Daughter of the Drow (23 page)

The ground beneath him was hard and rocky, and the walls of a ravine rose steeply on either side of him. By the smooth, round stones around him he knew this to be a dry riverbed. Something or someone must have diverted the river, for at this time of year the water should have been rushing along, swollen by the melting ice and snow. The air was crisp, but much warmer than when he had last seen daylight. Either he had been wandering in the darkness much longer than he would have thought possible, or he had emerged many miles from the Ashenwood and the magical gate that had taken him into the Underdark.

Fyodor lifted his eyes upward. A deep tangle of trees met overhead, and through the thick green curtain he glimpsed the faint pink and silver glow of sunrise. Dawn was breaking. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and one he had not expected to see again. Thanks to the drow girl, he had found his way back to the sun. He therefore owed her his life, not once, but twice over.

He rose and scrambled up the steep bank, searching for anything that might tell him where he was. The forest around him was thick and dark, but ahead to the west the foliage around the dry riverbank dwindled to a low growth of brambles and newly leafed bushes. It was springtime here, and the season was much further along than in his native Rashemen.

Fyodor made his way quickly along the riverbank toward the forest’s edge. A hill sloped down before him into a low, fertile valley. There were meadows, already thick and lush, and a vast tangle of berry bushes dusted with white flowers. Even more encouraging were the fields of rye growing beyond, for the carefully tended crops spoke of a nearby settlement.

The young warrior nodded in satisfaction. Despite his joy in finding a way to the surface, he was determined to return to the Underdark as soon as possible so he might pick up the trail of the drow thieves. Even if the settlement were no more than a few farmhouses, he could purchase what supplies he needed for his journey. The silver coins he had earned during his apprenticeship still hung heavy in his purse. With long, eager strides, he took off in search of the village.

He had not gone far before he heard the busy sounds of hammers and saws. Beyond the fields huddled a cluster of buildings within a sturdy wooden palisade. Fyodor hurried to the gate and knocked loudly.

A small portal opened, and a stern, gray-whiskered face glared out at him. “Who are you, and what do you want?” the man demanded coldly.

“I am a traveler seeking to purchase supplies,” Pyodor replied.

“Hmmph! Too early for that,” the guard grumbled, but he eyed the young man with a slightly less glacial expression.

Fyodor glanced back toward the east. The sun had broken over the forested hills and was shining over the grain-fields in long, slanted rays. “The morning is young,” he agreed, “but I can hear that your village is already hard at work.”

“Getting ready for the spring fair, we are,” the guard offered, “The river’s gone down a mite, and merchants will be coming through any day now. Where did you say you hailed from?*

“My homeland is Rashemen.”

“I heard tell of it,” the guard said, and las eyes narrowed in speculation. “You be one of them crazy berserker fighters?”

For a moment Fyodor was uncertain how best to answer. Many people feared the warriors of Rashemen, and they might well deny him admittance to their village. He desperately needed supplies and could not afford to lose this opportunity. On the other hand, it was his custom to speak the truth.

“I am, sir, but I fight only when I must.”

“Hmm. Well then, it might be that the townsfolk can sell you what you need.”

The wooden gate swung open, and Fyodor gazed in puzzlement at the strange village beyond. Cattle and goats were penned in small enclosures, munching dried winter fodder despite the lush grazing in the meadows beyond the village walls. Buildings lined the street: strong, sturdy wood-and-stone structures that lacked any of the homey comfort of Rashemi cottages. There were no painted shutters, no carefully tended beds of herbs and flowers to brighten these dwellings. No storks nested on the roofs, which were fashioned not of neatly woven thatch but of hard, dark slate. There was not a touch of color, not a bit of beauty. All stark wood and stone, the town reminded Fyodor of a forest in midwinter.

Its inhabitants were no less grim. No small clusters of villagers stood about in courtyards, sharing mugs of steaming kvas along with the morning’s gossip. Men and women rushed about, tending to business and speaking to each other only in terse, sharp words, when they bothered to speak at all. Dozens of villagers were busily shoring up the walls of the palisade, nailing crossbars into place and caulking every narrow crack with thick, reddish clay. Others were building rows of wooden booths on both sides of the main street, and the din of their pounding hammers filled the morning air. Still others were laying out goods of their own for sale: woolen blankets and skeins of undyed yarn, simple pottery, dried fish and game, wheels of cheese, pots of honey and barrels of mead. These activities were clearly those of a village preparing for a spring market, but there was none of the joyful anticipation that would have marked such preparations in Rashemen. The atmosphere here would have been more appropriate to a people besieged.

“Where is this place, and what is it called?” Fyodor asked curiously. “You must forgive me, but I have wandered far and have lost my bearings.”

The guard gave him a sharp glance. “Village is called Trollbridge, and it’s a half day’s travel from nowhere on every side. Trade routes and rivers everywhere, and us •mack dab in the center of it all, like the itch you can’t quite reach on the middle of your back,” he grumbled.

“Trade routes?” Fyodor prodded.

To the north of us is Evermoor Way, the travel road what goes from Tribor up to Silverymoon. Just beyond is River Dessarin. Dead Horse Ford crosses over the Ironford Path, what cuts up to the Calling Horns hunting lodge. Where’d you come in from?”

The forest.”

It was the best answer Fyodor could give, and apparently it was a good one. The one man’s eyebrows flew upward, ami he nodded, visibly impressed.

“Ain’t many men can travel alone through the High Bbrest. I thought them stories about berserkers got kinda tall, but getting out o’ that place alive takes more than what most men have got. And it’s no wonder you’re feeling turned around. A man can wander a lifetime in that forest and never find his way out.”

Although the names of the roads and rivers meant nothing to him, Fyodor had heard of the High Forest. It was a deep, magical woodland, incredibly ancient and vast, and it lay many hundreds of miles from his homeland. This knowledge was staggering, but he accepted it as he did most things: with fatalistic calm and an eye toward what needed doing.

“I would be grateful if you can tell me where I might buy supplies,” he said.

The guard puckered his lips thoughtfully as he eyed Fyodor’s heavy sword. “It’ll be three, mebbe fours days before the caravan comes in,” he said casually. “Might be you can stay on until then? We got work to be done, if you’d care to sign on for a few days’ pledged hire.”

It was on the tip of Fyodor’s tongue to ask why the man thought he might be needed. The townsfolk worked at a frantic pace; at this rate, the booths would be finished by highsun. And why, for that matter, would he be required to sign a pledge to remain for the agreed-upon time? Was not a man’s word good enough for these grim-faced villagers?

“A meal, then,” Fyodor asked, sidestepping the guard’s question. “Does Trollbridge have an inn?”

The guard’s eyes took on a hard glint. “So you’ll be staying. Good, that’s very good.” He hailed a passerby, a tall, rangy man who wore a stained linen coat and a dour expression. “You, Tosker! Take this man over to the Steaming Kettle and tell Saida to treat him well.”

The man pulled up and looked Fyodor over. His eyes took note of the young man’s weapons, measured the width of his shoulders. “You a sellsword?”

“Sir, I am not.”

That was all Fyodor cared to say on the matter, and more than he could say in a civil tone. In Rashemen, warriors fought only when they must. It was no small thing, the taking of life, and the young warrior had nothing but contempt for those who killed for profit.

“Oh. Well, come along anyway,” the man said grudgingly.

Fyodor followed his reluctant guide down a narrow side street to the inn. Not at all like the cozy, homelike taverns of his land, this was a big barn of a place, with thick stone walls and long, narrow windows paned with leaded glass. A wooden bar ran the length of one wall, and along it stood a row of stools. About half the seats were taken by village folk who’d stopped for a quick meal of dark ale and steamed grain porridge.

The Rashemi took a stool beside his guide. Saida, the innkeeper, bustled over to them with a steaming bowl in each hand. She was a plump, brisk matron with nut-brown hair, and she wore a no-nonsense expression and a thick shawl of practical gray wool. But the vest she wore over her chemise was tightly laced and bright red. It was the first gfint of color Fyodor had seen in this dismal place, and he took that as an encouraging sign. He greeted the woman pleasantly. “Good-day, Saida. Can you tell me where I can buy some travel supplies?”

I’ve got plenty of supplies on hand,” she replied. “What do you need?*

Fyodor listed dried trail food, a length of rope, and as many pitch torches as he could reasonably carry. Tosker choked on a mouthful of ale and turned narrowed eyes on
tihe young man.

“Sounds like you’re planning to go Below. Only a fool would do that.”

“Yes, you are probably right,” Fyodor said mildly, and took a long pull at his mug. The brew was bitter, but it filled his too-empty stomach with a pleasant heat.

“If it be drow you seek, you needn’t leave this accursed valley to find them,” came a quavering voice from the corner of the room.

Fyodor turned. A wizened man hauled himself out of his chair and staggered toward the bar. His face was crisscrossed with old scars, and the lid of one eye sank deep over an empty socket. Though the morning was young, he had clearly been drinking for some time and was already long past the point of discretion.

“Be quiet, you old fool,” Saida snapped.

But the man stumbled closer to the bar, too deep in his ate and his memories to be deterred by her words. “Every year they come,” he muttered, his scarred face haggard with remembered horrors. “Every year. Can’t never tell when, but usually they strike during moondark.”

Fyodor did some quick calculations. The moon had been waning the night he followed the drow thieves into the magic gate. If he had wandered in the Underdark for three or four days, then this would indeed be the time of the new moon. That would explain the repairs to the walls, the penned animals, the general sense of foreboding. But what of the frantic preparations for the spring market?

“If your village is hi danger, is it not strange to hold a fair?” he asked. “Or are the merchants in these lands not afraid of such a threat?”

“They would be plenty afraid, if they knew about it,” Saida said grimly. “The caravans have usually come and gone by now. But the river’s high this year, and the caravans late in coming. They dont like to stop here, us being so far off the path and all. If the drow attack while the merchants are here, it will likely be the last spring caravan to come through Trollbridge. And then, I ask you, what are we to do?”

A man several seats from Fyodor slammed down his mug. “All the more reason why we should hunt down the drow fiends before they can strike,” he growled. “Stake their bloody corpses out in the fields to scare away the crows.”

A muttered chorus of agreement rose from the bar, and the sheer hatred in the villagers’ voices sent a prickle of revulsion down Fyodor’s spine. He pushed aside his half-eaten bowl of porridge, his hunger forgotten. He was about to ask Saida the cost of the meal when the dark-bearded man to his left elbowed him.

“You’re a likely-looking young fellow. If n you know how to use that sword you carry, you might do well to stay around Trollbridge a few days. One man’s nightmare is another man’s opportunity, I always say.”

The bearded man drew a leather thong from beneath his jerkin. Suspended from it was a dark, triangular bit of leather. Although it had been dried and tanned, it was unmistakably an elven ear. The man brandished the trophy in Fyodor’s face.

“The wizard rulers of Nesme are ready to pay good silver for every black ear we can bring ‘em. You with me, son?”

Fyodor dared not answer. If he spoke his mind, the black-bearded man would surely attack him, and the young warrior knew he would meet drawn steel with the cold fury of a berserker rage. Fortunately, the bounty hunter did not press the point.

“Good silver!” the man repeated to the room at large. “Yet here we sit with our hands in our breeches! Why huddle within walls every moondark? It’s time to hunt!”

They say drow are hard to kill,” put in another man, a lank fellow with a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He patted the quiver strap. “But I’m thinking they’ll die when you shoot ‘em, same as any other wild beast.”

Tosker shifted uneasily on his stool. It was clear all this talk of battle did not sit well with him. “Better yet, we could find out where they come out, and seal them in.”

“And what would you know about that?” snapped the bounty hunter. He leaned forward over the bar to level a glare at Tosker. “You know the farmlands, but when was the last time you stepped foot beyond the fields? There are more eavee in these hills and woodlands than a dog has ticks. A man could search a lifetime, and not find a place where the drow come out!”

Fyodor knew of such a place, but he could not bring himself to speak. In less than two days’ march, provided they had the courage to enter the Underdark, these folk could find the cavern were he had encountered tile drow girl. He could guess what would befall the lass should these hard, bitter people find her, and he wanted no part of that.

There was no doubt in Fyodor’s mind that the people of Trollbridge had suffered at the hands of dark-elven raiders. He suspected the drow committed almost as many atrocities as tile stories credited them with. But he had been to war, and he knew what horrors mankind was capable of committing. He had not given up on his own deeply flawed race, and he was not about to condemn every member of another.