sound of her cell door opening. She glanced up, wondering if perhaps the time had come when the surface folk would simply put her to the blade.

“I have no more to say to your lord,” she said, though the thought crossed her mind that selling out her comrades was preferable to death by torture, especially if she could gain her freedom in the exchange.

“Fine,” a woman’s voice replied. “I hope then that you will consent to speak with me.”

A slender figure slipped through the open door, which was closed and locked behind her. Veiled in a long, dark cloak, the visitor paused to study Halisstra then she reached up with hands as black as coal and slipped back her hood to reveal a face of gleaming ebony, and eyes as red as blood.

“I am Seyll Auzkovyn,” the drow said, “and I have come to give you my lady’s message: ‘A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow.’ “

“A priestess of Eilistraee,” Halisstra murmured. She had heard of the cult before, of course. The Spider Queen held nothing but scorn for the weak, idealistic faith of the Dark Maiden, whose worshipers dreamed of redemption and acceptance in the World Above. “Well, I did come in peace, and I do seem to have found my rightful place in this tidy little cell. I expect wonderful flowers bloom just beyond the bars of my window, and I am more than a little thankful that the thrice-cursed sun shines no deeper into my prison.” She laughed bitterly. “Somehow the holy message of your silly little dancing goddess rings a little false today. Now go away, and let me get back to the important business of preparing myself for the inevitable tortures that await me when the so-called lord of this fetid dungheap of a village loses his patience with my intransigent ways.”

“You sound like me, when I first heard Eilistraee’s message,” Seyll replied. She moved closer and sat on the floor beside Halisstra. “Like yourself, I was a priestess of the Spider Queen who found herself a captive of the surface folk. Though I’ve lived here for several years now, I still find the light of the sun overly harsh.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, apostate,” snarled Halisstra. “I’m nothing like you.”

“You might be surprised,” Seyll continued calmly, her placid demeanor unchanged. “Have the Spider Queen’s punishments ever struck you as needless or wasteful? Have you ever failed to nurture a friendship because you feared betrayal? Have you ever, perhaps, watched a child of your own body, your own heart, destroyed because she failed at a senseless test, only to tell yourself that she was too weak to live? Did you ever wonder if there was a point to the deliberate and calculated cruelty that poisons our entire race?”

“Of course there’s a point,” Halisstra replied. “We’re surrounded on all sides by vicious enemies. If we didn’t take steps to hone our people to their finest edge, we would become slaves—no, worse yet, we would become rothe.”

“And have Lolth’s judgments in fact made you stronger?”

“Of course.”

“Prove it, then. Offer an example.” Seyll watched her, then leaned forward and said, “You remember countless tests and battles, naturally, but you can’t prove that you were made stronger by them. You don’t know what might have happened if you hadn’t been subjected to those tortures.”

“Simple semantics. Naturally I can’t prove that things are other than they are.”

Halisstra glared at the heretic, profoundly annoyed. She would have found the conversation irritating and irrelevant under the best of circumstances, but with her hands and feet chained together, slumped against the cold, hard wall of a stone cell with a painful shaft of sunlight slanting in, it was positively infuriating. Still, she had very little to occupy her mind otherwise, and there was a small chance that a display of enthusiasm for Seyll’s faith might win her a parole of sorts. Lolth was completely intolerant of apostates, but to feign acceptance of another faith in order to win the freedom to betray the trust of one’s captors … that was the sort of cleverness the Spider Queen admired. The trick, of course, was not to appear too eager, yet just uncertain enough that Seyll and her friends might come to hope for a true change in Halisstra’s heart.

“You are annoying me,” she said to Seyll. “Leave me alone.”

“As you wish,” Seyll said. She stood gracefully, and offered Halisstra a smile. “Consider what I’ve said, and ask yourself if there might be some truth to it. If your faith in Lolth is as strong as you think, surely it can withstand a little examination. May Eilistraee bless you and warm your heart.”

She pulled her hood back over her head, and silently withdrew. Halisstra turned her own face away so Seyll couldn’t see the cruel smile that twisted her features.

Rear guard, mused Ryld, seems to be the spot Quenthel saves for the person she deems least useful at the moment.

He paused to listen to the forest around him, seeking for any sound that might indicate an approaching enemy. He heard nothing but the steady patter of cold rain. Pharaun’s fire-spiders had managed to set a smoky blaze in the woods behind them, but the rain had likely prevented the fires from burning too much of the forest. The weapons master glanced up into the sky, allowing the cold drops to splash on his face and noting the sullen silver glow behind the clouds.

At least the rain is washing out our trail, he thought.

After a hard march the previous night and lying low in a thick tangle of brush through a long, sunny day, they had resumed their hike in the evening only to meet a deluge soon after setting out. The forest floor was nothing but mud and slush.

Taking a moment to adjust his hood, Ryld set out again, trying hard not to hurry his steps too much. He would not be much of a rear guard if he closed up right behind the others, but on the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was fall so far behind that he missed an innocent turn of the trail and wandered off alone into the endless woods. If Halisstra wasn’t worth going back for, he was under no delusions as to what would happen if he managed to become separated from the rest of the company. He tramped on for quite some time, pausing every few dozen yards to listen and scan the forest.

Soon he became aware of the louder, more insistent sound of water in motion—a swift forest stream, dark and wide, that sluiced through muddy banks covered in thorns and bracken. A large log had been felled to cross the stream, its upper surface sawn flat to form a reasonably secure bridge. Quenthel and the others waited there, silently watching their surroundings. Ryld noted the crossbows pointed in his direction, and the acute attentiveness of his companions. Clearly the running battle with the surface folk had taught his comrades to be wary of the woods.

“Hold your fire,” he called softly. “It’s Ryld.”

“Master Argith,” Quenthel said. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost the trail.”

Ryld bowed to Quenthel and joined the others. He took a moment to sit on the stump of the log, fishing in the pockets of his cloak for a small flask of duergar brandy. Normally he wouldn’t risk diluting his senses with alcohol, but hours of marching in cold rain had soaked his clothing and left him chilled to the bone. The liquor brought a hot glow to the middle of his body with one good mouthful.

“Is this your stream?” he asked Pharaun.

“Yes,” the wizard said without hesitation. “Here, we cross and turn to the south, following the river upstream. House Jaelre is not more than a couple of miles away.”

He pointed at Ryld with one finger and muttered a magical syllable. The flask rose up from the weapons master’s hand and bobbed through the air to the wizard, who promptly helped himself to a healthy swallow.

“My thanks,” said Pharaun. “The gray dwarves may be odious churls, but they distill a good brandy.”

“Don’t drink too much,” Quenthel said. “The Jaelre are as likely to shoot us as look at us. I need you alert and sharp-witted, wizard. Master Argith, keep up close with the rest of us from this point on. I’m more worried about what lies before us now than behind.”

“As you wish, Mistress,” Ryld said.

He held out his hand to Pharaun, who took one more small swallow and tossed the flask back to Ryld. The weapons master stood, shouldered his pack, and led the way across the bridge. The surface of the log was slick and uneven, and doubtless would have been trouble for a clumsy dwarf or awkward human, but the dark elves negotiated the crossing with ease.

On the other side, they found the overgrown remnants of an old stone road, cracked and broken by the twisting roots of countless trees and hundreds of years of frosts and thaws. Smooth white stone, expertly joined, marked it as the work of the ancient surface elves who once inhabited the forest. Ryld was not so poorly educated that he had not heard of Cormanthor, the great forest empire of the surface elves, or the fallen glory of its legendary capital city of Myth Drannor. Other than the names, though, he knew very little of who the builders of the forest empire had been and what had befallen them.