Windwalker (24 page)

The gem responded to his touch with a flare of searing heat. A vivid image leaped into his mind: a drow priestess with an angular, feral face and a voluptuously full mouth. She stared forward intently, her crimson eyes moving as if she scanned a room.

Nisstyre? she inquired. The words sounded in the deathsinger’s pain-benumbed mind like the clanging of bells.

“Speak softly or kill me now,” Brindlor mumbled.

“Ah, both the deathsinger and the ruby have awakened,” Gorlist said in tones rounded with satisfaction. He came into Brindlor’s field of vision and seized the deathsinger’s tunic. With ungentle hands he hauled Brindlor into a sitting position and propped him against the wall. That accomplished, he squatted down to eye level and stared intently into the deathsinger’s face.

“Just repeat what she says. She will hear my words well enough.”

Nisstyre? the priestess inquired, more emphatically. Still dazed, Brindlor echoed the question.

“He is dead. Gorlist, son of Nisstyre, now commands the Dragon’s Hoard.”

You would be this Gorlist, I suppose?

Brindlor relayed the words if not the sneering intonation drow females typically employed.

Who is the stone’s new host?

Brindlor decided it was time to speak for himself. “I am Brindlor Zidorian of Ched Nessad, a deathsinger famed for songs of dark glory.”

I’

“He will sing of the downfall and death of Liriel Baenre,” Gorlist added. He paused, then inclined his head in a small, reluctant bow. “If that is still your wish.”

Your purpose and mine are in accord.

Brindlor related this response. Gorlist smiled. “I thought they might be.”

Bring your full forces to the troll caves near the Glowing Dra-colich Cavern. I will meet you there.

The gleam in Gorlist’s eyes abruptly dimmed when he heard these instructions. “You will join us? There is no need for you to endanger yourself in a long tunnel march, much less in the Night Above! The ruby gem will enable you to see all through a deathsinger’s eyes.”

In time I might find his particular vision useful or at least amusing. Until then, you will both do as I say. Gromph Baenre himself will see that you are well paid.

A searing heat flared high and hot in the ruby, then the painful presence receded.

“She’s gone,” Brindlor said with relief, speaking his own words at last. He turned furious eyes on Gorlist. “What is this about? The gem, the female? The archmage? I am to sing a Baenre princess’s deathsong to an audience of her own blood? Why didn’t you tell me we were working for Gromph Baenre? I could have cut my own throat and saved the great archmage the inconvenience of a bloodied dagger.”

“Until this very moment, I didn’t know about Gromph Baenre’s interest,” Gorlist said. “As to the other matter, this female, Shakti Hunzrin, gave that gem to my father, the wizard Nisstyre. They worked together until his death. My father’s task is now mine.”

“I’d prefer that your father’s gem was now yours,” Brindlor grumbled.

The warrior shrugged. “You chose to become a bard. Is it not said that all great art is born of suffering?”

BORDERLANDS

Merdrith stood on the docks of Kront, looking out over the deceptively calm waters of Ashane. A short, thick-bodied Ashanathi fisherman stood a few paces away, eyeing him with speculation. Despite the woolen cap concealing his head tattoos, the soot darkening his thin crimson beard, and his rough woodsman’s garb, Merdrith had the look of Thay’s wizard nobility. Red Wizards were slain on sight in Rashemen and were none too welcome in the bordering countries.

“You traveling alone?” the man asked.

“Passage for one,” Merdrith confirmed.

“It’ll cost you. I wasn’t planning to dock in Rashemen and won’t be coming near to any port town. I can set you ashore on the edge of the Ashenwood, about a day’s walk south of Immilmar. Best I can do,” he said defensively.

The wizard understood completely. While the fisherman didn’t wish to lose a potential fare, neither did he want to risk angering his powerful neighbors. No doubt the wretch intended to stay overnight in Immilmar. He could sell the day’s catch and warn the local fyrra of the suspicious outlander sighted walking northward along the shore. As it turned out, the proposed destination suited his purposes perfectly.

“Will ten Thesken gold suffice?” he asked, holding up a small deerskin bag.

The sailor’s eyes widened with avarice. He snatched the offered payment and offered a gap-toothed grin. “Brunzel will stow your gear. Take a seat, get yourself a tarp cloak. In this season the winds coming off the Ashane could freeze the blood of a white dragon.”

Merdrith already knew this. He had last stood on the banks of the Ashane in mid winter, as part of a band of Red Wizards charged with the suicidal task of attacking a witches’ watchtower and keeping the guardians occupied long enough to distract them from the main invading forces. Contrary to all expectation, the magic of these few Red Wizards had prevailed over the tower’s witches.

Even though it shouldn’t have.

This unexpected success still puzzled and intrigued Merdrith. It had inspired him to commit the first truly impulsive act of his life. He had killed his fellow wizards and claimed the tower’s treasures for himself. A treasonous act, to be sure, but had he succeeded in his purpose he could have returned to his homeland in triumph to claim a zulkir’s honors.

It seemed eminently clear to him that the unique spirit-magic of Rashemen had faltered. That was the only explanation for this victory. If he could discover the source of this new weakness and find a way to exploit it, the conquest of Rashemen and the destruction of her much-hated witches would finally be within Thay’s grasp. This particular watchtower was said to be a treasure trove of magic and lorebooks. Merdrith had not been disappointed, and he had left the tower confident that he would find the answers he sought.

His booty had included a witch’s staff, this one a wish-staff fashioned from ebony and elaborately carved. With it he had secured one of the most powerful and well-guarded hiding places in all of Rashemen, a place filled with its own treasures and secrets. By now he should have been sitting in council with the greatest of Thay’s wizards.

Then came two unforeseen complications: a band of drow thieves and an interfering Rashemi warrior. The drow had come upon Merdrith’s hiding place—a legendary magical hut—when he was out walking the forest in search of talkative ghosts. The dark elves had done battle with Merdrith’s gnoll warriors, the busybody Rashemi, and the hut itself. He had returned from his forest ramble in time to see the last flurry of battle as the berserker warrior was encased in an icy shroud. The Rashemi had escaped his prison, foolishly following the drow through a magical portal. The wounded hut had also disappeared, as it was said to do upon taking any hurt. No one knew where it went on these occasions, but according to the lore it would heal itself and return with the next autumn equinox to resume haunting the Rashemaar forests.

With nearly a year to wait, Merdrith found himself bereft of his quest, his magic, and his homeland. If he returned to Thay without the secrets he sought, he would be executed as a traitor and deserter. Lacking a better idea, he fled to the west and took up a hermit’s life in the High Forest, a place notorious for the number of portals into the Underdark.

His first attempts to make contact with the drow raiders had proved disastrous. There were in the High Forest small bands of dark elf females, self-righteous priestess-warriors whose goddess apparently held a dubious view of Merdrith’s character and motives. He’d slain one of the troublesome black wenches, and in conversing with her spirit he learned of a battle in the subterranean realms of Skullport between a band of drow thieves known as the Dragon’s Hoard, and yet another group of drow females.

One of these females was accompanied by a Rashemi warrior, and she was said to hold an artifact known as the Windwalker.

So Merdrith went to Skullport and sought the drow female, the Rashemi, and the band of thieves. The first two were long gone, but the new leader of the Dragon’s Hoard readily agreed to form an alliance.

All was going well. Perhaps even a bit too well. The problem, to Merdrith’s way of thinking, was in finding ways to delay the capture of Windwalker until its current guardians returned it to Rashemen.

For it was there, and only there, that the amulet could release its full power.

The fishing boat made straight for the shore. Its captain sent out a small skiff and a man to row the passenger ashore. Merdrith gave the oarsman a silver coin for his troubles then obligingly headed northward, walking a careful distance from the lake’s edge. As soon as the fishing boat was out of sight, however, he turned into the shadows of the Ashenwood.

He found a small clearing and took a bag of birdseed from his belt. This he sprinkled in a wide circle, all the while singing an old Rashemaar folk song he’d coaxed from the ghost of a slain berserker. They were plentiful, these Rashemaar ghosts, and still full of boasting insults and superstitious chatter. Some of them, however, had inadvertently aided his research.

The rustle of leaves and the creak of bending branches announced the success of Merdrith’s summons. He backed into the concealing underbrush and waited.

A Rashemaar hut stalked cautiously into the clearing on legs resembling those of a giant chicken. Despite its startling mobility, the structure was otherwise unremarkable, with its dark timbers and wattle-and-daub walls, thatched roof, and brightly painted shutters. These shutters were closed, further proof that the hut’s legendary occupant was not in residence.

The hut made its way into the center of the birdseed circle and turned around a couple of times, perhaps to survey the surrounding forest or perhaps in ritual such as that performed by drowsy hounds. Whatever the case, it seemed satisfied. The massive legs folded and the magical dwelling settled down like a brooding hen.

Merdrith began to sing the song that had proven so effective months before.

“While the mistress is asleep, Chicken-legs a watch will keep. When the mistress wanders off, Chicken-legs will stand aloft. When the mistress comes again, Chicken-legs will let her in. Stara Baba casts this spell. Listen, hut, and hearken well.”

There was a stirring at the door, where a small rug fashioned from many-colored rags softened the front stoop. The front edge of this rug rose into the air, fluttering rapidly as if vibrating in a sharp, strong wind. A resounding phhhht! filled the clearing. The hut’s response was eerily reminiscent of a child taunting a lesser playmate. Merdrith scowled and reached for his wand.

A pewter plate came spinning out of the open window. It struck his hand, shattering bone and sending the wand flying end over end. While Merdrith danced and cursed, one massive clawed foot reached out and snared the wand, drawing it under the hut. The hut settled back down and waited, as if inviting him to do his worst.

The wizard had seen enough. He had tried to broach the hut’s defenses before using every spell at his command. It had finally been a combination of the witch’s ebony wish-staff and the children’s song that had gained him entrance. Without Rashemaar magic to aid him, he would never get past the door.

This knowledge only increased his determination to get his hands on the Windwalker. Even if his proud Thayvian brothers refused to admit it, the only way to overcome Rashemen and her witches was with their own magic.

Brindlor was the last to arrive at the Dragon’s Hoard’s hidden camp, a cave that still held the musky stench of the bugbear the drow band had forcibly evicted. He found his current master arguing heatedly with Merdrith, their human wizard. A half-dozen drow lounged against the far wall, sharpening weapons or tossing dice as they awaited the outcome. Brindlor, as was his habit, lingered out of sight to listen and observe.

Merdrith was not an exceptionally tall man, though he topped Gorlist by at least a hand’s span. His bald skull was tattooed in bright red patterns, and his thin, braided beard had been dyed an equally garish shade of crimson. At the moment its straggly appearance was emphasized by what appeared to be soot, the removal of which had been attempted in desultory fashion. Instead of wizardly robes, Merdrith wore a doeskin tunic haphazardly bedecked with pockets and loose leather britches that hung like jagged stalagmites around knee-high boots. A rag bandage was wrapped around one hand, which was braced with a crude splint. At first glance, the human appeared to be nothing more than an eccentric hermit. Gorlist believed otherwise. Brindlor hoped that the warrior was right.

“We should go directly to Rashemen,” the wizard insisted. “The drow and her Rashemi companion are headed in that direction. Your fighters can lie in wait for them without concern that the Promenade Temple priestesses will again interfere.”

Gorlist’s scowl deepened. He did not like to be reminded of past failures. “I know the area, and the tunnels between here and there. It is a very long walk.”

“That, I had assumed, is why you employed a wizard,” Merdrith pointed out.

“You are a means to an end, no more,” the dark elf said coldly. “Do not presume to instruct a drow warrior in battle strategy. Once a course of action has been decided, you will use magic toward its implementation.”

“What is this strategy that your deathsinger will render in immortal prose?”

“Use the gem. Trace the female. When we find her, we kill her.”

“Ah, yes,” Merdrith said with arid sarcasm. “The famed subtlety of the dark elves.”

A knife flashed into Gorlist’s hand, and he pressed the point between the wizard’s eyes. “Do the magic, old man, or I’ll peel off those tattoos, and your scalp with them!”

The wizard shrugged and held out his good hand. Gorlist tore the bag of gems from his belt and spilled two of them into the human’s palm.

Merdrith tossed the jewels into a shallow, stagnant puddle. The green water steamed and swirled, then settled down into a crystalline blue sheen as smooth as polished glass. Merdrith leaned over the scrying pool. After a moment a sardonic smile curved his lips.