Dark Vengeance (40 page)

Nurnra felt respect, too, but she had a different way of showing it. “Who is ‘we' and ‘our,' Lord Polite But Nameless Commander?
Our
rules of Glowstone seem quite different from yours.”

“I am Lord Faunhorn Evendoom, late of Talonnorn, and we hold Glowstone now.”

“By right of arms?”

“By right of arms. I should add that as we speak, you are surrounded, and more than a few scepters are aimed at you.”

“There's that ‘we' again. I ask again, who rules Glowstone?”

Behind her, Oronkh gave a low, warning rumble, but Nurnra ignored him.

“As repetition is obviously a practice personally familiar to you, sharren,” Faunhorn replied almost gently, “I say again: surrender your magic or begone.”

Nurnra took a slow step forward, to stand toe to toe with him. “Glowstone is and has always been a trade-moot, where all Ravagers meet as equals. Magic is what we two happen to have to trade. Stand aside, refugee of Talonnorn.”

Anger curled up in Faunhorn's eyes, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Do you defy me?”

Nurnra shrugged. “I have yet to recognize that you have any authority over me, polite and handsome Talonar lord.” She surveyed him from boots to hair, licked her lips, and added lightly, “Nice.
Very
nice.”

Faunhorn stiffened, truly furious now, but another, older Nifl emerged from around a corner and said heavily, “Let them pass,
brother. Dangerous they may be, but what Ravager isn't? If we deny Glowstone to all, we shall pass our days in loneliness, shunned by those who travel the Dark—or end our days under their blades, as they choose to all visit us together, and refuse to be denied.”

Nurnra smiled at the newcomer, but Oronkh lifted his tusks and asked carefully, “We mean no trouble to anyone, Lord, but I want no misunderstandings. You're saying we're welcome, even if we hold on to our magic, aye? You're not going to let us in and then all try to slaughter us, are you? Y'see, I'd not want you to try that. I can't trade with a huge heap of dead Talonar Nifl.”

“Empty threat duly noted,” Faunhorn said gravely. “Very well. Ravagers, be aware that this is Lord Erlingar Evendoom, formerly of Talonnorn, but now Lord of Glowstone.”

Erlingar Evendoom nodded. “And yes, you
are
welcome, and we have no intention—just now—of offering you any violence at all. You may keep your magic, or try to trade it to us, for there are precious few Ravagers here but yourselves.”

“Say you so!” Nurnra replied, smiling. “Yonder stands Old Bloodblade, greatest Ravager of them all! Ho, Fat One!”

“Ho, Sucker of Blood!” Bloodblade replied with a grin, from where he'd strolled into view behind Lord Erlingar Evendoom. “What stolen delights have you brought this time, hey?”

Nurnra put her hands on her hips. “The answer to that, as well you know, depends on what you can offer me . . . for any delights at all.”

Bloodblade looked rueful. “As to that, I've fallen into lean ways, since I led a perfectly good batch of slaves up to the Blindingbright and let them go, without seeing so much as a fingertip-gem in payment from anyone.” He spread his hands. “So I'm poor and dow—”

“Intruders! More than a handcount!” a warblade snapped, down the tunnel that led up to the lookout cavern. As everyone stiffened, Erlingar held up a warning hand in front of Bloodblade's mouth to silence him, warblades looked to Faunhorn for orders and then scurried wherever he pointed, and Bloodblade beckoned Nurnra and Oronkh to join him.

They hastened to do so, ending up around a corner, in a side niche of a much larger cavern. “Keep to whispers,” Bloodblade told the sharren and the half-gorkul hoarsely, “or we'll have Lord Sternjaws Faunhorn right on top of us—”

“You already do,”
Faunhorn said from behind them, his whisper as firm as steel. There were scepters in both of his hands, and they were aimed at Nurnra and Oronkh.

“Now, you two, if intruders are here
right
behind you, and you have magic, you will
tell
me what magic you have—or die, right now!” he added fiercely.

Oronkh started to pat frantically at his vest—only to stop cold as the tip of a scepter struck his throat.

“
Tell
me,” Faunhorn said icily, “and do
not
reach for anything. Now . . .”

His voice trailed away. Nurnra had torn open her bodice, to thrust something under his nose. Or rather, two somethings.

 

Almost wearily the warblade stepped out from behind the rocks, into the passage.

“Hairy One,” he said sternly to the hulking human warrior who was striding warily closer, swords in both hands, “halt. A dozen scepters are aimed at you now, and every one of them can blast you down in an instant. You are come to Glowstone, and it stands not unguarded. What is your business here?”

Orivon Firefist stopped. “Rest, water, and safe passage onward,” he replied. “I am bound for the surface, and my companions with me. So who are you? You have the look of a Talonar warblade, but . . .”

“But when last you looked, Glowstone was not part of Talonnorn?” The warblade grinned, and then added gently, “You would save us all much trouble if you take one step to the side, so we can clearly see who is hiding behind you.”

“Harm them,” Orivon replied softly, “and die.”

And he stepped aside, to reveal a line of large-eyed, frightened
human children, barefoot and shivering with cold and fear, wearing only bloodstained scraps of Nifl cloaks wrapped around themselves.

The warblade looked at them. “Escaped slaves,” he said slowly. “Where have you brought them from, Hairy One?”

“They are not
escaped,
” a new voice said crisply, out of the darkness beyond the children. It was the voice of an imperious Nifl-she. “They are with me, and my human champion is guarding them, so that they are transported in safety from one place to another. Strike at me, and House Evendoom will deem you a foe forevermore.”

The warblade's smile was crooked. “Oh, I hardly think so. I am of Evendoom—as are we all, here.”

The response was swift and sharp. “Is the one called Jalandral among you?”

Lord Erlingar Evendoom lost patience, and stepped out into view to ask bluntly, “Lady, who
are
you?”

A slender form stepped into view around a rock pillar behind the huddled human children. Its left arm ended in a sword blade. “Once,” it replied quietly, “I was your daughter.”

Lord Evendoom gasped and stepped forward, voice rising. “Taerune?
Taerune?
Can it be?”

Then he was sobbing and rushing forward. Orivon stepped deftly aside and swept some of the children out of his way, as they started to cry in bewilderment and for fear of what this weeping Niflghar might do.

Warblades were crowding forward now, but their blades hung almost forgotten in their hands; they were all staring at the tall figure who rushed to embrace their lord.

The two met and clung to each other, arms around each other, crying and kissing.

Someone burst through the warblades from behind, eyes alight. “Taerune? Did I hear right?”

“Uncle Faunhorn!” the one-armed Nifl-she cried, reaching out a hand for him from her father's embrace.

That clinging promptly became threefold, rocking back and forth, as warblades converged slowly, and Orivon gathered the children aside against a wall and crouched with them, murmuring, “This is good, this will be right. See? Nightskins cry for family, too!”

There was much laughter, and it was a decidedly friendly Erlingar Evendoom who came to Orivon, with Taerune on his arm, and said, “So, Orivon—I have that right, yes?—you fashioned this blade for my daughter's arm, and kept her alive when she was cast out.”

Orivon rose with a smile, and replied, “She kept me alive, too, and we made common cause with Old Bloodblade. Is she Lady Evendoom to you, once more? Or am I going to have to break some Nifl necks?”

Erlingar smiled slowly. “She is Lady Taerune Evendoom, and heir of House Evendoom, no matter what any Consecrated of Olone might say about marred Niflghar. Yet I hear Talonnorn is much changed.”

“Much,” Orivon agreed dryly. “I would go so far as to say that the Talonnorn you knew is no more.”

“Will you tarry with us, here in Glowstone, or—?” Erlingar gestured at the children.

“They need rest, and food, and water,” Orivon said firmly. “Then we press on, to the Blindingbright, where they should be.”

“And I will be walking with them,” Taerune told her father, just as firmly. “I'll return here, once these humans are out of the Dark, but I made a promise, and—”

“You'll not be making it alone!” Bloodblade rumbled, lurching into view with Nurnra and Oronkh right behind him. “I'll be with you, as before!”

“We'll come, too,” the sharren added. “Being as our presence seems to so unsettle these Evendooms.”

Orivon lifted his head. “You're not slavers, are you?”

The half-gorkul shook his head. “No. We trade in smaller, more portable things that don't have to be fed.”

“Check your pouches and sheaths, everyone,” Bloodblade advised cheerfully.

 

Jalandral Evendoom shook his head. “Farther,” he said curtly. “If there's good water at this Tumblerocks, let's take ourselves there. I want to be farther away from Talonnorn.”

More than a few of the Talonar around him looked anxious.

“They say this is the most dangerous part of the Wild Dark,” one of them offered, voice hushed as he gazed around with wide eyes.

Jalandral rounded on him, raising his voice so that all could hear. “Rampant, hear me well: this is indeed the most dangerous part of the Wild Dark.”

He strode away for a few slow, dramatic steps, and then turned and added, “And why? Because we stand in it, and
we
are the greatest danger in all these caverns!”

His words were now falling into a tense, rapt silence. Not a Nifl was moving; all eyes were upon him.

“Oh, there are slithering and lurking things, yes, and not noticing them approaching will mean doom for anyone, but never forget this: we must become Ravagers now, at least until the time is right to retake Talonnorn—which means these wild caverns are
our home.
Our strength is all of us, working together—and together, we can defeat anything this ‘Wild Dark' can hurl at us. Together, we
shall
defeat it, and our victories shall make us ever wiser and stronger, until the day comes when we can return in triumph to Talonnorn, and make it our home cavern once again.”

He was pacing now, drinking in their attention, feeling the hope rising behind their cynicism. He had them.

“To those who worry that we have turned from Olone, and stand in the shadow of Her disfavor and eternal curse, hear me well: I stood in the temple of the Holy Beauty we all worship, and heard how far Her Consecrated had strayed from Her true way, and I say to you that She will be pleased with what we do, you and I, in seeking to cleanse Talonnorn and retake it renewed and changed.”

Jalandral was careful not to strut. He had to sound grave and yet confident. “Yet you need not believe me. You can set aside these words of mine, and merely watch. The Dark
is
dangerous, and will hand us perils—but it will also, through the favor of Olone, provide for us.” He took another slow step. “Good things will befall, and the Dark will offer us what we need, if we but persist. You'll see.”

The air beside him, where the cavern floor rose into a sort of raised ramp of stone, suddenly flickered and flashed, and a smiling Nifl-she stood there, on stone that had been bare of anything a moment before.

Maharla Evendoom's smile widened as she turned slowly, so that every Nifl in the cavern might recognize her. “Lord and High Lord Jalandral,
that
sounded like as good a cue as any Eldest of Evendoom has ever heard.”

Jalandral blinked, too taken aback to hide his astonishment. “Maharla!”

“Who else?” she asked, stretching languidly so that everyone could see her magnificent body. “Who else would come out of struggling so hard against corrupt Consecrated of Olone to offer her lord her magic, her knowledge . . . and her body?”

Something akin to a growl of desire arose in a dozen throats, all over that cavern, as the Talonar rampants all stared at her.

Maharla smiled around at them all, and then bent her gaze on Jalandral, her lips parting in longing.

“You,” she whispered. “You I am
so
proud of. You have passed all the tests, bested all rivals and foes, and become what Talonnorn needs . . . and what
I
need. Take me, Dral. Take me, and command me hereafter!”

Jalandral smiled—a smile that grew as he walked to her, opening his arms to embrace.

He watched her smile turn triumphant, as he lowered his mouth to hers. Then, as his arms tightened around Maharla, he triggered three of the rings he wore, all at once: the one that paralyzed, the one that froze all magic in the body it was touching, and the one that clawed flesh.

She stiffened—because that was all the first ring allowed her to do—as the last ring's power plunged into her back, but was halted by the second ring.

Jalandral stepped back from her, drew his sharpest dagger, and plunged it savagely into her. Then, holding her so that she wouldn't fall, he slashed her across her breasts, sliced away her ears, one after another, and then cut away her nose.

She stared at him in helpless horror as her spurting blood drenched him, and he snarled, “Eldest, I remember
every last one
of your cruelties. This paltry repayment is the least I can fittingly do to you!”

Eyes on hers, contempt curling his lip, he laid open her throat, and then let go, letting the force of his slash turn her body, and let it topple.