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Authors: Ed Greenwood

BOOK: Dark Warrior Rising
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“Dral,” a another voice chided him, from another direction. Ravandarr Evendoom stood in a door that was rarely opened, looking apprehensive. “Father's unpleased. Shoan Maulstryke has been making threats again.”
Jalandral rolled his eyes. “And this is news? It's about all
charming
Shoan knows how to do, is it not?” With a sigh he unfolded himself from the stone rail and strolled to join his younger brother. “And tell me:
Shoan's father added some oh-so-subtle adornments, didn't he? House Evendoom is to be destroyed six sneezes hence, that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” Ravandarr said heavily. “Ohzeld did say that sort of thing, and is continuing to do so. At length.”
“He'd make a good House crone,” Jalandral mused, “if he didn't happen to be a rampant.” He arched an eyebrow. “Of course, we could amend that trifling oversight of Olone. Is your knife sharp, brother?”
 
 
Ashenuld.
Just how far away was it?
He'd been a child, and the raid had been at night … and to the Niflghar of Talonnorn, “the Blindingbright” was ever so far away. There was always fear and distaste in Nifl voices when they said that name.
But then, there was fear and distaste in many Nifl voices when they gave orders to him, too.
So, yes, some of the nightskins feared him. Good. They were wise to do so.
He wished he could remember more of Ashenuld. Some of what he'd known had faded the moment they cast the darksight spell on him, that let him see down here in Talonnorn, so that the faint spell-glows seemed like soft but bright lights, and he wasn't lost and blindly helpless whenever he turned away from glows and flaring fires. Sometimes they punished slaves by reversing the darksight casting, to bring down utter blindness. It never took such “Blinded Ones” long to start screaming.
Which led him once more to a certainty he'd settled on long ago, and returned to many, many times since: He'd only have one chance to escape.
One.
So make it
work,
Orivon Firefist.
He plunged a finished blade into the hissing, bubbling oil of its last tempering, thinking hard. He'd gone over all he knew of House Evendoom a thousand, thousand times, but he went through it all one more time.
As he had so many, many times before.
Jaw set, Orivon cast the finished blade down on the cooling slab and strode to take up the next, the ever-present leaping heat of the Rift hot on his face.
His longing to be free of this place and back home burned within him just as the Forgerift burned—and just as strongly.
Yet the long years of whips—he'd long since lost track of time in this place, but by the scratches he'd made from time to time along the back edge of the cooling slab, it had to be about fifteen years—had taught him patience. He'd probably only get one chance to escape, and failure would mean death. Right now they fed him, gave him work to do, and his skills meant the only abuse he got was the whips. So he did the only sane thing he could do: He schemed.
He plotted, considered all he'd seen, and plotted some more, alone and silent amid the clang and clatter of the Rift as he hammered and slaked and hammered some more. Among the firefists, he kept to himself because he could do nothing else: as Taerune's favorite and the most skilled Rift slave, he was kept apart from the others by stone sidewalls unless he was needed elsewhere, and taken there in chains by the surly, much-scarred gorkul overseer the firefists called “Grunt Tusks.”
The gray-skinned overseer was lurching past right now, peering narrowly at Orivon's work and trailing his usual sour stink. A rather disapproving grunt rolled out from under his broken brown tusks—but then, the gorkul never said anything else. He went on along the edge of the Rift without stopping, and little wonder: His worries were farther along, among the younger firefists. Orivon Taerune's-Pet never made any trouble.
Ashenuld … he'd often wondered just what he was wondering now: how he'd find his way there, once free of Talonnorn and out into what the Nifl called “the Wild Dark.” Monsters roamed there, horrible things that made sneering Nifl shudder when remembering them … and then there were the Ravagers. Did the Nifl have maps of the surrounding Dark? Such things would be treasures, well-hidden or guarded or both, surely …
There were other Niflghar cities out in the Dark: Orivon had overheard the names Uryrryr and Imbrae and Ouvahlor, though their names were all he knew of them. The Nifl of Talonnorn hated the Nifl of other cities. All other cities.
Now that he thought about it, the Nifl hated many things. Hatred seemed their daily drink, their slakethirst.
Orivon reached up his jug of slakethirst and drank deep, frowning. At the thought that always made him frown: He had to get out of Talonnorn first. And Talonnorn was home to the Hunt.
He had to find a way to survive the Hunt.
 
 
Batlike blackhide wings flapped loudly as squalling darkwings landed, dark talons skittering on stone and long necks undulating in anger at being chokingly reined in. There would be later patrols, but the fullmustered Hunt of Talonnorn had hunted—and, as always, had failed to miss its quarry.
Laughing together as loudly and freely as those who are drunk on bloodlust and excitement are wont to laugh, the warblades of the Hunt tossed reins and writhing, over-long whipswords to the waiting Evendoom hostlers, and stalked off the High Ledge, their spell-armor pulsing sapphire, emerald, ruby, and amethyst as they went.
Servants were waiting to take their bloody battle trophies and wash the gore from their war-harness with ewers of scented water. As always, the warblades strode on, not deigning to notice them, forcing them to hop and scurry to keep pace with the triumphant warriors as they worked.
The warblades knew the young Nifl-shes who adored them would be waiting, and they strutted in their glowing magnificence, masters of the moment and eager to taste eagerly offered flesh. Crones might snap cold orders at them later, but now younger, far more magnificent shes surrendered all to them hungrily, submitting to their every demand.
“Ha-ha!” one of the eldest of the young Hunt warblades roared, “let us sport with our beauties once more! By the Burning Talon, bring me wine! And not just any quaff, but icefire—and mind it's smoking in the flagon!”
“At once, Rolaurel!” cried a tall, long-maned she whose breasts were both pert and—aside from a sprinkling of glued-on gems—bared to him.
The warrior spread his arms and roared his exulting laughter to the unseen roof of the great cavern overhead—and by the time he lowered his head again, she was back before him, holding out an empty flagon and a huge decanter with icefire sparkling up into its very neck.
With a roar of pleasure Rolaurel backhanded the metal flagon out of her grasp, sending it clanging away across the Ledge. Snatching the decanter from her, he emptied it in one long swig that made the watching shes gasp in awe.
On the wings of another bellow of laughter he whirled around and flung the great decanter to its shattering destruction against the nearest wall, sending a roar after it: “So shall we serve
all
foes of Talonnorn!”
 
 
Luelldar was contemptuously amused. “The last time I saw such empty strutting revelry, I was up in the Blindingbright, watching humans around a campfire. Just before we burst forth and began our slaughter.”
Aloun nodded, tight-lipped in unsmiling disgust. “Their boasting and preening is unworthy of Niflghar. I doubt even their eldest crones are so swaggering in their overconfidence.”
Luelldar turned away from the watch-whorl. “Well, let them drink and rut—and so be far from the saddles of their darkwings when we strike. It won't be long now.”
“As the fools of Talonnorn laze and strut, all unsuspecting,” Aloun murmured, slowly growing a smile that was less than nice, “they'll never know their doom until their city is shattered forever around their ears.”
Luelldar was now casting swift spells on small clear crystal spheres that sat in individual carved cradles on the desk beside him. As he finished each spell and touched each orb with a finger, it floated up into the air, spinning gently, to float at the level of his mouth. They moved as he moved, awake and ready to carry his commands, observations, and warnings to distant warblades of Ouvahlor as he watched the fighting unfold.
He waved at Aloun to relinquish his seat and go across the chamber, to sit at a distant desk.
The younger Ouvahlan rose reluctantly, frowning. “Already?”
“The moment a single speaking-sphere is active, I am at risk from Talonar magics. You can hardly replace me if I fall, if you're sitting right beside me and fried by whatever blasts me. This is not a game, Aloun.”
“Yes, but Talonnorn
sleeps
! They won't know what—”
“War is … war. Nothing unfolds as intended.
Nothing.
Remember that, if you learn nothing else from what we are about to unleash. More than that: Not all the crones of Talonnorn are petty fools or blinded by Olone or gone oriad. There's a reason they alone, when age ravages them, are allowed to hide their wrinkled and withered ugliness behind masks—‘holy masks of the Goddess'—and continue to lord it over their city, rather than being cast forth into the Dark to feed the prowling beasts and entertain the Ravagers.”
“But you said Klarandarr's spells are stronger than anything they can cast!”
“I did, and meant it. Yet he's but one, and risen not so long.
Think,
Aloun. Why did you think Ouvahlor has prepared so long for this if the Nifl of Olone are as decadent, oblivious, and overconfident as all that? We have Klarandarr—and Talonnorn has had thousands of crones, daughter after mother, time and again, and each one of them casting spells, to await the time when Talonnorn is threatened.”
“Unholy … melting … Ever-Ice,” Aloun whispered, hoarsely and slowly, his jet-black skin slowly going pale.
“
Now
you're beginning to understand. At last. Hurts, doesn't it?”
All Our Ancestors Undefended
It is for this reason that ineffectiveness in battle profanes Olone, despite the ugliness and imperfection of such strife: that to leave all our ancestors undefended, by the loss of so many they have handed down memories to, is to weaken the shared understanding of beauty that
is
Olone. In the knowing of Olone, Olone gains grace and holy power—that Her reach extend to more Niflghar, so that they know salvation, and Olone knows greater dominion. Praise be to Olone!
—
The Book of Olone
S
o will the slaves rise up when we strike, and make our victory easier?” Aloun was struggling to regain confidence with an eagerness Luelldar could almost smell.
Ouvahlor might need Aloun's confidence in time soon to come, wherefore the older Ouvahlan hid his sigh and replied calmly, “Some may, perhaps, though the daring to lash out has been flogged right out of many—even most. Yet I very much doubt such risings will make our conquest any the easier. Rage-driven slaves will see all Nifl as foes, and hamper our warblades more than anything else.”
“With all the magic they command, and the Forgerift and all, why do they need so many slaves? Surely a minimum to guard them against blemishing tasks would be easier to feed and house—why, there must be more than a score of slaves for every Talonar Nifl!”
“There are. Yet consider: the work of that feeding and housing is
done by slaves. Slaves of some races they cook and eat, as delicacies, and so must be replenished. And then there is status.”
“
Slaves
have social standing?”
Luelldar did sigh, this time. Was Ouvahlor so weak that such a one as
this
was only one dying mind away from overseeing its swords?
The dying mind would, of course, be his. Well, perhaps it was best that Aloun was too dull-witted and craven, for all his tantrums, to have ambition enough to kill a bitter old Nifl hight Luelldar.
Yet to serve Ouvahlor, it was his task to forge the blade that might one day slay him.
Aloun of Ouvahlor, shrewd and swift to see consequences and wise about the world.
Hah.
His snort was loud and emphatic, but he kept the words, “Ever-Ice, scourge us all!” unsaid. Ouvahlor did not need the young fool's anger just now.
“Slaves do
not
have social standing,” he said patiently, “in and of themselves.” Luelldar lifted his hand to point at a speaking-sphere, and slowly turned in his seat, arm outstretched, to point at each in turn, feeling the linkage, feeling its readiness. “Yet they do enhance the rankings of families in Talonnorn—except for the Evendooms, of course.
Their
standing is due to their size and long dominance and what that dominance is rooted in: control of the Forgerift. They could have no slaves at all, and yet be the first House in that city.”
Satisfied as to the state of the spheres, he turned to lock gazes with Aloun. He hoped the youngling might just pay attention enough, if he made these oh-so-obvious matters sound grave and important enough, to
remember
them.
“Consider now all Nifl cities of Olone, and dismiss local rifts, past history, and this or oriad or stone-witted dupe among Niflghar. Well, then: The prestige of Nifl families is linked to the size of their pureblood ranks; the beauty—that is, physical perfection, the very long limbs and sleek curves you were so admiring earlier, when you gazed upon Taerune Evendoom—of those purebloods; the efficacy of their magic; and the wealth (in gems and metals) their slaves bring them. So, now: More slaves can do more work, and so reap more—and so, having more slaves creates greater status.”
Aloun nodded. “So whenever I see a House with the most slaves—”
“No. Even if magic and rifts were distributed evenly from House to House, across all of Niflheim, a mere body count will never tell you
anything. All powerful Nifl Houses share at least this one habit: They keep some slaves hidden away, in various distant caverns and castle dungeons, for experimentations and in endeavors they'd rather rival Houses not know about.”
The younger Watcher of Ouvahlor frowned. “So how will we know, after Talonnorn lies awash in blood and our warblades stand triumphant, that we've got them all?”
“We won't get them all.”
“
What?
But I thought—”
“That we were here to ‘see all,' and direct the warblades of Ouvahlor to every last Talonar throat?”
There was a brief silence, in which Aloun blinked at the older Watcher several times, ere mumbling, “Well … yes.”
Luelldar passed a hand over his own brow. Ever-Ice give me the cold
strength
!
“You are mistaken,” he said wearily. “So listen, now, and
heed.
I do
not
want you plunging that boot knife you think I'm unaware of into my back when battle is raging high, bellowing that I'm some sort of traitor to Ouvahlor!”
Aloun paled again, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but didn't know what.
Luelldar leaned closer to him, and said slowly, loudly, and firmly, “Ouvahlor does not intend to conquer Talonnorn. Now or in time any of us are likely to see.”
“You … you mean it,” the younger Watcher whispered. As he saw Luelldar roll exasperated eyes, he snapped, “Swear this is truth! Swear by the Ever-Ice!”
Luelldar reached into the front of his robes, drew out the blue-white shard that he wore glimmering against his breast, and held it up on its chain so Aloun could see it well.
Then he closed the fist of his other hand on it and said formally, “By the Ever-Ice that sears all falsehood, I swear: Ouvahlor does not intend to conquer Talonnorn. Now or in time any of us are likely to see.”
Aloun's mouth hung open as the older Watcher calmly restored his Ice shard to its customary place. When he found the use of it again, it was to splutter, “But—well—why then—?”
“While you speak, you are slower to listen.” Luelldar quoted the very old saying in an almost droll voice, and waited for the younger Watcher to blush, find silence, and get over his emotions. Something the young
fool would not have time for in battle; he was far from ready for this duty yet.
When Aloun was truly listening once more, Luelldar said gently, “We've discussed trade among Nifl cities more than once—and recently, too. Yes?”
“Yes.” The youngling said that one word and then stopped. Good; he was learning at last.
Luelldar made him wait, just to see if the flood of questions would burst forth … and almost smiled, when it did not.
“Talonnorn destroyed,” he explained almost gently, “benefits Ouvahlor little. We gain greater loot, if our warblades don't destroy overmuch in the fighting, and lose more of our warblades, just to win two things: the enmity of a few surviving Talonar, who will be death-sworn to avenge their city and so willing to do
anything
to work us harm; and the fell regard of all Nifl cities—not just those of Olone—who will see us as too great a threat to be allowed to survive.”
“They'd ally in arms against us?” Aloun's disbelief was clear. “Even
two
Nifl cities can't trust each other enough to rise in arms together, to say nothing of three or more, and Olone and—”
“They would. A Pact exists to prove it.”
“The Darksway Pact?”
“Is more than just an empty phrase we chant as infants, Aloun. If invoked, it will be answered. And, sooner or later, Ouvahlor will fall. Probably later, but it will be a long and wearying fight that consumes all of our lives, leaving us no time for laughter or pride or lording it over anyone.”
Aloun was going pale again. Luelldar hid his smile. After all, this might be far from the last shock the attack on Talonnorn would deal this young Watcher.
“But let us turn away from such grim contemplations, and consider how Ouvahlor benefits if we shatter Talonnorn, and then withdraw. We are seen to be merciful—or at least, not so wantonly destructive as to be worth trying to eradicate. Any call for the Pact will go unheeded by city rulers mindful of the cost. Yet we stand no longer in the shadow of mighty Talonnorn, fast rising to be powerful enough to seriously threaten Ouvahlor with conquest. Rather, we hold the dominance, and the riches to come.”
“‘Riches to come'?”
By the Ice, but the youngling was a simpleton! “A weakened Talonnorn will see its rivals close around it in the Dark, rivals they've given
ample cause to hate them. They will fear these rivals, and seek to rebuild their defenses and their trade. So they'll turn to the same Forgerift and ores that enrich them now, and enrich
us
by offering payment in magic and weapons and coin for the slaves, food, and goods our traders will offer them, purporting to be risking much by doing so illicitly, and therefore demanding much higher prices! Then we shall have Ouvahlor on high, and Talonnorn in its shadow.”
“So will they not scheme and plot in turn attack us, and win back their dominance?”
“Yes,” Luelldar said sweetly. “Yet we shall work to delay that attack for as long as possible. First, our attack will fall most heavily on the foremost ruling House of Talonnorn, the Evendooms. If they are nigh—but not quite—eradicated, the struggle among the various Houses to establish a new local order will occupy the Talonar for the longest time we can hope to cause. This delay will be aided by specific damages we seek to inflict in this attack: the magic we seize, the crones we slay—and the eradication of the Hunt of Talonnorn. Those are the true goals of this strife we're launching: the slaughter of as many crones and darkwings as we can manage. All else is adornment.”
“Adornment?”
“A little less incredulous disgust, please. Remember, you are a Watcher of Ouvahlor, and a Watcher—”
“Has no use for incredulity, yes,” Aloun said heavily. “I remember
that
lesson.”
Luelldar smiled. “Well,” he said gently, turning back to the watch-whorl, “that's something.”
 
 
Grunt Tusks lurched past again, but Orivon kept his eyes on the red-hot bar he was hammering, raining swift blows along its edges to flatten it out into what would soon be another blade. You'd think every last Nifl in all Niflheim would have a dozen swords by now, but
someone
kept buying them from Talonnorn's traders, so perhaps Nifl
were
“numberless in their rightful might,” as that longest chant of Olone claimed.
Well, all the more to slay, then. Starting with those hated most: the Nifl of House Evendoom, the she-elf who thought of him as her pet first of all. It would be a pleasure to dismember her slowly, listening to her screams and smashing her down whenever she tried to struggle.
He might well have to slaughter a lot of other Nifl first, though, to
win himself leisure enough to make Taerune the Whipping Bitch's death slow and fittingly painful. And she might well use that time to flee, or gather magic to use against him that he'd have no shield against. So perhaps she needed to lose her hands and feet as swiftly as he could manage it—oh, and her tongue, too, to keep her from snarling out spells—so she'd have no choice but to just lie there and bleed while he dealt with the
rest
of House Evendoom.
Not that he'd take all that much delight in maiming a female—even a female Nifl. Nor, come to think of it, would he enjoy striking down the heir of the house, the one who laughed so much—Jalandral, that was his name, aye. Though he tasted no whips, and sweated over no Rift, he felt as trapped as Orivon Firefist, Taerune's pet Hairy One. Or so he'd seemed, at least, on every one of the handful of occasions when Orivon had seen him in the Eventowers.
“Oh, aye, that one prowls as restlessly as I do,” Orivon told the nascent blade he was hammering so deftly, as his sweat rained down around him and the Rift raged, bubbling as it flowed past. He took care to keep that comment under his breath, even in the clanging, ringing heart of a flurry of hammer blows. The nightskins had magic that let them spy and listen from afar—and who knows when they might use it?
The Whipping Bitch probably spied on her big brute of a pet often. It was not out of whim that Grunt Tusks checked to make sure he never tried to cover any part of his body except his eyes—and came growling to drag him back if he strayed too far or too often from the area lit by the ring of braziers. Braziers that were not only burn perils, but utterly unneeded heat and light, here on the lip of the Rift. All they served to do, aside from lighting him from shoulders to nethers to any magically unseen eye, was make him glisten with sweat all the while he was working. They also made necessary the slakethirst that Grunt Tusks provided so grudgingly—but attentively, clearly under orders.
Oh, yes, Taerune was watching. Perhaps not this particular moment, but often. She'd pounced on his every trifling carelessness, insolence, and defiance—even those he'd done when he was certain he was quite alone—when he'd first come under her sway, training him well with her whip to behave as the perfect slave.

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