Dark Vengeance (39 page)

What he needed to do was craft and then cast a translocation that was linked to the destruction of the shields, so their bursting would cause him to be whisked away before harm could come to him.

Yes, that was it. Hurled and churned about in the innards of the dung-worm, the still-shielded Klarandarr allowed himself a smile, and set to work.

 

Klaerra Evendoom's scream ended suddenly, as her head burst.

The watching merchants had just time to see that much before the spell that had overloaded her claimed the rest of her body—and it exploded.

Spattered by the grisly wetness that had been Klaerra Evendoom, the awed merchants of the Araed saw the priestesses and crones topple over—stunned or struck unconscious—all around the room.

Awe became fear, and amid general cursing most of the traders sought the door.

“I'm getting out of this place before it becomes our tomb!” one shouted, elbowing others aside viciously to be the first out.

When he tugged on the handle of the closed door, it toppled, too, its dark shadow descending before he quite realized what was happening.

He had just time to gape up at it before it fell on him, crushing him like a rotten fruit.

“Too late,” the old merchant Ondrar commented laconically, watching fresh blood—Araed merchant blood—run across the floor. “Perhaps too late for us all. Talonnorn may already have become one big tomb.”

 

The rumbling of their haste was done, the spell that had brought them broken. Freed, the gigantic dung-worms slithered away, wandering aimlessly.

They were uncomfortable so close to so many others of their kind, nettled that they'd been used despite not really knowing how, and filled with an instinctive revulsion for staying in the spot they'd all been summoned to. So they drew back from that meeting of mouths, turned, and glided away over rubble and along streets, heading in all directions.

The largest titan, a worm longer than any caravan that had ever been seen in Talonnorn, was halfway across the great cavern when it shuddered, convulsed—and exploded with a wet roar, spewing a bright star high into the air, and sending one last rumbling across the cavern like an inexorable wave.

Close enough to the cavern ceiling to touch it, that star winked once.

Then it faded, though no one happened to be watching. The winking was the flashing translocation of Klarandarr, snatching himself safely back to Ouvahlor.

The deep, rolling wave of the explosion struck the Eventowers, proud seat of House Evendoom and the High Lord of Talonnorn, and made its grand stones shudder.

Slowly, with seeming reluctance but then with building speed, the tallest and most splendid Evendoom tower toppled over, smashing through the front wing of the mansion on its way to the ground . . . and leaving nothing of the soaring heart of the Eventowers but rubble.

Nifl and human slaves all sounded alike when shrieking in terror.

Orivon winced, flung out a hand to keep Taerune from falling—the blade he'd fashioned to replace her left forearm was closest to him, and he preferred not to be sliced open—and waited for the rumblings to die away.

Then he stretched out his other hand to Brith, and asked, “Want to see Orlkettle again?”

Brith stared back at him, and then burst into sudden tears and swarmed up that arm to bury himself against Orivon's chest, weeping uncontrollably. Orivon stroked his back—his whip-scarred, bony young back—awkwardly, and then called roughly, “Reldaera? Aumril? Kalamae?”

Someone else started crying, far down the yeldeth-shrouded tunnel, but no one came.

Taerune Evendoom leaned close. “You should take them all, Orivon. All of the human children. How can you not?”

Orivon looked at her, face stern, and then nodded slowly and echoed, “How can I not?”

It took some time to retrieve all the young Hairy Ones, for they were almost as scared of Orivon as they were of Taerune, but in the end, carrying all the yeldeth they could manage, they reluctantly allowed themselves to be led up into House Oondaunt. They came out into the great cavern weeping and staggering dazedly.

 

“Claz,” Munthur rumbled, from the window. “Come. You should see this.”

Clazlathor the spellrobe sighed and got up from his desk. He was just beginning to hope that Klarandarr of Ouvahlor—for who else could that spellrobe of such peerless, terrible power have been?—would leave
some
part of Talonnorn standing, and a few Talonar still alive . . . and now . . .

He joined his friend at the window. More than a head taller than most Nifl, Munthur could see farther, but for once what he was staring at was laid out clearly before Clazlathor's gaze, too.

Ouvahlan warriors were roaming and pillaging at will; there were seemingly no Talonar left to resist them. A handful of tall, spired homes still stood between the long line of devastation and the Eventowers, but where the tallest Evendoom tower should have stood, proud and dark against the cavern sky, there was nothing but a little dust, drifting in the air.

Nearer, just now emerging from the litter of rubble that had recently been the front gates of House Oondaunt, were a Nifl-she and . . . a straggling line of naked Hairy One younglings!

Clazlathor chuckled sourly. “So, the last doom is come. Even the slaves are getting out.”

Beside him, Munthur rumbled wordless agreement—that broke off abruptly when his friend clutched at him in astonishment.

Someone else had emerged from the rubble, swords in either hand. “That's . . . the Dark Warrior,” the spellrobe said in disbelief. “So he got his vengeance after all; nothing left of proud House Evendoom but corpses and dust.”

Munthur blinked. “Our High Lord's dead, then?”

Clazlathor shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? He's High Lord of nothing, now, anyway. There's naught left for the conquering Ouvahlans to stay here for; after they plunder, they'll go back to their city, leaving this place to the eaters-of-dead, outlaw Nifl, and Ravagers.”

“Another Glowstone or Lightpools,” Munthur rumbled. “The Consecrated of Olone won't like that.”

“They'll soon be dead, if they say so,” was the grim response. “The lucky ones are dead already.”

 

“Orivon!” Taerune said warningly. The forgefist peered over the heads of the children, seeking to see what had alarmed her.

She was facing toward one of the mansions the spellrobe
hadn't blasted, that stood between the path of rubble he'd caused and the Eventowers.

Nifl rampants were emerging from a gate in the unscathed walls of that high house now, with swords in their hands.

“Run
nowhere,
” Orivon told the children firmly, as he started tramping past them. “Stay here, and keep together. Lady Taerune will protect you.”

Taerune turned her head sharply at those words, frowned at him, and then nodded slowly, bringing up her sword in salute.

Orivon gave her a tight, silent smile and strode past her, hefting his swords as he walked across the sea of rubble to meet the Niflghar. A dozen warblades, in dark armor, with good blades, they were, and they were already heading toward him.

“Dark Warrior,” one of them called as he strode steadily nearer to them, “did you do all of this? Are you come here to throw down Talonnorn?”

“No,” Orivon told him firmly. “This is none of my doing. Ouvahlor struck here, and warriors of that city are still looting in your streets.
I
came for these children, snatched from my village by raiding warblades of Oondaunt.”

The warblades came to a halt, in an arc facing him, swords up.

Orivon stopped, too, raising both of his swords.

“So,” he asked them calmly, “are you going to try to kill me?”

They stared back at him coolly. Then one of them—the one who'd hailed him—shook his head.

“No, Dark Warrior. We have no dispute with you. We, too, would take up sword and fare forth to rescue our children.”

Silence fell. Orivon nodded. The warblades started to turn away, but another of them added, “We want none of your blood, and nothing you bear—unless you happen to have one treasure we seek most.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“The head of Jalandral Evendoom.”

Orivon smiled. “That's a treasure I'm also tempted to seek, but we Hairy Ones are generous. If you find it, know this: it's all yours.”

The warblades laughed grimly, raised their swords in salute, and headed off across the rubble in another direction.

Orivon watched them go, and then turned back to Taerune. For some reason, he suddenly couldn't stop smiling.

 

Jalandral Evendoom was hurrying as fast as he could, slipping and sliding in dark and unfamiliar tunnels. He'd never much cared for the Outcaverns, with their lurking monsters and their utter lack of willing Nifl-shes and good wine and other Talonar to show off in front of—and he didn't think much of them now.

He was High Lord of nothing, with Talonnorn a lawless ruin behind him, and all of this magic was
heavy.

He'd got out of the Eventowers just in time, and if it hadn't been for the back tunnels, to the Hidden Gate, he'd probably still be in there—dead, crushed under more fallen stone than all the slaves left in Talonnorn could lift away.

Instead, he was still alive—for now, at least—and wearing dozens of deadly rings that flashed and tingled restlessly as he went, with no less than six belts buckled around him, all of them hung heavily with pouches and sheaths that bore scepters and wands and all sorts of enchanted oddments. A baldric-sling across his back held more than a dozen healing stones and a talking head sculpted of smooth metal, whose true purpose he had no inkling of, but whose magic glowed more brightly than anything else he was carrying. Yes, noble Houses of Talonnorn certainly loved their magical fripperies, and the ability to blast anyone who disagreed with them.

Maybe—just maybe—all of this would keep him alive for long enough to . . .

He slowed, coming out into a cavern where he caught sight of a grimly staring Niflghar rampant, bearing a drawn sword. Then he saw another. And another—no, three more, rising from behind rocks.

As Jalandral Evendoom came to a despairing stop, feeling for
one of the few scepters he knew how to wield—for his rings could best only someone he was touching; to fell a foe from afar, he needed a scepter—he saw that the cavern held many armed Nifl—including, as a slight sound from behind him made him whirl around, more than a dozen who'd silently closed ranks behind him, standing ready with drawn swords.

As more and more Niflghar arose from behind rocks and joined in a slow, silent advance on him, Jalandral saw that he stood at the heart of a closing ring. Talonar Nifl, of all Houses and of none. All of them were armed, and all were eyeing him in silent menace.

Jalandral's hand closed over the scepter, but he did not draw it forth. There were too many of them, far too many, and he could see scepters in plenty, held ready and aimed at him.

He let out a deep breath and just stood there, awaiting his death.

A tall Nifl rampant with burning eyes—a Raskshaula, by his targe—walked slowly toward Jalandral, drawn sword held out before him as if it was a banner.

When he was close enough to touch Jalandral, he stopped, knelt, laid the sword across the toes of Jalandral's boots, looked up, and murmured almost reverently, “Command us, High Lord.”

But however deep and dark I fare
Monsters horrid to fight and slay
There is no brighter moment in my faring
Than to rise to Blindingbright again.

—
words of Orivon Firefist,
as remembered in Orlkettle

S
ince when,” the most beautiful Nifl-she the Evendoom warblade had ever seen asked him, “has the way into Glowstone been barred to a pair of traders of the Dark? We are what the Haraedra have always termed ‘Ravagers,' and Glowstone is the closest thing we have to a home.”

As two more warblades came up to stand with him, drawn swords in hand, the warblade barring Nurnra's path spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness and told her gravely, “I have my orders.”

Nurnra turned her head and regarded him sidelong, knowing well just how devastatingly fetching such a movement made her look. “Orders? So who rules Glowstone now, hmm?”

A tall, handsome Nifl rampant strode out from behind a pillar of rock, arms folded across his chest, and face stern.

“We do, sharren.” He looked from Nurnra to Oronkh, his face making it clear how suspicious he found the very existence of a half-Niflghar, half-gorkul, and added, “And our rules are good and prudent. Let me repeat the choice you were just given: surrender your magic or begone.”

Faunhorn Evendoom was used to command, and was a splendid figure of a rampant as well as a proud and honorable Talonar noble; he looked like all of those things, and Oronkh drew back with an instinctive rumble of wary respect.