Dark Vengeance (16 page)

—
Ravager saying

T
he dead sleeth stank—and glowed.

As Orivon stared at it, the monster's cooling flesh kindled into an eerie, sickly yellow radiance.

Silently it pulsed once or twice, light bubbling up from it, and then started to fade. The forgefist backed away warily.

Nothing happened.

Eventually, Orivon shrugged and strode to the carcass again, to cut free his second sword.

It was easily—if messily—done, and nothing odd happened.

The beast was dead.

Orivon turned his back on it and started exploring the cavern.

In his frantic scramblings during the fray, he'd seen—or thought he'd seen—many dark cave mouths in the far walls of the cavern. He knew he'd seen, rushed past, or stumbled through bones and the tattered remnants of Nifl clothing and weapons. The lowest parts of its rugged floor were choked with bones and leavings. Which just might hide
real
treasure.

Orivon bent, raked heaped bones aside with his sword, and peered.

Then he did it again.

And again.

And, with a sigh, once more.

Bones and leavings, indeed. Either the Wild Dark was full of large bands of blindly marching oriad-heads using maps that led them straight to this cavern, or the sleeth had hunted down prey, pounced, and dragged its victims back here to devour. In their thousands. Mostly Niflghar, judging by the skulls, though perhaps the smaller ones had just fallen down among the bones to crack unnoticed under his boots along with everything else. There were skulls of sorts Orivon had never seen before, some of them jutting with bony spurs, or long and thin like the heads of gigantic needle-billed birds. More than one skull looked frightening even in its broken, empty state.

Wading in crumbling, cracking bones, most of them green with cave mold, Orivon sought to pluck useful things from in and under their disintegrating tangles.

There were belts and straps of rotting hide, and pouches and scabbards wrought of the linked scales of various snakes and lizards of the Dark . . . and a few of these still held contents of interest.

He found many daggers, and gathered the better ones into a heap; something to trade with, in Glowstone. Coins were harder to spot amid the crevices and bone-dust, but were plentiful, most of them stamped olden-day ovals of the cities that venerated Olone; these, too, the forgefist gathered. Eventually he found a battered metal carry-box that had been bolted onto the shoulder-plates of
armor too small for him . . . but if he broke those plates,
thus,
and bent the result, he had a shoulder-pack that he could swing free and drop in an instant, to free both of his arms for swinging swords. It would do to carry the coins and most of the daggers in.

More coins, and weariness, as his bruises started to ache and stiffen.

Not to mention the insistent aches of his broken innards.

He felt hunger, too, and thirst . . .

But not strongly enough to stay awake.

And what safer place was there in the Dark for a lone Hairy One to sleep than in a sleeth's lair?

Orivon recalled a smooth, tilted shoulder of stone in one of the higher, more rugged corners of the cavern. He went and laid himself down on it, sword in one hand—and fell asleep in a seeming instant, plunging down into endless darkness.

As he fell into oblivion, he only just had time to wonder:

What did raw sleeth taste like?

 

“Most holy Exalted Daughter?”

The deferential murmur was very close to her ear; it was only by some miracle of the Ever-Ice that Semmeira managed not to flinch.

Arothral, the eldest warblade of the raiding band she'd been given, was at her side again, sword in hand. He'd approached in utter silence.

“Glowstone's first watchpost is just ahead of us,” he added, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Shall we attack?”

Semmeira gave the veteran warrior the coldest incredulous look she could manage. “And have them warned and ready to meet us?”

“Ah,
no,
Most Holy One. I have slain the two Nifl who were on watch here, and sent two of my fellow battle-tested warblades to the other two watchposts, to serve them the same way. Helbram has just now returned; I expect Lorrel in the next breath or so.”

“And you saw fit to neglect to consult with me on this beforehand
why,
exactly?”

“Revered Mother Lolonmae swore by the Everlasting Ice that we could trust your judgment,” Arothral replied solemnly, “so I knew you'd approve of this unquestioningly, being as it is the only prudent tactic.”

The
bastard!
The stone-faced, grinning-within, right rich-in-tongue-dung bastard!

Knowing her eyes were blazing with fury, Semmeira let her grudging, twisted grin of admiration rise to her lips so he could see it, and replied, “You pass a test,
loyal
warblade Arothral. And thereby win
my
trust of
your
judgment. Order and launch our assault on Glowstone just as you see fit.”

The veteran warblade nodded, face carefully expressionless, and then bowed, backed away, and was gone, as silently as he had come.

The screams had begun, somewhere in the caverns well ahead of her, before Semmeira realized why Arothral had carried a sword ready in his hand.

And that as he'd vanished into the dark distance on her left, the slightest of metallic sounds to her right probably hadn't been an Ouvahlan warblade drawing steel and hurrying forward to slaughter unsuspecting Nifl in Glowstone. It was far more likely that she'd heard Lorrel, whom she hadn't even realized was there, sheathing
his
ready sword and turning away.

The same Lorrel who was now standing, arms folded across his chest, a careful distance behind her right shoulder, regarding her with the faintest of smiles on his face as he murmured a steady stream of orders to young warblades who hurried up to receive them, and then hastened on toward Glowstone.

Ouvahlor, it seemed, spawned no shortage of deadly bastards.

 

“Seek healing stones.”

That whisper was fluid and lilting Niflghar, and female . . .

“Seek
—
”

Sudden pain stabbed through him.

Thorar, yes! He was wounded!

And had fought and slain a cave-sleeth . . .

Orivon blinked and winced, worked his stiff and crusted mouth until he could feel his tongue again, tried to roll over and gain his feet—and stopped abruptly, wincing. He
hurt.

Ribs gone, for sure, and probably worse. He clawed himself over onto his belly and slid down the rock a little way, drawn sword dinging a faint trail as it bounced along uncaring stone in his wake.

Feeling the need to relieve himself, the forgefist peered down rather grimly at the steaming stream of blood he was producing, and wondered just how sorely he was hurt.

That whisper, in his dreams . . . healing stones.

What if, by Thorar's smiling luck, one of the sleeth's gnawed-to-bones victims had been carrying healing stones? Most Nifl who ventured out into the Dark did, if they weren't forced to flee a city as an outlaw, and become a desperate Ravager, that is.

He knew how to use those stones, thanks to keeping his eyes open when shifting furniture in the Eventowers. Though they were enspelled by priestesses of Olone for use on Niflghar—or so Talonar Nifl had said in his hearing, more than once, at least—the stones worked fine on humans; he remembered one of the oldest Evendoom crones healing her favorite pleasure-slave, a Hairy One.

Humans could even use the stones more easily than Nifl. A dark elf needed a spell to “melt” them into their injuries, or had to dissolve them in certain acids, drink the result, and undergo agonies. The stones didn't dissolve in Nifl blood, but did in the blood of Hairy Ones—and the resulting mix was nauseous for Nifl to drink and healed them not at all, but a human quaffing it gained the full benefits of the healing magic.

Sleeth, now . . . he had no idea if the magic of such stones healed beasts at all, or if sleeth had wits enough to know what they were and try to use them, hide them, or bargain them away.

If there were no healing stones to be had amid the remains strewn around this cavern, he'd just have to go on to Glowstone. If the Ravagers there had even a few glowstones to sell, though, they'd guard them very well, demand the treasures of a city in exchange for one, and press their advantage when bargaining with a Hairy One . . . and a wounded Hairy One at that.

Which meant “pressing their advantage” might well mean just gang-attacking Orivon Firefist, to slaughter him and get for free whatever he offered in exchange for a stone. Or poisoning or drugging food and drink he bought, wresting what he had from him, and then slaying him at will or chaining him as a cut-price slave, to sell to someone who'd work him to death.

Of course, all of this assumed he found something here worth offering in trade for a healing stone. A few daggers and even a heavy sack full of coins wouldn't do it.

The alternative would be skulking and fighting his way into Talonnorn, and then into the Eventowers, to find and seize healing stones. There was a chest of them in the armory, he knew, and every crone no doubt had some hidden away, but none of them would be unguarded, and he'd not exactly pass unnoticed as he searched for them. And who was to say the armory was still stocked the same way, or that it was even in the same chamber as he remembered it being?

Moreover, there was only one Orivon Firefist, and Talonnorn held thousands of Niflghar who'd try to slay him—or any unchained Hairy One—on sight.

Something rattled as he thrust aside thickly heaped bones with his sword. Metal of some sort, dark . . .

A bony arm, wearing a bracer that now hung on it limply, a chased and worked metal bracer of finer make than anything he'd ever seen in Talonnorn, all metal . . .

Orivon's eyes narrowed, and he plucked it up out of the crumbling decay. Magic tingled under his fingers.

Take me and wear me, Hairy One
.

The voice startled him so much he almost flung the armlet
away. He managed merely to juggle it awkwardly instead, pinning it against his chest.

It was the voice in his dream, but it was whispering inside his head!

Slave, obey and know no fear,
the voice hissed, sounding amused.
YOU have nothing to fear from me. So long as you obey Yathla. I have waited a long time for someone to wear me, and work my revenge.

“Who—who are you?” Orivon snarled, hardly daring to look down at the silken-smooth, somehow
warm
metal against his chest.

Yathla of Evendoom, crone of Talonnorn, I am
—
or was.

“Evendoom,” the forgefist sighed.

You know us, I see
. Dark, bitter amusement surged in Orivon's head.
Unmatched in House Evendoom, and much feared, I was. Until I was betrayed by my younger sisters. Poisoned, helpless, I was tormented by spells, my power torn from me to enstar items of power for House Evendoom. My body died, but I lived, aware still, trapped in this war-brace, that gouts searing flame in battle. They had not expected that, and feared me greatly. Wherefore I was put upon the body of another poisoned one, and taken forth into the Wild Dark by the Hunt, to be hurled down and lost far from Talonnorn.

“I—”

You will wear me, and bring me to Talonnorn, and I will have my vengeance upon my kin for what they did to me. You will see House Evendoom humbled, Hairy One. Take some satisfaction in that, slave of Evendoom.

“I am no slave of anyone, and never will be again!” Orivon spat fiercely. “Speak so to me again, and I'll hurl you where you will never be found!”

Then wear me, free human, and heed my guidance to find means of healing, and live. Or hurl me away
—
and die of your wounds. You are dying now.

“I . . . I'll live, with no help from you!”

For a short time. A VERY short time.

The forgefist sighed—and then grimaced and doubled over, as pain surged inside him again. “I returned to the Dark on a task of my own,” he snarled. “To try to free four children, enslaved by Talonar Niflghar. I will
not
be thrust aside from this rescue!”

You need not be. I have no quarrel with any Hairy One. Just with those
of the Blood Evendoom. Why should any of them live and flourish, when I was betrayed and my life stolen from me? Wear me, man! I'll aid you as much as I can; remember, at any time you can snatch me off and toss me aside! Right now, you need healing stones sorely
—
and I know where they are.

Orivon gasped as fresh spasms of pain wracked him. On his knees, he shuddered, snarled in frustration—and slapped the bracer onto his left forearm, clawing at its buckles. “W-where are they?”

Don't try to get up. Leave your sword for now; you'll need both hands, and you still have your other blade. Crawl THAT way.

Orivon crawled.

Up along the sloping reach of stone, to the highest rocks in the cavern. To a cleft between them, and a headless, armless, sleeth-gnawed Nifl skeleton twisted between the rocks there.

Beneath it. Pouches on a ruined belt. Trust not the hide to hold up under handling.

Hissing in fresh agony, his mouth now full of his blood, the forgefist thrust an arm through the brittle rib cage and groped beneath. Spiders and tiny cave-snakes hastened away from his probing fingers—and he touched something solid, smooth, and rectangular.

He drew it forth and stared at it wearily. A healing stone.

Put it in your mouth. Spit out no blood, but swallow the liquid as it melts. Hold it in with your fingers, and choke not.

Orivon almost choked with mirth; the motherly tone that had crept into the mind-voice sounded like old beak-nosed Meljarra, back up in Orlkettle.