Daughter of the Drow (8 page)

Fyodor’s eyes lit up. He selected a tiny golden circlet and carefully picked it up. As soon as it had cleared the edge of the box, the ring began to enlarge. It swiftly grew into a thick bracer engraved with magical symbols, large enough to fit a brawny man’s forearm. The Rashemi dropped the treasure to the floor and took out a pale sliver of wood. This grew to become a wand carved from ash and painted with brightly colored symbols. On and on Fyodor went, and with each item he removed, another appeared to take its place. The pile of treasure was nearly knee-high before Fyodor found what he sought.

It was a simple trinket, a tiny golden dagger, not more than three inches long, hanging from a thin chain. The dagger’s sheath was carved with runes from some long-dead language, and the metal was worn and darkened with age. Fyodor quickly hung the chain about his neck and tucked the precious thing out of sight. The Witches had made no promises, but they had suggested this ancient amulet might be the key to Fyodor’s release.

Leaving the rest of the treasure heaped on the floor, the young Rashemi slipped out into the night. Immediately the hut rose and resumed its pacing.

Fyodor scrambled up the hill with all possible speed, for he wanted to be far from the clearing when the Red Wizard returned. He patted Sasha and swung up into the saddle. As he reined the pony away, he cast one last, triumphant glance back toward the wizard’s borrowed retreat.

At that moment the shadows on the far side of the clearing seemed to stir. A single, ghostly figure emerged from the trees. And then another. Soon there were six of them, man-shaped, but so lithe of form and graceful of movement that they seemed unreal, insubstantial. Slowly, stealthily, the shadows eased away from the sheltering darkness and crept into the clearing on silent feet.

Fyodor recoiled and sucked in a silent, startled breath. Dark elves! He had heard many fearful stories about the drow, and from time to time his people encountered them in the mines deep under the rocky hills of Rashemen. He himself had never seen one. They were beautiful, with their glowing red eyes and skin so dark it seemed to swallow the moonlight. They were also hunting, and no living predator was as deadly.

Without making a sound, Fyodor slid to the ground. Although he was far from the drow band, he did not want to take any chances. To their eyes, the heat given off by a man and his horse would shine as brightly as a beacon. He led Sasha behind some snow-covered brambles and crouched to watch.

The dark elves stalked the pacing hut, their drawn weapons gleaming in the faint moonlight. One of the drow—a thin, fox-faced male with a thick mane of coppery hair—came forward. His hands traced strange symbols in the air as he chanted in a harsh, sibilant language.

“The forest is thick with wizards tonight,” Fyodor murmured uneasily. He watched as the drow’s feet left the ground and the figure began to float upward toward tbe door of the hut. As he hung suspended in the thin, cold air, the wizard cast another spell, then reached for the latch on the heavy wooden door. ,

“Oh, but he’s going to wish he hadn’t,” the Rashemi observed with a wry smile. The hut had its own magical defenses, but surely the absent wizard had placed additional wards around his stolen hoard.

Disaster came quickly in the shadow of that thought. A burst of crimson light flashed from the door, sending the drow wizard hurtling backward through the air. He crashed into a pine and plummeted to the ground. Snow tumbled from the tree’s branches and covered him like a thick, rounded shroud. None of the other drow came to the wizard’s aid, for every eye was fixed upon the large wooden door that had suddenly appeared in the center of the clearing. Every weapon was raised for battle.

The door burst open, and from some invisible place beyond rushed tall, dog-headed warriors clad only in their own furry hides. Gnolls, for such they were, were natural enemies of elves, and they fell upon the dark-elven thieves with fierce howls and slashing swords. On and on came the gnolls, pouring through the magical portal as if they were angry bees erupting from a hive. Fyodor counted twenty before the crush and turmoil of battle made further reckoning impossible.

Fyodor’s heart hammered as he watched the battle, and despite everything he had heard told of the drow he found himself hoping the elves might prevail. There were but six drow against creatures twice their size and four times their number, but how they fought! Fyodor was a warrior from a nation of renowned fighters, and never had he seen such swordcraft. He watched in awe as elven steel twirled and slashed, as the drow danced and thrust. He studied the dark elves, how they fought, how they moved. How they killed.

The gnolls fell quickly, and for a moment it seemed the drow would win the day. Then Fyodor heard a familiar, dreaded sound: the dry, thumping whoosh of giant wings and an eerie, wavering cry too harsh to have come from a living throat. The drow heard it, too, and they looked up into the sky. Their red eyes widened at the sight of the horror hurtling toward them.

There were simply no words to describe darkenbeasts. The monsters flew, but they were not like birds. They had been living creatures once, but transformed by a Red Wizard’s magic they became twisted, deformed abominations. Fyodor had no idea what sort of animal this darkenbeast had been, but it must have been large. As the creature swept down like a swooping hawk, its outstretched wings blotted out the moon.

The darkenbeast swooped toward the tallest drow, a male who fought with two slender swords. At the moment this elf’sflashing blades held off three gnolls, and as he fought he danced on a pile of gnoll bodies, whether to intimidate his enemies or to face the much taller gnolls eye-to-eye, Fyodor could not say.

Enormous talons flexed wide as the darkenbeast closed in. At the last moment, the drow dove aside with incredible agility, and the monstrous claws closed around the three gnolls. The darkenbeast lumbered into the sky with its burden. An angry cry rang out when it realized it had been cheated, and it simply dropped the gnolls. Flailing and howling, the dog-men fell to the ground. They hit hard and lay silent and broken. Huge wings beat wildly, filling the air with their thumping rhythm as the darkenbeast climbed for another attacking stoop.

Nor was the darkenbeast the drow’s only problem. A vortex of tiny, sparkling crystals rose from the snow, spinning wildly and gaining mass and power by the moment. With a sharp crack, the whirling ceased and a manlike creature, eight feet tall and stocky as a dwarf, waded toward the dark elves. Fyodor muttered an oath. Skilled though the drow might be, they could do little against an ice golem.

Sure enough, the dark elves’ swords glanced ineffectually off the solid ice of their newest foe. A huge white fist closed around one warrior, and the ice golem raised the drow high. The golem regarded its captive stolidly, not flinching from the blows the drow struck again and again. The dark elf’sarm slowed and the blows came with less force as the unnatural cold of the golem’s grip stole the drow’s life-force. With a casual toss, the ice creature flung the dead drow aside and looked about for another victim.

Fyodor felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and a prickle ran down his arms. He glanced down. The snow beneath his feet had melted to slush.

“No,” Fyodor whispered. “Not again, not now.”i

He struggled against the rising tide of heat and fury, but it was too late and he knew it. His last conscious thought was regret for Sasha. The fierce pony would certainly rush into battle beside him. He had little hope for her life against such foes.

Then the battle rage took him.

Nisstyre stirred and struggled beneath his snowy blanket. Every bone and sinew ached from the fall. He had not expected this attack—his spell should have disarmed any traps on the hut’s door—but then, he had never encountered the humans known as Red Wizards. He would be better prepared next time, provided he survived this attempt.

Finally he clawed his way out of the snowbank and drew in air with a deep, ragged breath. Then he saw the apparition storming down the hill, and he almost forgot to exhale.

A human man—or so Nisstyre assumed—rushed toward the clearing. Dark hair stood up about his head like the bristles of an enraged hedgehog, and his face was suffused with intense heat. The warrior’s countenance glowed an angry red in both the light-and heat-spectrums, yet a faint, unnerving smile curved his lips. As he thundered toward the battle he thrashed the air with a long, broad-bladed sword. At first glance, the warrior appeared to be about seven feet tall, but Nisstyre was accustomed to magical illusions and he saw beyond this one. The man was in reality less than six feet tall, and although he was powerfully mus-eled he should not have been able to swing that enormous black sword as he did. The weapon was broad, and its edge appeared to be thick and dull, yet each wild pass cut the air with a strongly audible swish. By some magic that Nisstyre did not understand, this warrior was much more than he should have been.

The drow wizard struggled painfully to his feet. Although he felt and resented the strange power of this human, his first thought—and his first spell—had to address the most immediate threats. A strange, ugly dragon-thing was plummeting, with gaping jaws and outstretched talons, toward his band of thieves.

Nisstyre flung a hand skyward. An enormous fireball hurtled toward the flying monster, and the two deadly forces collided in an explosion that shook snow from the trees and knocked the ice golem to its knees. The dragon-thing spiraled to the ground and crashed with a burst of oily flame. With a final, almost grateful cry, the creature gave up its unnatural life.

Meanwhile three drow fighters leaped upon the golem, chipping and hacking at its icy flesh. The golem flung them off as easily as a dog might shake water from its coat. It rose to its feet, and its ice-colored eyes settled on Nisstyre. The golem began its advance.

Before the wizard could summon a defensive spell, the human leaped the last few feet of his descent and sprinted through the clearing. Ignoring the drow around him, he barrelled straight toward the ice golem. He ducked a swing of the golem’s clublike fist and, grasping the hilt of his sword with both hands, he hauled it back for a mighty blow.

The thick black blade whistled in and struck the golem’s hip with a tremendous, booming crack. For a moment it seemed as if the hit had been no more effective than those of the drow. Then wavering lines rippled through the golem’s body and down its leg. The massive limb crumbled into shards of ice, and the golem toppled.

The human leaped onto the fallen creature, and his black sword rose and fell again and again until the golem was reduced to a sparkling pile. That accomplished, the battle-mad human threw himself at the nearest gnoll. With one mighty swing, he struck the head from the powerful creature.

“But the sword has no edge,” Nisstyre muttered, and his coppery brows knit with consternation as he scrutinized his unexpected ally.

The human had already flung himself upon a pair of sword-wielding gnolls. One of the dog-men got through the human’s guard and slashed a dark red line across his thigh. The fighter did not falter, did not so much as flinch. Sweat poured from the man’s red face and hung in tiny icicles from his jaw—vastly increasing his fearsome appearance—yet each swing was as powerful as the last. He did not tire; he did not concede to pain. The human would be a considerable adversary, and prudence dictated Nisstyre deal with him at once. But, since the man vented his battle lust only upon the gnolls, the drow wizard bided his time. No sense wasting the lives of his own warriors, when this human seemed so determined to die fighting.

Soon only two of the dog-men remained, easily outclassed by the five surviving drow. The fight would soon be over, the human’s usefulness ended. Nisstyre began to mentally browse through his repertoire of human-killing spells.

Then, as if it sensed its defenders would soon be overcome, the hut itself entered the battle.

Running wildly about the clearing, the magical hut began to stalk the drow. The dark elves were fast and agile, and could easily have escaped into the forest. Yet Nisstyre warned them back. His outstretched hands crackled with lethal magic as he shouted at his drow band to stand and fight, on pain of death.

Like a crazed chicken, the hut chased the dark elves around the clearing, kicking and scratching. Finally it trapped one beneath a huge foot. Its claws raked at the fallen drow again and again, leaving long bloody furrows with each pass.

The human charged in. Before Nisstyre could react, the crazed warrior began to hack at the hut’s birdlike leg as if he were a woodsman felling a tree. Two blows, and the hut began to stagger. Three, and the leg gave way. The hut wobbled, then toppled to the ground. It rolled several times and came to rest on its thatched roof, lying feet-upward and looking very much like a dead, one-legged bird. Then, to Nisstyre’s horror, the hut simply faded away.

Hissing his rage, the drow wizard stooped and picked up a fragment of the ice golem. He spat the words of a spell and flung the shard at the human warrior. Instantly the man was encased from neck down in a thick, immobilizing crust of ice.

Nisstyre stalked over to face his unwanted ally. “Whoever you are, whatever you are, you cost me a fortune in spellbooks and treasure,” he snarled. “Do you know how long IVe been stalking that thrice-damned Red Wizard?”

Although he spoke in perfect Common, the widely used trade language of these lands, there was no spark of understanding in the trapped man’s face. The human’s faint smile never faltered, and his blue eyes promised death. Nisstyre realized that the magical attack had added his name to this strange warrior’s list of enemies.

“How do you fight like that?” the drow demanded. “What magic.do you possess?” The human did not speak, but Nisstyre did not really expect or need an answer. He would get his own.

The wizard tossed a pinch of yellow powder at the human. Immediately a faint, blue glow emanated from a point just below the man’s collarbone. The other drow had crowded around to watch, and in a corner of his mind Nisstyre noted that the magic-finding spell caused all of them to glow in a dozen places as magical weapons concealed until now were revealed. He noted the measuring, wary glances they exchanged as the balance of power