Daughter of the Drow (34 page)

Instantly the whirling elven blades crossed in a defensive parry, and the three swords met with a clash of metal and a spray of sparks. But the drow’s skill and speed could not deflect the sheer power of the blow. The blunt sword tore through the dark elf with such force that the hilt’s cross-piece struck his chest with an audible cracking of ribs.

Fyodor had his cudgel in hand before the first drow fell, before the other two could register the death of their companion. He advanced, compelled to fight until none remained to stand against him.

Perhaps the second drow fighter perceived this, for he was not so quick to draw his blades. He snapped up a tiny crossbow and fired several darts, one after another, so fast that the flights of the individual arrows were hard for the eye to follow. Perhaps the sleep-poison faded outside the Underdark, but the drow still possessed his deadly aim and he was confident his tiny arrows would dive deep into the human’s eyes, tunnel between his ribs, slice open the vital arteries in his throat and groin. No poison, perhaps, but the human would be dead before he could notice that something about the attack might be lacking.

The drow could not know Fyodor perceived the flight of the darts as a leisurely, graceful glide. He batted them aside, moving his club back and forth with seemingly impossible speed, and he did not for one moment slow his advance on the two remaining fighters. A mighty upward sweep of his club caught the drow archer in his midsection, first doubling him over and then sending him flying up and back. The dark elf fell heavily, several yards away, his body twisted into a position no living elf could have achieved.

Fyodor whirled upon the last drow—a short-haired warrior with a dragon tattoo emblazoned on one cheek—and raised his cudgel high for a smashing downward blow. With a quick, steady stride, the human advanced.

For the first time in his century-long career, Gorlist considered retreat. The moment passed quickly, and the drow fighter gripped his spear with both hands. He’d taken the weapon from a slain forest elf, and had it magically reinforced for strength and speed. This crazed opponent would test the weapon as it had never been tested before.

Gorlist snapped the spear up before him, holding it like a quarterstaff. He whirled it, once, in a defiant exhibition of his skill.

Once was all the time he had. The human’s driftwood dub descended in a pale blur. Gorlist spread his hands wide and blocked the blow with the center of the spear’s staff. The magic held, but the force of impact sent bright pain coursing through the drow’s arms and down his spine. His knees buckled, and he went down.

The dark-elven fighter saw the club descending again. He rolled clear, and as he did he grasped the hilt of a dagger in his benumbed fingers. With the incredible speed and agility for which the drow were famed and feared, Gorlist rolled several times and came up in a crouch behind the human.

He eyed his enemy, measured the distance between himself and the man’s ankles. His enspelled dagger could easily cut through boot leather and sever the tendons beneath. Hamstrung, this human would not fight so well. Gorlist launched himself forward and delivered a vicious backhanded slash.

To his astonishment, the man’s reactions were even faster than his own. The human fighter leaped and whirled in a single movement. With incredible timing, he jumped over the drow’s lunging attack and stomped down with both feet. Gorlist hit the ground hard, full length, and the human landed with him, a booted foot on each of the drow’s kidneys.

And the proud drow, who scoffed at pain, let out a howl of pure agony. The human danced aside, and Gorlist saw the club arc down toward him again. Even if he’d been able to move, the weapon came too fast for him to avoid or deflect it.

Gorlist felt the shatter of bone as the club struck his rib cage. This time he did not cry out, but he took little pride in that accomplishment. There was no time for that, no time for thoughts of any kind. His head was jerked sharply to one side as the human hauled him upright by his hair.

Holding the slight drow easily at arm’s length, the strange warrior took several strides forward. Gorlist’s jfa booted toes barely touched the ground, but he notice^ the human looked much smaller at such close range. It was an odd thought, coming to him dimly through the pain of his many injuries, but Gorlist tucked it away. He had survived many fights and he had done so by knowing his enemies. It might help someday to know that this one was not the seven-foot warrior of first perception. And no matter how bad his hurts, Gorlist remained aware of the battlefield, and he suddenly realized what the human intended to do with him.

A few paces away was a steep ravine, with a fall of nearly ten feet to a shallow, rock-strewn creek. Gorlist knew the danger of such a fall. One of his broken ribs would almost certainly pierce a lung and bring upon him a slow but certain death.

Desperation gave strength to the battered drow. He seized the first weapon that came to hand: a tiny, thin knife tucked into the seam of his jacket sleeve. The drow brought it up and slashed across the man’s chest. The coarse leather jerkin, the garment of a human peasant, deflected the cut as effectively as drow chain mail.

Frantically the dark-elven fighter slashed out with his meager weapon. He managed to connect a few times, scoring bloody lines across his captor’s arms. Yet the human did not slow, did not register the pain by so much as a flicker of an eyelid. He merely took one hand from the draw’s hair and seized the flailing wrist, easily crushing the bones and forcing the tiny knife deep into the fingers that gripped it. But Gorlist was beyond pain now, and he registered neither the ruin of his hand nor the sound of his knife falling to the rocky ground.

The man stopped and pulled Gorlist close, face-to-face, and then heaved him up and away. There was a moment’s flight, and then came the punishing tumble down the rocky slope.

The drow came to sudden, jarring stop against a boulder in the center of the shallow creek. He tried dragging himself to shore, but the effort sent him into a spasm of coughing. Gorlist tasted his own blood, and knew any further effort was futile.

Almost gratefully, the drow sank into the stream. The icy water numbed his pain and swept him toward oblivion, toward whatever reward awaited the faithful of Vhaeraun.

When all was silent, Henge, priest of the Masked God of Night, crept cautiously from the cave where he bad hidden during the battle. He was by nature a wary sort of drow, and the sight before him convinced him of the wisdom of discretion.

His brother Brizznarth, who was famed for his stunning swordplay, lay in a pool of his own blood. Since the young drow was clearly beyond help, Henge did not linger over him or waste any energy on grief. There was only one other drow fighter in sight, and he did not seem to be feeling any better than Brizznarth. So Henge moved on to the still form of his leader. He crouched beside the red-haired drow and realized—with decidedly mixed emotions—that Nisstyre was yet alive.

“What can be cured must be endured,” he muttered, in a dark parody of a human proverb.

There was a smear of blood on the wizard’s temple, and Henge’s seeking fingers found an impressive knot on the side of Nisstyre’s head. The wizard would have a headache the size of Tarterus when he awoke, but he’d only been stunned. The club had hit a glancing blow. If that battle-mad human had connected directly, it would have split Nisstyre’s skull and scattered his brains so far that the remaining pittance might transform the wizard into a credible priest of Lloth, mused Henge with a touch of dark humor.

A quick examination assured the priest that Nisstyre had sustained only the one injury. The priest framed the wounded drow’s head with his hands and began to chant a prayer to Vhaeraun, a plea for healing and restoration. The Masked God was with him;

Nisstyre’s eyes opened, focused on the priest, and then narrowed in suspicion.

“You are unharmed,” he muttered thickly. “Did you join the battle at all?”

Suddenly the cleric wished he’d had the foresight to daub himself with some of the blood his younger brother had, shed so freely. “Only the two of us survived,” Henge said, calmly sidestepping the wizard’s accusation, “and neither one of us got off much of an attack.”

“The human escaped?”

Nisstyre’s voice rang with incredulity. Brizznarth was the finest blade under his command, and Gorlist was fully the match of any five human warriors. The tattooed fighter had proven this, time and again. Nisstyre simply could not credit that his elite drew force might have met defeat at the hands of a single human.

He hauled himself to his feet, ignoring the throbbing ache in his head. That Brizznarth and Codfael were dead was plain to see, but he would not accept Gorlist’s fate until he beheld the body with his own eyes.

“Where is Gorlist?”

Henge pointed toward the ravine. The wizard staggered over to the edge and peered down into the stream.

“He breathes,” Nisstyre snapped. “See to him at once!”

The priest spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have used all my healing spells for the day.”

“Then use this, and be quick.”

Nisstyre produced a vial of glowing green liquid from his spell bag and thrust it into the cleric’s hand. He watched intently as Henge slid down the rocky incline and carefully poured the liquid into the fighter’s mouth. The outcome was important, for Gorlist was valuable to the Masked Lord’s cause. He was also Nisstyre’s son, a fact that would have mattered far less if Gorlist had not been so skilled a fighter.

The injured drow groaned and began to stir. Nisstyre cast a spell that brought Gorlist’s battered body floating up and out of the ravine. The wizard noted the pink froth at the fighter’s lips. He stooped and ran his fingers over the younger drow’s torso.

Three, maybe four ribs broken, Nisstyre thought grimly. He hesitated for just an instant before reaching into his spell bag for a second potion. This one was in a vial shaped like a candle’s flame, and it gleamed like captured fire. It was a potion of last resort, for although it healed grievous wounds in remarkably short order, there was a price to pay for such healing. The rapid knitting of bone and tissue was agonizing, and the magic was fueled by the life-force of its recipient. The cure stole more energy, and caused more pain, than many wounded drow could bear. It killed at least as often as it cured.

But Nisstyre had an idea. He handed the vial to the cleric, who had just scrambled up over the edge of the ravine. “Pray to Vhaeraun,” he commanded. “Ask the God of Thieves to steal the life-force of another being to empower the potion. And if we are fortunate,” Nisstyre muttered to himself, “the Masked Lord will take the life-force of the ore-sired human who did this!”

Henge took the vial and began to chant in prayer. The wizard busied himself with another sort of preparation. He cut a length of stout green stick from a scrubby tree nearby and peeled off the rough bark. Gorlist would need something to bite on during the agonizing cure.

The wounded fighter drifted back to consciousness, and his gaze settled on the fiery vial in the cleric’s hands. A gleam of fierce approval lit his eyes, and he gestured for the priest to administer the potion at once. Henge hesitated in midchant.

“Do it,” commanded Gorlist in a faint, blood-choked whisper. He spat and then tipped back his head so Henge could pour the potion into his mouth. The priest complied, and the fighter downed the fiery liquid in a single swallow.

Convulsions gripped him at once. The other two drow lunged for the fighter and tried in vain to hold him down. Gorlist tossed them aside without thought or effort, utterly unmindful of their presence in the midst of the agony that seared through his every vein and sinew.

Since he could do nothing but wait, Nisstyre found himself a comfortable rock and sat down for the duration. He had seen many fearful deaths—most of them of his own plan and execution—but never had he witnessed such suffering. Yet he watched impassively as the magic fire seared through his son’s body.

Finally Gorlist lay limp and still. “Did he survive?” ventured Henge.

“He did.”

The answer came from Gorlist himself. The fighter spat out splinters of green wood and climbed slowly to his feet.

Nisstyre noted the bloodlust in his eyes. It would be difficult, he realized, to keep the headstrong young drow from pursuing the human who had so grievously wounded him. Nisstyre hungered for the taste of revenge, as well, but he needed Gorlist to focus on an even greater prize.

“By all reckoning, I should have died,” Gorlist said. He walked over to the wizard, all the while unbuckling-the leather bracers that protected his arms. “I say you owe my bloodprice. Since I have no heirs, I’ll collect it myself.”

Nisstyre did not doubt what the fighter would demand. “The human was badly wounded,” he lied. “Although he escaped, he will not long survive.”

The fighter shrugged away this news and thrust his fist high, turning it so Nisstyre could see the thin line of scar that ran down his forearm.

“I want her,” Gorlist said through clenched teeth.

The wizard rocked back, momentarily at a loss for a response. Nisstyre tended to indulge his followers, encouraging them to enact revenge as the spirit moved them. Drow needed a focus for their inbred hatred, an occasional vent for their simmering rage. It was unfortunate Gorlist had chosen such a valuable target.

“Then you will lead the search to find her,” the wizard told him smoothly. “However, you are not to kill her. She is too important for that, both for the magic she wields and the children she may bear to follow Vhaeraun. You know the importance of bringing drow females into the Night Above. I will not have her destroyed.”

Gorlist scowled.

“There are more ways than one to humble the little princess,” Nisstyre said softly. “I want this female for Vhaeraun, and for my own pleasure, but I am not averse to sharing. In time, you shall have your revenge.”

The fighter’s eyes widened as the meaning of the wizard’s words became clear. Drow routinely inflicted horrors upon their own people and slaughtered the surface races merely for the pleasure of the kill, but what Nisstyre suggested was beyond the unspoken code of dark-elven behavior. No female, not even one conquered in battle, was taken against her will. Centuries of indoctrination had forged a taboo that was seldom questioned and rarely violated.