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Authors: Ed Greenwood

BOOK: Dark Warrior Rising
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Desperately Taerune twists around, seeking to strike his blade away with her left arm no matter how badly she gets cut, hoping the now-toppling gorkul will both knock his blade down and shield her in its helpless, roaring toppling of tusked flesh.
The gorkul obliges, so the blade meant for her vitals instead cuts deep into Taerune's arm, driven in and in by the entire weight of the gorkul falling past, shearing muscle and sinew and bone alike, in a pain so coldly intense that the breath is forced out of her, in a shriek like a sword point slicing down a metal shield.
She's never felt such pain before, and wonders if this is the end, so swift and sudden, and death has reached out for her before Lady Taerune Evendoom has managed to make any of her big dreams real …
The Gloating of the Crone
There is no more cruel sound, I own,
Than the slow gloating of the crone.
—from the traditional Nifl ballad,
“Houses, Houses Over Us”
“C
ome,” Exalted Daughter of the Ice Semmeira said curtly, dragging Lolonmae to her feet with hands on her shoulders that were like talons. “The Revered Mother has need of you.”
“What?” the novice gasped, wide-eyed, as grim-faced priestesses half-marched, half-dragged her down passages. “What
now
?”
“I was hoping,” Semmeira said icily, “that
you
could tell
me,
Little Favored One. Behold!”
The Revered Mother stood unmoving before a watch-whorl that was as large as she was, staring fixedly into its depths. Out of which protruded a thick black leathery arc of flesh that rippled and shuddered and gave every evidence of being alive.
Alive, angry, and trying to thrust its way forward, through a whorl that was too small for it. The cruel fangs of a vast maw beneath it could just be seen through the whorl's radiance, as could the glistening half spheres of eyes atop its … snout, if that's what it was.
“W-what is it?” Lolonmae gasped.
“They're called raudren. Flying predators that some Olone-loving Nifl are foolish enough to cage—and uncage!—as defenders of their cities. The Revered Mother called this one here, or it sought her out, we know
not which. She's been like that—and
it's
been like that—for quite some time now.”
Lolonmae blinked at her, on the trembling edge of weeping. “But I am the least among us! You
know
that! What has any of this to do with
me
?”
“Before she … went like that,” Semmeira said grimly, “the Revered Mother called the raudren by name: Lolonmae.”
The novice found herself encircled by accusingly glaring priestesses.
“Now, Lolonmae,” the Exalted Daughter of the Ice asked her softly, “is there anything you should be telling us?”
 
 
The attics were far more cluttered and dusty than Orivon remembered them. He'd managed to find a scrap of cloth and an old, long-forgotten, dripping tap to wet it at, and tie the whole thing around his face to quell his sneezes—and by Thorar, he was glad he had.
He had no idea how many human centuries the Evendooms had been living in this castle, but they'd evidently been here a long, long time. Time that had been spent replacing the furniture often—without ever getting rid of any of it, by the looks of these crammed, rafter-heaped rooms. Up to the attics, always, went everything. To stay. Even the caverats had moved in, and fought their battles with each other and anything that might taste good to gnaw on, for generation upon generation.
Through their dusty corpses and heaped excrement Orivon Firefist trudged, as quietly as possible, ducking between shelves that held a bewildering variety of seating, and shelves that held carved wooden coffers of all appearances and sizes—though, like all the Nifl coffers out in the rooms of the Eventowers right now, they all had rounded-off corners. He'd heard spells had been cast up here that prevented any flame from igniting, but he could see no glows and feel no tinglings.
This winding way, and now this one … no, a dead end, heaped with—what
were
those, anyway? No, later, if ever in his life he had idle time to come back here and waste it sorting out Evendoom leavings—ha!
Orivon was searching for a room he'd seen only once, and fleetingly. Wherefore he barely remembered it: a sumptuously furnished meeting chamber, its floor covered in long-furred beast hides; its center occupied by a grand oval wooden table around which stood many, many tall, spire-backed chairs; and its walls sheathed in wood panels that were the
doors of long rows of closets that
surely
would hold a cloak or three for him to snatch, for his journey out in the Dark.
It had been in one of the larger, central towers, this chamber, and indeed it was only in that core of sixteen or so largest, oldest towers of the Evendoom castle that the attics were joined, to form the vast and cluttered labyrinth he was wandering through. So it was somewhere here, and close, though finding it might take seemingly forever—unless some fool of a crone had taken it into her head to change things. Even then, surely, he'd find evidence of rebuilding and recent shiftings.
Just so long as the bracers he was wearing didn't awaken any ancient slaying magics that had been left to greet any warblade poking around where he shouldn't be …
That chamber had been important, once. A place of secrets and important discussions, where crones met with the Lord of the House, and … yes, there
had
been a hole in the center of the table where a watch-whorl could be cast, and everyone around the table could peer into it. So, the place, too, from which the Evendooms had spied upon Talonnorn around them, and the wider Dark beyond that. Perhaps even Ashenuld, and other villages in the Blindingbright, choosing where to raid and what to seize.
A place from which the Evendoom crones could watch a fleeing slave wander in the Dark, and direct the Hunt and raudren and warblade patrols just where to find him.
Did he dare take a cloak, or anything beyond his own forgings—that had never left the Rift, that he
knew
no spellrobe had handled and enspelled? Could they trace everything else?
Could they trace
him
? He wore no collar, and knew of nothing they'd thrust into him, under his skin … but he'd been branded and enspelled many a time, and the crones alone knew what they'd done to him. Or was he but one slave among many, scarce worth such trouble despite his forge skills? Were slaves beneath all but passing notice?
He turned another corner, nose prickling despite the wet mask he wore, picked his way carefully over something fallen and rotten that had tumbled out of coffers that had collapsed, and spread his hands in a shrug.
No matter what fancies he spun, and traps he thought up, there wasn't a single Thorar-damned thing he could
do
about any of this. Just stay alive from moment to moment, and do whatever it took to get away—and stay away. Whatever it took, from hiding up here for Turning after Turning, to pleasuring Lord Evendoom himself.
That thought made him snort in dismissive mirth—which was when he turned a corner and found what he'd been seeking.
He saw no dust and clutter from where he stood beside a cracked, life-sized statue of a Nifl that was missing its hands but had acquired a stray collection of old, moldering war-harness, draped and hung over the sculpted stone, to a grand door that was outlined by a faint glow. On the other side of that door, if scant traces of memory served him right, was a landing, the top of a stair leading down into the rest of the castle.
And just over
here,
there should be a similarly grand door, and behind it was the meeting chamber.
Orivon approached it cautiously, looking all around for guards or watching Nifl or stirring magics. Nothing, and the silence seemed empty, not tense or watchful. He was alone.
So he shrugged, strode up to the door as if he belonged in this place, closed his hand on its pull-ring, and drew it open.
Still but not stale air greeted him. The great table with its chairs stood just as he'd remembered, neat and clean and quite free of dust.
So the room was still used. He should move quickly.
Leaving the door just ajar behind him—no bolts of lightning, no sudden flare of spells or Nifl shouts—Orivon strode to the nearest panel on the left, and pulled it open.
The expected closet greeted him, but it was empty. As was the next … and the next. The fourth held cloaks, hung on shaped frames that descended from a metal bar, but when he held them out on an angle to peer at them, he could see at a glance that they were much too small: ornate half-cloaks, with feminine trim and adornment; garb for young Nifl-shes. Orivon closed that panel and patiently opened the next, and very soon the next after that.
More cloaks, and they were larger. Yet not large enough; they'd cover his shoulders like an old Ashenuld woman's shawl, if he found nothing better, but they'd hardly
hide
anything. Well, this was still better than rummaging through all those coffers in the dim dust of the attics behind him, hoping to find something suitable.
The next closet was a surprise. It ran along beyond the next several panels, a longer—and deeper, too, with a tilted mirror-glass, table, and stool crowded into it—space that held a long bar hung with many cloaks. And caps, and
hoods
!
Well, now! Orivon held one up, spreading his fingers inside it to ape the size of a Nifl head, so as to get a good look at it. Eyeholes, a pointed
chin, feminine trim again … but it certainly offered concealment. Yet did it have some ritual meaning or represent some ancient fashion or now-shunned custom, so that wearing it would draw more attention than the sight of his own human head?
Well, he'd just have to chance it, assuming he ever found one large enough, in all this, for his head. Nifl were surprisingly small, sleek, fine-boned things when they weren't standing tall and grand and sneering in front of you, with whips in their hands! Orivon set the hood he'd plucked up carefully back where he'd found it, and selected another. Yes, this was bigger, perhaps big enough—
Voices!
Yes! Nifl voices, very near!
Thorar preserve!
Orivon sprang into the closet, pulled the panel to—it had little finger-holds on the insides, thank Thorar—and pulled a huge handful of cloaks down off the bar, sitting down and burying himself in a slumped heap of them. He had just time to check that his boots were covered, drape the last few cloaks over his head, and settle into stillness before he heard a cruel, gloating female Nifl voice say clearly, “Galaerra, cast the whorl!”
“Yes, Highest,” a softer voice—another she—replied eagerly.
“Baraule,” the first voice commanded, “sit you there, on one side of Taerune. Klaerra, take the seat on the other side of her.”
“This is my seat, Mah—”
“It
was
your seat, Klaerra, in Orlarra's time, but
I
am eldest of House Evendoom now, and it is my will that you shall sit there, where I've directed. I believe you are familiar with the extent of my authority.”
“Yes,” came a reply that was as icy as it was soft, “I believe I am.” Then radiance kindled in front of Orivon's cloak-veiled eyes, and he froze, scarcely daring to breathe. The glow took on the slowly turning shape of a watch-whorl!
Thorar!
The swift fury of his cloak work must have whisked the door panel ajar again, leaving him visible to everyone in the room! For if he could see out, albeit in a narrow column, it followed that the Nifl crones could see in!
“Eldest Maharla, the whorl is ready,” the soft voice of Galaerra said suddenly.
“Good. Show us all Talonnorn, as if from the highest spire of the Eventowers.”
After a moment, there were gasps and mutterings.
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” Maharla said coldly, her tone making it clear she wasn't seeking any answers. “Our city has been battered—no
House damaged as much as ours, but no House escaping loss, save perhaps Maulstryke. Notice—thank you for anticipating me, Galaerra,
this once
—how little damage Maulgard has sustained. How few fallen lie before its gates, and in its grounds. Suspicious, is it not?”
The eldest crone paused, but there was silence around the table. If she'd expected open agreement, she was now experiencing disappointment. Not that there was any hint of such in her voice, when she went on.
“Our rampants report much evidence of this attack coming from the city of Ouvahlor, and so it did. Yet it is unlikely a city of blasphemers, their faces turned so far from the favor of Olone, could accomplish so much against strong, valiant Talonnorn without aid. I suspect treachery on the part of
unscathed
House Maulstryke—and I want all Talonnorn to suspect as much, as swiftly as possible, without any open accusation being made by anyone of Evendoom. See to it, sisters.”
There was a faint stirring or rustling sound, as if those around the table had all nodded or made some sort of gesture of assent, though Orivon could see nothing.
“Yet I need you to do more. I need you to watch and listen—again, without any overbold spying that takes any of you into places you would not normally go, or deeds you would not normally undertake—for any shred or hint of proof of Maulstryke involvement in this assault. Anything of this sort—
anything,
no matter how slight; a look, a tone of voice, a smile—bring to me without delay.”
Again the brief rustling.
“I need you to do even more than this. Our warblades were shockingly unprepared for what has just occurred. Our Hunt not flying the moment the deepserpents reared up, our spellrobes not destroying them before they could shatter our gates—and our servants and slaves not hurled against the foe before that foe was inside our very walls! More than this: Our rampants fought as
they
saw fit, seemingly without command. Our battlelords were absent from the fray. These lapses are not only unacceptable, they are treasonous—and I personally can find no explanation for all of them occurring, and with such sweeping strength of incompetence, other than our own Lord Evendoom intended matters to be so.”

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