Daughter of the Drow (36 page)

But there was nothing else to be done, so he drew his own sword and stepped forward to meet the first wild swing.

Liriel was jarred from slumber by familiar sounds: the roar of enraged quaggoths, and the clashing of swords. For a moment she thought she was back in the Underdark. Then she was fully awake, and wondering what in the name of all dark gods a deepbear was doing so far from its native territory.

Ever curious, the drow wrapped her piwafwi tightly about her and ran lightly toward the battle. The quaggoths were hunters who lived out their lives Below. If one of them came to the surface, it was almost certainly at the command of a more powerful being. Since only drow bothered to capture and train quaggoths, Liriel had a pretty good idea who the deepbear might be hunting. What puzzled her was who or what had intercepted the beast.

She followed the sounds of battle to the very mouth of a cave. There stood Fyodor of Rashemen, battling not one, but a mated pair of quaggoth fighters.

Elation, sudden and unexpected, swept through Liriel. She tossed back her cape and took out one of her bolos. Twirling it overhead, she stepped out into full view.

Fyodor’s eyes widened when he saw her, and the moment of hesitation earned him a bruising swat from the flat of a quaggoth’s sword. Liriel winced. Had the creature more skill in handling the weapon, if it had turned the angle of the sword just slightly, the human would have been cut neatly in two. This was one fight best ended quickly.

So she gave her bolo one more twirl and let it fly. The weapon wrapped around the quaggoth’s sword, and the momentum of the whirling rocks tore the weapon from the creature’s paw. Looking positively relieved to be rid of the cumbersome thing, the monster bared its fangs and advanced upon the human, looking more than competent with the weapons granted it by nature.

The drow grinned fiercely and pulled a handful of throwing knives from her belt. “The deepbats were just practice,” she shouted to Fyodor as she hurled the first knife at the attacking quaggoth. “Let’s see what you can do in a real fight!”

Liriel launched her knives, one by one, at the quaggoth’s back. Each found its target, but the creature’s thick fur and deep layers of muscles kept any of the small blades from hitting vital points. The bearlike fighter roared with pain, but it continued its advance on Fyodor.

The female quaggoth, however, snarled its rage and charged the little drow who’d attacked its mate. Liriel resolutely stood her ground, a knife in each hand. A flick, and the two small blades took flight, sinking into the quaggoth’s red eyes. The beast shrieked and pawed at its face.

Liriel pulled her short sword, knowing she must finish the creature before it entered its death frenzy. Bunded or not, a battle-mad quaggoth was deadly in its strength and fury. She darted toward the wounded creature, sword in hand, and slashed it once, twice, across the belly. The quaggoth slumped, furred hands clutching frantically at the gaping wound. With one last stroke, Liriel cut its throat.

Behind her she heard an angry hiss. She spun to face a hideous visage, like that of a dark blue fiend, with scaly skin and ears like long pointed horns. Its red eyes gleamed with malevolence, and its snakelike body swayed as it spoke an arcane phrase in a sibilant whisper. Liriel had never seen a dark naga, but she knew it for what it was—a magical creature of the Underdark that was in its own way as dangerous as a rampaging quaggoth.

The naga’s thin lips pursed, and a thin stream of burning black fluid shot toward the young draw. A venom bolt.

Liriel snapped up her sword and swatted at the stream with the flat of her blade. A spray of droplets—a mixture of acid and melted metal—flew back toward the naga. The creature screamed and recoiled, and Liriel hurled aside the rapidly diminishing weapon before the corrosive venom could reach her hand. The insidious liquid could consume flesh as readily as it ate through metal.

The naga recovered fast and began to hiss out the words of another spell. To Liriel’s astonishment, she recognized this spell. It was one her father had created. She remembered it well, though she had been little more than a babe when she had first heard those words. That spell, and the terror and confusion that had followed it, was her earliest memory.

In response to the naga’s magic, a cluster of rocks melted, elongated, and flowed into the form of a giant snake with a nightmarish elven visage. The stone naga slid toward its drow prey with the screech of rock scraping against rock.

To buy a moment’s time, Liriel hurled a throwing spider at the hideous golem. The magic-enhanced weapon bit deep into the creature’s throat. It would surely have killed a living creature; the golem had no blood to shed. It bared its fangs and kept coming.

But Liriel countered; she repeated that most-hated spell and summoned a golem of her own. Rock spilled from the wall of the cave like mist, forming itself into an elfmaid of pale gray stone. The stone drow ran to defend its mistress, and the golems collided with an echoing crash.

The stone naga quickly encoiled the elf-shaped warrior and tried to squeeze, but there was no give in the slender stone body. Its head reared back, and then it struck with wide-flung jaws. The next moment it spat out shards of its own rocky fangs. The drow golem wrapped slender hands around the stone naga’s throat and tried to strangle it, with no more success than its opponent. Together the magical creatures rolled and thrashed, equal in strength and mindless obedience.

Meanwhile the dark naga mounted its own attack. It darted forward, holding high the barbed tip of its poisoned tail. Liriel dove to one side, rolled, and came up holding the quaggoth’s discarded sword. Lifting it high overhead with both hands, she lunged forward and slashed into the naga’s deadly tail. The heavy blade went through scale and bone, then met the stone floor with a muted crack. The naga shrieked and writhed with pain. Nearby, its severed tail twitched in an uncanny echo of the creature’s anguish.

With the dark naga out of the fight for a while, Liriel had time to consider Fyodor. He was holding off the quaggoth male, but his sleeves were tatterefl and his arms bled freely. She snatched another bolo from her belt, twirled it briefly, and let it fly toward the quaggoth. The long strap wrapped again and again around the creature’s neck, gaining momentum with each turn, and the weights on either end hit the quaggoth’s head with a pair of satisfying thunks. Still, the deepbear did not go down. It merely gurgled and tore at the straps. The leather thongs snapped easily, and Liriel knew the death frenzy had come upon the creature.

She threw a second bolo, this one at the quaggoth’s ankles. The beast faltered momentarily, then continued, in a mixture of hops and shuffles, to close in on Fyodor. Liriel ran forward and leaped at the creature’s back, kicking out with all her might. At last, the quaggoth stumbled and went down.

The drow scrambled up and seized Fyodor’s arm- “Come on!” she shouted, tugging him along as she kicked into a run. He tucked his sword away and followed her in a headlong flight from the cave.

But Liriel stopped outside, some hundred paces from the opening. “Wait. I’m going to drop the whole thing,” she said grimly.

Fyodor watched as the girl sped through the gestures of a spell. She thrust out both hands, and arcane lighting coursed from her fingers, flashing into the cave’s dark mouth again and again. Dust flew; solid rock crackled and split. Finally the cave collapsed in an avalanche of dirt and stone.

The drow lowered her hands, and her whole body seemed to wilt. Fyodor put an arm around her and eased her to the ground. He had seen Rashemen’s Witches perform such feats in battle, and he realized powerful magic took its toll on the caster. That so young a girl could command such jnagic was astounding.

“Wychlaran” he murmured with great respect, crouching beside her.

She focused on him with effort, her golden eyes distant and glazed “What?”

“It is a title of honor, given to the Witches who rule our land. Is it so with your people? Do such as you rule in your land?”

The drow flincfiftd. “Not at the moment,” she muttered, looking away. “Forget the’terms of honor.’ My name is Liriel.”

Fyodor repeated the name, taking obvious pleasure in the lyric sound of it. “It suits you well.”

“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “I was hoping it might.”

She glanced at him and caught the glint of humor in his eyes. He did not seem at all offended by her sarcasm or ill at ease in her presence. She noted how young he was—little more than a boy, actually. A boy with the muscles of a dwarf and the scars of a warrior. So many contradictions, these humans. This one’s blue eyes were clear and ingenuous, his manner of speaking forthright. In Menzoberranzan, such behavior would be regarded as simpleminded. But Liriel could not be fooled twice. She noted the taut readiness of the young man’s muscles, the way his hand lingered near the hilt of the wicked hunting knife tucked into his sash.

Just then a rumble of stone came from the ruined cavern. Horror and disbelief froze Liriel in place for just a moment. A second rumble galvanized her, and she leaped to her feet. “The quaggoth,” she said urgently.

Fyodor stood with her, but he regarded her with puzzlement.

“The bear-creature!” she shrieked. “It’s coming!”

“But that cannot be,” he said. His eyes were wary, as if he were waiting for her to try some dark ploy.

Liriel hissed with frustration and launched herself at the stubborn human. They fell together, rolling away from the cave in a tumble of arms and legs. She thrust him away from her and curled into a ball, covering her head with her arms just as the stone-filled mouth of the cave exploded outward. A spray of dirt and rock arched toward them as the quaggoth burst from the ruined cave.

The deepbear was filthy and battered. Patches of dark red stained its fur, and a jagged spur of bone gleamed through the torn hide of one arm. Yet the creature seemed unaware of its condition; it merely kicked aside a boulder and staggered away from the cave, nose twitching as it scented the air for its prey. The quaggoth’s eyes gleamed red even in the bright moonlight, and its coarse, filthy fur stood up straight, making the seven-foot creature appear even larger and more fierce than it was. In its one good hand it held the battered naga by its mangled tail, lashing the ten-foot creature back and forth as if it were a whip.

“You wouldn’t listen,” Liriel hissed at Fyodor.

Nor was he listening now. With quick, fluid movements Fyodor rose to his feet, sword drawn. The young fighter’s eyes became cold and hard, and to Liriel’s astonishment he seemed to grow to a stature than matched that of the enraged quaggoth. No fool, the drow scrambled out of the path of the coming conflict. She threw herself behind some boulders and watched as the human charged forward.

The bear-creature jerked back the dead naga, then snapped it toward Fyodor with incredible force. The man was ready. He pivoted hard to the left and swung his sword low and back. As the naga’s dead head shot forward, he sliced up to meet it. The broad dull blade cut cleanly through the scaly armor, and the severed head flew upward in an impressive arc.

“Mother Lloth,” Liriel breathed, watching with wide eyes and growing excitement.

Fyodor ran in close, sword leading. The quaggoth batted the weapon aside with its paw, ignoring the deep gash that opened across its palm. Again it flailed the dead naga. Ichor splashed freely from the severed neck, but the human was in too close for the macabre whip to do him much harm. The quaggoth tossed aside the snake body and backhanded the man with its bleeding paw; the blow connected hard and sent Fyodor reelinp

Sensing an advantage, the quaggoth sprang. But the human had already regained his balance. He nimbly sidestepped the lunge, and the quaggoth measured its length on the rocky ground. Fyodor closed in, sword raised high for the finishing stroke.

But the deepbear rolled onto its back and pulled its knees up high and tight against its body. It kicked out hard and caught the man full in the chest. Fyodor flew backward, his back hitting a tree with an impact that threw his arms wide and knocked the sword from his hand.

The quaggoth once again pulled in its knees, this time to spring up onto its feet. The creature waded in, fangs bared in a silent snarl and massive arms flung wide in a grim parody of an embrace.

Fyodor pushed himself off the tree and barreled in, clasping the bear-creature around the middle. They went down like wrestlers, each grappling for a killing hold. Several minutes passed as they thrashed, equally matched in rage and strength.

Finally the man pinned the massive creature, both paws above its head. The quaggoth’s furred head tossed from side to side, and although its jaws gnashed and snapped, it could gain no purchase. For the human’s head was firmly pressed beneath its chin, forcing the shaggy head upward. Fyodor’s head shook, savagely, several times, and blood began to flow down the furred neck of his captive. The quaggoth’s struggles slowed to a shudder, and finally ceased.

Liriel pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out in triumph. Fyodor had torn the creature’s throat out!

Yet some instinct warned her to keep silent, to stay out of sight. She watched from hiding as Fyodor rose slowly to his feet. He seemed to shrink in size right before her eyes, and he stared at the dead creature for a long moment, as if he could not fathom where it had come from. Then his shoulders slumped, and a low, despairing groan burst from him.

“What?” Liriel marveled, baffled by this response.

Then the human covered his mouth with both hands and darted into the bushes. That, Liriel could understand. The quaggoth smelled bad, even from where she stood. The taste of it would probably turn an ogre’s stomach.

She waited until the human was finished and had staggered back into the clearing. He looked better, if extremely pale. Liriel stepped into view, applauding softly. Fyodor spun to face her. He looked so startled, she realized he’d forgotten entirely about her. Though she was hardly accustomed to such inattention, she was in a mood to be generous.