Daughter of the Drow (35 page)

Females wielded power in their society, and all female drow, even commoners, were viewed as the mortal incarnations of Lloth.

And yet

“We follow a god, not a goddess,” Gorlist mused aloud.

“You begin to understand,” Nisstyre said approvingly. But as he spoke, his hand lifted to rub the ruby that gleamed in the center of his forehead. He wondered if his “partner” had heard his words, and if so, how Shakti Hunzrin would regard such heresy.

It would take him time, remembering to tailor his words and actions to please a priestess of the drow goddess. It was not a task Nisstyre relished.

Fyodor awoke sometime later that night, shaking with chill and the familiar, dull sickness that followed a berserker rage. He struggled to his feet, dimly understanding what had happened. Often it was that berserker warriors wandered, still in the grip of the battle rage, until brought down by exhaustion or by the wounds suffered in battle. This time he had wandered long and far, for the shallow creek that bordered the battlefield had widened to a cold, deep stream, and its restless waters reflected the light of a waxing moon risen high in the sky.

Quickly the young warrior took stock of his injuries. His head throbbed, and the skin on one side of his neck burned with fierce pain. He touched it, gingerly, felt the raised blisters and remembered the gout of flame the drow wizard had thrown. Fyodor noted that the fabric of his shirt and jacket had been slashed repeatedly, and the garments were caked to his arms with dried blood. He unlaced his leather jerkin and peeled off the damaged garments. As he did, several cuts opened and began to bleed anew. None of them were terribly deep, but all needed tending.

Fyodor took from his pack a travel samovar—a small, narrow tin kettle prized by the Rashemi—and dipped up water from the stream. He soon had a fire going, and he heated the water along with herbs that were both healing and good to drink. When the tea was strong and hot, he poured some over a cloth and carefully cleaned the cuts. One arm was not so bad, and he bandaged it as best he could. The other required a bit more work.

Thankful he always carried a spare flask of Rashemi firewine, Fyodor took a large swig of the potent spirits. Then he threaded a curving needle and began to stitch up the deepest cut. It was not an easy task, with his hands shaking from exhaustion and chill. Fyodor recognized that his body was in shock; if he did not warm himself at once, he would die as surely as if a drow sword had pierced his heart.

When the cuts were closed and bandaged, the young fighter gathered up all the deadfall wood in the area and built the fire into a roaring blaze. Then he stripped to the skin and plunged into the icy waters of the stream.

The shock stole his breath and sent the blood racing through his limbs. Fyodor waded to shore, comforted by the familiar, invigorating sensation of outer cold and inner heat. The Rashemi were a hearty race, and both men and women avidly pursued the sport of snow-racing—grueling relays undertaken in winter, slightly clad and on foot. Fyodor excelled in such sport, but knew that in his current state he could not abide the night chill for long.

The young fighter hurried to the fireside and picked up his sword, intending to warm himself with a practice routine. But the weapon was too heavy for him to wield effectively except in the midst of a berserker fury; the stitches on his arm itched and burned with the strain of merely lifting the sword. So he discarded it for his cudgel and began a simple but vigorous routine of swings and parries.

Before long the exercise and the heat of the fire sent rivulets of sweat trickling down Fyodor’s chest. Again he plunged into the stream, and again he sparred against an invisible enemy. Finally he slumped by the fireside, warmed but utterly weary. He wrapped himself in his cape and poured a mug of strong tea from the samovar. Sipping it, he allowed himself for the first time to think back over the battle.

Fyodor remembered it dimly. There had been several drow, one of them the copper-haired wizard whom he had battled in faraway Rashemen. As this thought registered, the young berserker’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.

That couldn’t be right. He had followed five drow into the Underdark. By his own eyes, he had accounted for all five: two killed by giant bats in the cavern, and three dark warriors fallen in battle this very night. Five drow. The wizard made six.

As Fyodor pondered the matter, other details, equally as disturbing, came back to him. He remembered the elaborate tattoo curving up along the side of one drow face. Fyodor was fairly certain none of the dark elven thieves had been so marked. And the drow fighter’s hair had been cut short, so short that Fyodor had barely been able to get a solid grip on it. All the drow he’d seen in Rashemen had worn their hair long and tied back. Was it possible he had followed the wrong band of drow, or were his memories of the night’s battle distorted?

The young warrior glanced at his sword and remembered slaying the sword-wielding drow. He had no memory of taking it from the dark elf’sbody. This was disturbing, but Fyodor knew it was often so. Weapons were precious and expensive, and berserkers retrieved them apparently by instinct. Still, it bothered him that he could not remember.

Then another fact hit him with the force of a blow. He had retrieved his weapons, but he had neglected to attend his most important task. He had not searched the bodies of the drow for the Windwalker amulet!

Fyodor”s head sagged forward, and a groan of pure despair escaped him. His berserker rages were becoming worse, more uncontrollable. He remembered less each time and wandered farther; now he had become so engulfed in the fighting frenzy that he’d lost sight of his quest. He had to recover the amulet soon, or before the battle fever raged too hot and fierce. He did not want to think about what he himself might do in the moments before death claimed him.

In some corner of his mind, Fyodor resolved to trace his own steps back to the battlefield and remedy his omission at once. If the Windwalker amulet were there, he would find it. But his battered, exhausted body simply would not heed this command. Nor was the pale moonlight sufficient for tracking.

At first light, he vowed as he sank quickly toward slumber; at first light he would once again follow the trail. If the gods were with him, he might yet find a way out of the peculiar slavery that was his heritage, and his curse.

Shortly after dawn, Fyodor traced his way back to the battlefield. To his amazement, he found only two drow bodies, and the footprints of three sets of elven boots retreating toward the east. He set off in pursuit at once, not bothering to puzzle over the addition of yet another drow.

When he realized the dark elves were circling back, he abandoned any effort at tracking and took the straightest route toward the caves that led back down to the Underdajk. He made good time, for unlike the drow, he did not have to seek a place to hide with the coming of each dawn. Even so, he took little time for rest. He was determined to catch the drow band before they slipped back into the deadly labyrinth that was their homeland.

Two days, Fyodor figured, or perhaps a little more, and he would again stand at the entrance to that horrific world. As he strode steadily over the rough terrain, he wondered what type of battle would await him there, and how many more dark elves might join the elusive band he had hunted for so many days.

Liriel staggered up into the bright moonlight some two days after she had been thrust from Menzoberranzan. Kharza’s teleportation spell had sent her to a place near the caverns where she had staged a battle for the benefit of Fyodor of Rashemen. She had followed the path the human might have taken, up a steep winding incline and into a vast network of caves that lay among the hillsides of the Lands Above.

Not once daring to stop, she’d fled the Underdark and the ravenous, murderous drow greed she had inadvertently awakened. Kharza’s warnings had echoed through her mind like mocking laughter as she’d run wildly through the tunnel and up into the labyrinth of caves. Her instinctual sense of direction took her unerringly upward toward the light.

Slowly Liriel edged out of the cave, alert and vigilant despite her exhaustion. She recoiled at the sight beyond, and her lips moved in a silent cry of dismay.

The landscape stretched before her was like nothing she had ever seen or imagined. Rolling, rock-strewn hills seemed to go on endlessly, and looming far overhead was the infinite depth and breadth of the night sky. This was nothing like the forest, with its comforting walls of trees and vines, and its glades that were like caverns carved out of the thick foliage. This was vast, open, and barren.

Liriel’s eyes ached in an effort to take in the enormous distances. From the maps she had studied, she knew she’d emerged somewhere west of the great woodland where the Chosen of Eilistraee danced. There were fewer trees here, and none of them had the mystic grandeur of that wondrous forest. The plants reminded her of verdant dwarves: small, tough things that had won their place through grim struggle with rock and soil.

Then voices came to her on the night wind—harsh yet musical sounds that could only be drow. For a moment Liriel thought her pursuers had found her. Then she remembered the strange, linear path sound took up here in the open air, and she knew the voice came from beyond the cave.

She pulled her piwafwi close about her and spoke the words that would grant her invisibility. Even so, she shrank back behind the sheltering rock and crouched low to wait and watch. It might be that these drow were like the ones she had encountered in the forest: helpful and welcoming. Liriel hoped it would be so, for she felt very alone and vulnerable in this dismal land.

Soon the dark elves came into sight. Lithe and dark-clad, their white hair covered by the cowls of their capes, the drow walked with admirable stealth. Even so, Liriel knew at once these were not drow of the Underdark. There was no aura of magic about them, and although the night was bright, their eyes shone with the red light that indicated the use of the heat-spectrum. Even Liriel, whose eyes were trained to candlelight, could see perfectly without infravi-sion in the bright light of the moon. Were these hunters’ senses so dulled that they could not?

Wrapped in her piwafwi and shod with enchanted elven boots, she had the advantage of invisibility and silence. She crept closer to see what these strange drow might be about. They grew uneasy as she closed in, looking furtively about and fingering their weapons, as if their hunting instincts perceived what their senses could not.

How long must we wait? signaled one of them in the drow’s silent language of gesture and facial expression.

The wench will come this way, insisted another. We will search as long as we must.

Four males, daring to waylay a female? It was outrageous, unthinkable! Wrath burned bright in Liriel’s proud heart, focusing her thoughts for the first time since she’d left Spelltower Xorlarrin.

She unwrapped a package of darts that had been coated with sleep poison and fitted the first of several into her tiny crossbow. This would be the second test of the amulet’s power, for the drow poison was magically distilled in places of high-powered radiation. Its essence did not survive in the open air.

With quick, sure motions, Liriel fired the dart. The tiny arrow found its mark, and one of the dark hunters leaped in surprise. He reached behind him and tore the dart from his backside, looking at it in almost comical disbelief for a moment and then pitching senseless to the ground.

The female grinned and gave her golden amulet a grateful pat. She fired three more darts and watched as the last three hunters reeled and tumbled. When all had succumbed to the sleep poison, she threw back the folds of her sheltering cloak and strode forward, determined to get some answers. She straddled the drow who’d been last to fall and slapped him back toward consciousness.

The dark elfs eyes flickered open. Groggy, fighting the poison, he struggled to focus on his tormentor.

“Who are you looking for?” she demanded in the drow tongue.

His eyes settled on the small golden dagger hanging about her neck. “I

think

you.”

Liriel rocked back in dismay. How could it be that even surface drow sought her? She grabbed handfuls of her captive’s cloak and shook him, hard.

“Who sent you?” she demanded. “Who?”

But the male was beyond speech; the poison had taken him. Liriel swore and rose to her feet. With deft, certain movements she searched the four sleeping drow. Each one wore a symbol hung about his neck on a thin leather thong, much as she wore her symbol of Lloth. But these were not Eilistraee’s people, of that she was fairly certain. The priestesses of the Dark Maiden claimed to help those in need, and they were nothing like these deadly, furtive drow. What, then, were these hunters, and what was their interest in her?

Liriel contemplated the sleeping drow. Practicality demanded she kill them. They were hunting her and would no doubt continue to do so. But somehow this action went against her natural impulse. When they awoke, if they came after her again, she would kill them without a qualm.

She glanced up into the eastern sky. The brilliant sapphire blue of night was fading away; soon the dawn would come. Liriel was eager to see this wonder, but she was wise enough to do so with a ready shelter at hand.

So she slipped back into the cave and made her way quickly through the winding passages that wove under the rocky hillsides. At last she came to a likely spot: a cave with a single opening placed high on a slope. It faced east, granting her a clear view of the coming sunrise, and it was also readily defensible.

Liriel wrapped herself in her cloak and settled down to await the dawn. Yet sleep claimed her, as surely as her darts had taken down the drow hunters. Exhausted by her two days of nonstop flight, weary with grief and loss, she fell into the dreamless sleep of the drow.

Fyodor had barely stepped into the cave when the attack came. There were two of them—tall, man-shaped creatures with white fur and the heads of fierce bears, and they rushed at him with deep, rock-shaking roars. Both carried crudely made swords that they swung with enthusiasm but no noticeable finesse. The Rashemi was not reassured by this. His eyes quickly measured the combined length of arm and sword and reckoned the creatures’ reach exceeded his own by well over a foot. Most swordsmen asserted that skill, not size, was the key to victory. Fyodor conceded this to a point, but reach mattered; he didn’t care what anyone said to the contrary.