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Authors: Ed Greenwood

BOOK: Dark Warrior Rising
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It was always quiet in the yeldeth caverns. The edible fungi muffled all sounds, and grew so fast that slaves had to be sent out when weariness slowed their picking; only fresh fingers could keep up with the sprouting blooms. Slaves were fed raw yeldeth, but probably ate it with
no more enthusiasm than most Nifl would if what ended up on their platters had been kept from wines and sauces and the cooking brazier. Amraunt, now; even raw,
those
mushrooms were pure pleasure on the tongue, and rare and small of course—and as far as a Nifl belly could get from soft, nourishing, yet nigh-tasteless yeldeth.
Hmm. Up in the Blindingbright, she'd heard, the Hairy Ones dwelt amid a bewildering variety of edible plants, and ignored most of them. Oriad-witted creatures!
Or perhaps, as Vaeyemue had thought more than a few times before, they were simply so stupid as to not realize the plants could be eaten—and never think of exploring or experimenting with what grew so abundantly at hand. She looked down the cavern at scores of them intently plucking, twisting, and peering—seeking blooms of just the right hue—and shook her head. They
seemed
intelligent enough. But then one could never tell with humans.
Ugly and hairy and pale, yes, but they could imitate Nifl speech and gestures and even—albeit gracelessly—mannerisms.
“So they watch and hear us,” she murmured aloud, “and remember. And are clever. Yet such imitations have their limits. After all, it's not as if they're
Niflghar.
”
 
 
“Is
this
the best the raiders could find?” Brylyaun's lip curled as he watched the line of sagging humans being unhooded and lashed by bored Nifl overseers; most of them toppled hard to the ground after only a stroke or two. “Every run it seems worse! Is the Blindingbright running out of Hairy Ones, that our take is such … dregs?”
Orellaun chuckled. “I recall your grandsire saying almost those exact words, while standing looking out this window. I think we all believe slaves were bigger, better, and stronger when we were young—and must have been roaring monsters before that! Yet Talonnorn manages to struggle along, as Houses rise and Houses fall, and slaves beyond numbering work and perish and are devoured and replaced, ov—”
“Over and over and over again,” Brylyaun interrupted, in perfect mimicry of Orellaun's grandly declaiming tones, and they chuckled together.
The younger Nifl stopped first, shrugging and turning away from the window. “Well,
all
the Houses would fall—and Talonnorn itself dissolve into a brawling, lawless way-market of slavers and traders—if ever
we ran out of slaves. Thank Olone they're mindless, endlessly replaceable fodder.”
“Yes, but
are
they endless?” Orellaun said, still at the window. “This seems a matter no one bothers to debate, when it should concern us all!”
Brylyaun frowned. “Well, they certainly
breed
fast enough, up in the Blindingbright!” He strolled back to the window. All of the slaves were down, now, with the overseers bending and untying their throat collars from the line, and retying them to floor rings, for the drenching to come. “We raid and we raid—and there they always are, grubbing the earth of their ‘farms' and living one day much as the next, making no effort to improve their ugly bodies, or even to keep themselves
clean
!”
“Well, why would they? They know not Olone; they can have no inkling of devoting themselves to the Holy Way. Not that their grotesque bodies can ever achieve much beauty, no matter how they strive—but the reward of ascending to Olone is not only unknown to them, it's not offered to them!”
Brylyaun's frown deepened. “Indeed. Sometimes I forget that Holy Olone reveals Herself to Niflghar, not to all. It must be strange indeed, to be a gorkul or a Hairy One, and not know the Kiss of Beauty! Do they feel Her radiance, do you think? Or
can't
they feel Her?”
Orellaun shrugged. “I know not, but offer this point: There are Nifl who do not worship Olone. Even here, in the Araed—to say nothing of entire
cities
who cleave to … other worship.”
Brylyaun shuddered. “Evil, perverted Nifl, the priestesses say.”
“No doubt.” Orellaun's voice was wry. “And all of them delicately reared shes who've seldom ventured into the Araed, let alone outside of Talonnorn—so that they know so much of the world.”
“But surely their holy teachings …”
“‘But surely'
nothing.
Do your elders tell you all, or just what they think you should know, and no more?”
Brylyaun blushed, his obsidian-dark skin going pale. “Well, I am young—as they constantly remind me.”
“And I am older,” Orellaun said dryly, “and have … seen more of what is out in the Dark.”
The younger Nifl turned, so sharply that it was almost a challenge. “And if I saw all of those things, right now, it would change me how, exactly? Spare me the claims it would drive me mad, or kill me outright. I hope you know me better than that.”
“I do.” Orellaun turned away from the window, where hot oil was dousing the slaves, and their frightened screams were rising. “So they would probably just make you weep, and tremble, and wet yourself as you stopped believing in Olone, and the Holy Way. There is more to life than the endless pursuit of beauty—or should be.”
Brylyaun started to tremble, and suddenly snatched at the hilt of his sword.
Only to discover it missing.
It was in Orellaun's grasp, and raised warningly against him—as was the older Nifl's own blade, in Orellaun's other hand.
“Blasphemers move faster,” came the dry explanation.
 
 
“Why is this one walled away from the rest?”
“On various occasions, six other slaves have been put to work alongside him. All ended up in the Rift.”
“
What?
So why not hurl
him
in, and be done with the trouble? A rebellious slave is the start of—”
“Yes, but
this
rebellious slave is the best forgefist in Talonnorn. Olone spew, he's the best
firefist
in Talonnorn!”
“Oh. So worth the six, and more besides. I see. ‘Forgefist' I know, but what's a ‘firefist'?”
“Forgefist is anyone who can work metal, firefist is one who can create new things with it, knows metal through and through, can temper and taper and make tiny and intricate things—and make it all seem easy. This one works fast, and it's superb work. House Evendoom has the finest swords and locks in the city because of him.”
“Hmm. So, can we see this wonder?”
“From this side of the Rift should be safe enough.”
The Master of the Forges led the way through no less than three magical barriers that flared and faded into tingling slumber at his approach, and along a narrow track between the glowing heat of the Rift and tall heaps of ores. When he came to a certain height of rock, he stopped and looked across the river of molten rock. His gaze was cold. “There: Orivon Firefist. As good a firefist as there is.”
The Nifl trader looked, crooked an eyebrow, and said slowly, “Well … he's a bit of a brute, now, isn't he?”
The Master nodded. “Watch.”
“Who are those two?”
“His owner, the Lady Taerune Evendoom, and the overseer assigned to that part of the Rift: a gorkul slave we call Grunt Tusks.”
“He's glaring at them like they're hated enemies he's about to carve up in battle!”
“He always does. Watch.”
The trader chuckled. “Ha. That look earned him a taste of the lash, of course.”
They watched the slender, graceful Nifl-she wield her long lash with skilled viciousness, slicing deeply into the rippling shoulders and arms of the human slave. His glare never wavered, even when she spun the lash across his face, slicing it deeply as well.
Unflinching, the human kept his burning gaze on her, ignoring the gorkul's heavy studded goad—and the burly, snorting tusker wielding it—completely. Through the dripping blood, his eyes bored into those of his owner, even when she spoke sharply—just what she said was lost in the clangs and crashings of forgefists at work, up and down the Rift—and struck him across the face again and again.
The gorkul moved in to join the relentless whipping, clubbing heavier blows onto the firefist until at last the human was driven to his knees.
Whereupon the Nifl-she, obviously tired, let her lash fall and stood gasping and trembling, obviously struggling to regain her temper. They glared at each other, owner and slave—until she abruptly took something from her belt, threw it to the blood-spattered stone in front of him, and turned away.
“Healing magic,” the trader said. “Repairing the valued possession she's damaged.”
The Master of the Forges, who had seen this so many times before, merely nodded.
The gorkul lingered to watch the slave seize the means of relief, but Orivon Firefist made no move to take it up. On his knees in his blood, unbroken, he glowered at Grunt Tusks until the overseer shrugged, spat, and turned to follow Lady Evendoom.
The human slave glowered after them. Defiant.
Leisurely Unfolding Doom
Olone is perfection.
Olone is beauty.
Olone is all.
Be like unto Olone, and rise in her regard.
—Niflghar chant
T
aerune was in a hurry, excitement building in her—and when Taerune was excited, she used her whip.
The sharp cracks of the lash, and the shouts of startled pain it caused, turned heads up and down the busy street.
She strode purposefully, viciously slashing everyone in her way aside—fools, surely they should have learned by
now
?—as she went. No business in Talonnorn came before Evendoom business, and none of House Evendoom's many schemes could be so urgent, so thirsty for the soonest moment just now, as this.
The crowded street was clearing as lesser Nilfghar hastened to be elsewhere, snapping commands to hulking gorkul porters and waddling pack-snouts. A whip scar across the face brings no one closer to Olone. Taerune of Evendoom quickened her pace, gleaming boots clacking on the damp scorchstone.
She could have used the family tunnels, of course. The Eventowers and the Forgerift were both within the House grounds, and the work crew of House servants behind her—Nameless Nifl, all—could have traveled much faster within the Evendoom gates. But marching openly
through the city, thrusting lesser Nifl aside, was the whole point of this journey. Making a show is what ruling Houses
did
—and Taerune of Evendoom loved to be seen.
She had always loved to be seen, from the first admiring or amused glances her infantile preenings had drawn, long ago, to the open throat-swallowing admirations Nifl—and even less-than-Nifl, the beasts like gorkul and the hairy humans—gave her now.
They warmed her like deepfire. And why not? Every admiring glance is, after all, a prayer to Olone. Taking care to let not the slightest hint of a wry smile touch her set and perfect lips, Taerune of Evendoom slashed her way toward the waiting fires.
Nifl take heed: House Evendoom strides first, and all Talonnorn gets out of its way.
 
 
In the gleaming depths of the watch-whorl, the sleek and breathtakingly beautiful Nifl female strode imperiously down the street, her black whip cleaving a path through the crowds.
One of the watchers bent intently over the whorl-glow growled softly, deep in his throat. It was a growl—almost a purr—of admiration and idle lust.
He never took his eyes off what the whorl showed him: ears that were ever so finely pointed, and big, tilted-teardrop eyes filled with the cold fire of cruel contempt. Graceful curves and limbs, a slender waist and flat stomach that scanty dark emerald leathers did little to cover and nothing to hide. So much skin these shes of Talonnorn left bare to watching gazes …
Ah, but
what
skin! Obsidian black, a supple, rippling darkness broken only by stark-white hair at brows, lashes, and—long and swirling—on her scalp. And by leathers that clung to her like a second skin: snout-hide bracers and matching boots of deep emerald green, the leather buffed to a gleaming sheen, straps studded with gems hugging jet-black hips tightly as she moved …
“My, my. If she lives, after we smash Talonnorn, I'd not mind
her
on my—”
“That is
not
what you're here to think about, Aloun.” The cold voice from the far side of the watch-whorl held every last shard of ice Aloun had expected it to. Any straying from the task at hand always made Luelldar curt.
The elder Watcher of Ouvahlor leaned forward over the shifting glows of the whorl, the chill of the Ever-Ice in his eyes. “Those lost in the pursuit of Olone may have fixed their eyes on outward show and lost their wits in so doing, but take care you don't drift to the same doom.”
“Luell, Luell! Rest easy! I'm not loins-lost nor gone oriad, I'm but admiring perhaps the most beautiful Nifl-she I've ever seen! I—well,
look
at her! Dark One, did you ever
see
such beauty? Yet I doubt not that she's as vicious and empty-headed as the next Olone-lover! By the Ever-Ice, Ouvahlor shall triumph!”
“Ouvahlor shall triumph, indeed. Seen enough of the show? Good!” Without waiting for Aloun's disgusted nod, Luelldar bent his will to turn what the whorl viewed elsewhere, and waved down at its flaring, whirling silence. “So, keen watcher-of-shes, tell me: What are we seeing now?”
“House Dounlar's gates,” Aloun said, a little sullenly.
“And you know that because?”
“The oorth skull carved into the arch.”
“Which is remarkable as a House targe
why
?”
“The fools of Talonnorn worship Olone, who represents physical perfection, so Talonar adornments—even House emblems—are symbols of beauty. Save this one.”
“Name the six Houses of Talonnorn. And their targes.”
“Evendoom—the she we were just watching is one—are foremost, and use the Black Flame. Or the Hand of Flame, or whatever it's supposed to be.”
“The Black Flame, they call it, but yes, it's shaped like an open hand, cupping nothing. The others?”
“Maulstryke, the Three Black Tears. Cluster of three vertical teardrops, touching, center one lowest. Wants to be First House, so are haughtiest, swiftest to feud. Drain the lives of their slaves daily to—”
Luelldar made the circular finger wave that every Ouvahlan knew meant “Get
on
with it! Right now!”
“Dounlar, the Grim Skull,” Aloun said hurriedly. “Raskshaula, the Arc of Eyes; Oszrim, the Glowgem; Oondaunt, the Talon. There!”
“There,” Luelldar agreed wryly. “So many to remember. Six, and only one brain to hold them all. However do the Moaning Crones manage it, I wonder?”
“Deepspew!” Aloun snarled, his temper slipping. “Narl and worms
take you, Luell!
I
stoop not to mocking
you
! Just
how
am I like unto a crone of Olone?” He leaned across the whorl in clear menace.
The older Ouvahlan sat unruffled. “Well, you've survived this long, despite a habit of letting your over-clever tongue ride riot when others cloak themselves in more prudent silence and obedience. They of Olone manage much the same trick.”
“They'll find it hard to go on doing so, when we start butchering them,” Aloun said savagely, “and that'll be soon enough!”
“Not soon enough for some, I take it.” Luelldar's voice was as dry as old stone. “You sound as blood-mad as the youngest of our warblades. So tell me, Butcher of Crones: say we are to strike now, as swiftly as you can arm and make ready, and you will command our warblades. I ask you: What are the weaknesses of Talonnorn? What answer have you, for me?”
Aloun stared across the watch-whorl at Luelldar, his eyes reflecting back its glows as their glare went from anger to thoughtfulness by way of resentful malice. Then he said slowly, “Their worship of Olone is their weakness.”
“How so?”
“Why … well, they breed for beauty, work spells for more beauty, and try to make themselves and their offspring ever more beautiful, so they'll Ascend to join Olone in some sort of mindless, endless joy. Which makes them not want to be scarred, so they leave fighting and hard work to slaves and beasts and Nifl who are already maimed, or who are ‘Nameless' and held of little account. Those who become imperfect—except the crones—are cast out, to become enemies of the faithful of Olone; and even if they do not, the city loses their prowess. So we and any other foe of Talonnorn fight inferior defenders.”
“And?”
“And these defenders are poorly commanded. Again, because of the crones.”
“So you
have
thought about this. Good. No, no, Aloun, save your curses; I mock you not! How are crones a battle weakness, in cities who worship Olone?”
“Such cities are ruled by conclaves of ruling Houses—six or so families—and every House is headed by a Lord,” Aloun said slowly, thinking aloud. “And the crones—all the females past birthing age—are his envoys, spies, poisoners, advisers, and even his lawmakers and keepers.
If he displeases them, he meets with an accident. So they truly rule, and let him see and hear and do only what they want him to.”
Satisfaction crept into his quickening voice as he added, “So where
our
warlords are warblades whose mistakes are born of old habits or not understanding the newest spells, those who defend and go to war for any city of Olone are weighed down by crones who care nothing for the fate of others, and lie to them, and let them not even
know
about some magic they could wield against foes.”
Luelldar nodded. “You see things rightly. It makes one wonder how they've lasted this long, yes?”
Aloun's glare sharpened. “Perhaps, about that matter,
you
can inform
me.
”
Luelldar nodded, and waved one long-fingered hand at the whorl. “Look you there—and there! What do you see?”
The scene of distant Talonnorn glowing in the spinning silence between the two Ouvahlan was now of a bustling street—a meandering way of smooth, dark scorchstone, winding between many stone spirals of Nifl homes, across the floor of the great main cavern of the city. The stone floor of the cavern, fissured like the parallel fingers of a massive stone hand, rose in gentle humps behind the close-crowded homes—but no spirals stood on those humps, and no side streets meandered up them. Aloun peered at where the whorl's glow was rising eagerly, sparks swirling, to meet its caster's fingertips, and saw something in the scene beneath that spot flicker and glimmer. A roiling in the air, a radiance seen only for moments, here and there. Half-seen flickerings that traced a line behind the homes.
Aloun frowned. “Some sort of magic. Looks like a barrier.”
“Looks like just what it is: a barrier, part of the outer wards of House Dounlar. A wall, but of flesh-rending magic rather than forged war-spikes or stone. Keeping unfriends out, and lesser Nifl from building their homes on that stretch of bare Dounlar rock. Rock that House Dounlar may find a pressing need for, in some moment or other to come. Such magical fields are why cities of Olone have lasted this long. When you do your part in the storming of this one, take care not to touch them, or you'll die—
and
warn all Talonnorn of our intrusion.”
Aloun's frown deepened. “So just how are we supposed to surprise them, if breaching their wards—?”
“We shall not breach them. Klarandarr's spells will take our warblades past the wards without disturbing them, like a wave in the Dark Ocean rolling a long way ashore, that leaves something behind on the rocks when at last it ebbs. We'll appear
inside
the wards, strike hard and fast—and then the worms will come.”
“But what of
their
spells? Their Hunt—”
“Are young and overconfident fools, who rely overmuch on their spell-armor and the speed of their swooping darkwings. Their whipswords are pain-gloaters' toys, not weapons to wield against a
real
foe. We've all heard that the Hunt of Talonnorn ‘never misses,' yes? Well, they never taste defeat because they never fight anything more formidable than fleeing slaves or Maimed Ones!”
Aloun sighed. “So you and the Elders always say. Yet we have nothing to touch them in battle! No spell-armor! No flying steeds! No whipswords! What if they snatch up the Talonar crones who
can
humble us with cavern-collapsing spells, and whisk them past us, to land and work their magics up our backsides? What then?”
His voice had risen; he flinched and fell silent in the wake of his own bitter words, half-expecting Luelldar to lash out at him.
Yet no snarling outburst came.
The older Niflgar stared at him, nodding slightly, face unreadable, as the whorl spun in slow silence for what seemed to Aloun a very long time.
“I am heartened,” Luelldar said at last. “You see beyond the hungry point of your blade—and dare to question what the Elders say. You may well be ready for a first taste of command.”
“A ‘first taste' of command?” New-flaring anger made Aloun's voice sharp. “What—”
“That,”
Luelldar snapped coldly, his voice suddenly as loud and hard as a sword ringing on stone, “is why a taste is all you're ready for, yet.”
He held out one hand, fingers spread, and the whorl flickered and died, its sparks flowing back up into his fingertips. “Temper and pride rule you,” he told the younger Ouvahlan, “and you cannot even command
yourself
sufficiently to curb and hide them. All that makes you more useful to Ouvahlor than the merest youngling is your strength and reach with a sword—and that you strive and struggle a little longer against adversity than a drooling babe ere you start to cry.”

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