Daughter of the drow, p.19
Daughter of the Drow, page 19
“Be quiet, you old fool,” Saida snapped.
But the man stumbled closer to the bar, too deep in his ale and his memories to be deterred by her words. “Every year they come,” he muttered, his scarred face haggard with remembered horrors. “Every year. Can’t never tell when, but usually they strike during moondark.”
Fyodor did some quick calculations. The moon had been waning the night he followed the drow thieves into the magic gate. If he had wandered in the Underdark for three or four days, then this would indeed be the time of the new moon. That would explain the repairs to the walls, the penned animals, the general sense of foreboding. But what of the frantic preparations for the spring market?
“If your village is in danger, is it not strange to hold a fair?” he asked. “Or are the merchants in these lands not afraid of such a threat?”
“They would be plenty afraid, if they knew about it,” Saida said grimly. “The caravans have usually come and gone by now. But the river’s high this year, and the caravans late in coming. They don’t like to stop here, us being so far off the path and all. If the drow attack while the merchants are here, it will likely be the last spring caravan to come through Trollbridge. And then, I ask you, what are we to do?”
A man several seats from Fyodor slammed down his mug. “All the more reason why we should hunt down the drow fiends before they can strike,” he growled. “Stake their bloody corpses out in the fields to scare away the crows.”
A muttered chorus of agreement rose from the bar, and the sheer hatred in the villagers’ voices sent a prickle of revulsion down Fyodor’s spine. He pushed aside his half-eaten bowl of porridge, his hunger forgotten. He was about to ask Saida the cost of the meal when the dark-bearded man to his left elbowed him.
“You’re a likely-looking young fellow. If’n you know how to use that sword you carry, you might do well to stay around Trollbridge a few days. One man’s nightmare is another man’s opportunity, I always say.”
The bearded man drew a leather thong from beneath his jerkin. Suspended from it was a dark, triangular bit of leather. Although it had been dried and tanned, it was unmistakably an elven ear. The man brandished the trophy in Fyodor’s face.
“The wizard rulers of Nesme are ready to pay good silver for every black ear we can bring ’em. You with me, son?”
Fyodor dared not answer. If he spoke his mind, the black-bearded man would surely attack him, and the young warrior knew he would meet drawn steel with the cold fury of a berserker rage. Fortunately, the bounty hunter did not press the point.
“Good silver!” the man repeated to the room at large. “Yet here we sit with our hands in our breeches! Why huddle within walls every moondark? It’s time to hunt!”
“They say drow are hard to kill,” put in another man, a lank fellow with a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He patted the quiver strap. “But I’m thinking they’ll die when you shoot ’em, same as any other wild beast.”
Tosker shifted uneasily on his stool. It was clear all this talk of battle did not sit well with him. “Better yet, we could find out where they come out, and seal them in.”
“And what would you know about that?” snapped the bounty hunter. He leaned forward over the bar to level a glare at Tosker. “You know the farmlands, but when was the last time you stepped foot beyond the fields? There are more caves in these hills and woodlands than a dog has ticks. A man could search a lifetime, and not find a place where the drow come out!”
Fyodor knew of such a place, but he could not bring himself to speak. In less than two days’ march, provided they had the courage to enter the Underdark, these folk could find the cavern were he had encountered the drow girl. He could guess what would befall the lass should these hard, bitter people find her, and he wanted no part of that.
There was no doubt in Fyodor’s mind that the people of Trollbridge had suffered at the hands of dark-elven raiders. He suspected the drow committed almost as many atrocities as the stories credited them with. But he had been to war, and he knew what horrors mankind was capable of committing. He had not given up on his own deeply flawed race, and he was not about to condemn every member of another.
Young as he was, Fyodor trusted himself to make such decisions on one person at a time. His limited Sight gave him an occasional glimpse into what was or what might be. He did not depend solely upon it, but he had learned he was as good at reading character as many a wiser man. Even so, the dark elven girl was a mystery to him. Her laughter had been purely elven, a magical sound that reminded Fyodor of faerie bells and delighted babies. Treacherous she certainly was, and as deadly in battle as the stories of drow had led him to expect. Yet she was not animated obsidian, or some walking, breathing caricature of evil. Fyodor had been startled by the look on her face when he spoke of dajemma. For a moment he saw a kindred spirit behind those strange, golden eyes. Even more troubling was the fleeting but certain conviction that this girl could become as powerful—and as important—as the Witches he had been raised to revere. Most disturbing of all was the sense that his destiny was somehow linked with hers. Yet she was drow! Fyodor did not know what dark secrets might be veiled in such beauty; he only knew he could do nothing that might give the dark-elven girl to these vengeful townsfolk.
So Fyodor kept his peace and finished his breakfast amid the morose company of the villagers. When he had eaten his fill, he bought from Saida the things he would need. The innkeeper charged him more than the goods should have cost, but he did not take the time to bargain. As precious as his moments in the sun had been, they were time stolen from his quest.
As soon as he could reasonably slip away, Fyodor left the village of Trollbridge behind and retraced his steps into the forest. He found the cave opening and wriggled his way inside. The sudden darkness closed around him, and he lit the first of his pine-pitch torches. On impulse, he searched around for a rock big enough to seal the opening, and he hoisted it into place. Then, holding his torch high, he began the steep descent back into the Underdark.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BOTTLED DARKNESS
Slowly, carefully, Liriel tried to pull the tiny dagger from its rune-carved sheath. Three days of almost constant study had passed, days that had impressed upon the young wizard the hazards and challenges inherent in her quest.
There was no doubt in her mind that the amulet was an artifact of great power. She had cast several formidable spells upon the amulet, spells that should have shown her the meaning of the tiny runes carved on the sheath. All were in vain. A magic more potent than hers protected the ancient secrets. And the amulet’s chain, which had been broken when she’d taken it from the body of the drow thief, had simply healed itself. New links had grown to fill the gap, but so perfectly matched were they to the weathered gold that Liriel could no longer tell where the break had been. She had never heard of a magical item that could repair itself unaided. As she tugged at the tiny dagger, her concern was less for the delicate amulet—which could clearly take care of itself—than for the magic such an action might unleash.
Yet try though she might, she could not pull the dagger free. Dagger and sheath might as well have been carved from a single piece of metal, so tightly were they bonded together.
With a sigh, Liriel slumped against her chair. She had come too far and risked too much to fail now.
Getting the amulet had been the easy part. Finding time to study it had been a far greater challenge. She’d not dared approach Triel for a leave of absence, knowing the matron mistress would almost certainly deny the request out of hand. The best hope Liriel had was to keep the matter from Triel’s eyes altogether. There were rumors of several challenges to House Baenre’s position, so the harried matron had more important matters to attend than following her niece’s every move. And if Liriel’s instructors, and Matron Zeld in particular, believed the matron mistress had sanctioned the girl’s absence, they would not challenge Triel’s decision.
On the other hand, the Academy matrons might very well be curious and seek answers in a less direct fashion. They might be loyal to Triel, but they also kept an eye to the advancement of both their houses and their careers. Liriel fully expected to have the eyes of a dozen noble houses prying into her business, trying to discern what House Baenre might consider important enough to warrant granting one of their females time away from Arach-Tinilith’s training.
And so it had been. Liriel and Kharza-kzad had placed layers of wards about her Narbondellyn home, and the air about her fairly crackled with frustrated magical probes. In the three days since she’d left Arach-Tinilith, two of her servants had disappeared. Liriel did not expect to see them again, and indeed they would be of little value to her after their abductors had finished extracting what information they could. But for the intervention of two powerful wizards—the reluctantly supportive Kharza-kzad and the archmage himself—Liriel would not have been left in peace this long.
For yes, she had decided to risk involving her father in this plan. Doing so created an extremely ticklish situation. Gromph Baenre had the influence necessary to get her out of Arach-Tinilith, yet the Academy’s matrons would assume he would not dare to do so unless it was at Triel’s bidding. Liriel knew that proud Gromph would not appreciate this reminder of his limitations, and that he would not act on her behalf unless there was potential gain.
So she’d told him enough about her trip to the surface, including the information on the priestesses of Eilistraee, to whet his interest. She stressed there were drow on the surface who could cast magic, who had powers that those who dwelt below did not know. She promised to learn what she could from them and bring this knowledge back to him. Gromph had questioned her closely, and only when she’d agreed to act as his emissary to the drow community above did he agree to help her.
At least he’d agreed. How he would explain his actions to Triel if the matter came to light was his concern; Liriel was more than content to let the two Baenre siblings fight it out. Still, the expression on her father’s face when she’d spoken of a rival deity made her wonder if it had been wise to involve him. What use would ambitious Gromph make of this information?
Nor did she trust Kharza-kzad. Like Gromph, he had his own agenda. This had been made abundantly clear by the wizard’s gift of a gate that would enable her to slip out of the Academy at will. Before that, Liriel had assumed the old wizard’s interest in her had been strictly personal, that he enjoyed their association for the bragging rights it gave him. Even if he had not told one lying tale, it was apparent he found the company and attention of a beautiful young female gratifying. But there was more. Liriel was convinced her tutor had plans of his own, and that he wished to make her a part of his unseen design.
Still, she needed Kharza-kzad. As a master of the Sorcere, he had access to scrolls and books denied most wizards, and Spelltower Xorlarrin was as well equipped a magical laboratory as Menzoberranzan could produce. This, it seemed, was due in no little part to the wizard’s constant and secret trade with the merchants of the Dragon’s Hoard.
Which was yet another risk that Liriel had taken. She’d sent for Nisstyre and asked him to sell her every book of human lore he could buy or steal on extremely short notice. Possession of these books was illegal, of course, and even though such an exorbitant purchase would bring her to near-ruin Liriel saw no alternative. She dared not ask specifically for books of rune lore for fear that doing so would show too much of her hand. The black-eyed merchant was also a wizard, and he knew more about the Lands of Light than any of Menzoberranzan’s magic-wielders. He would be more likely than Kharza, even more likely than Gromph, to put together what she planned to do.
Nisstyre, however, had been nothing but helpful. He brought several boxes of books to her and bid her take whatever she liked and return the rest at no cost. He offered to answer any questions she might have about the Lands of Light, and even hinted he would be pleased to act as her guide. He hinted at a great many things, actually, with a boldness that few males of Menzoberranzan would have dared. Although Liriel had little interest in a personal liaison with the copper-haired merchant, she might have taken him up on one or two of his other offers if she’d had the time.
Time. With a sigh, Liriel cast a quick glance at the glowing sands in her hourglass. What little time she’d purchased was almost out, for sooner or later the too-busy Triel would hear of her niece’s absence and force her back into Arach-Tinilith. In truth, three days of freedom was more than Liriel had expected.
She had used her stolen time well. She had committed to memory maps of the lands above her, learned more about the people and their ways. What she did not learn, however, was how the amulet in her hand could be turned to her purpose.
Aimlessly, Liriel twisted at the dagger. To her amazement, the tiny hilt turned in her hands and the weapon came free of its sheath.
The dark elf examined the golden object and received her second surprise. It was not a dagger at all, but a small chisel. The tool remained bright and sharp-edged, with not a hint of corrosion despite the water that filled the bottom of the sheath.
“A chisel,” she murmured. “Of course!”
The dark elf seized her book of rune lore and paged through it with growing excitement. Near the end she found a crudely drawn picture of an ancient, sprawling oak. The tree was called Yggsdrasil’s Child, and its thick, gnarled trunk was marked with the runes of a thousand spells. According to the text, only the most powerful runes could be carved on this tree, and only with tools forged by powerful runecasters and blessed by the gods of the ancient Rus.
Liriel raised the tiny chisel and regarded it with awe. Was it possible she held such a thing in her hand? She studied the picture closely. Yes, some of the markings on the ancient oak were identical to those on the amulet.
But could she, a drow of the Underdark, use this tool to carve a spell onto the sacred oak? The casting of a rune was not like the wizardly spells she wielded with ease and authority. A rune such as she would need was not learned from a scroll, but carved into the mind and heart. And the tool for such a task was a long and perilous journey, such as the ancient Rus had undertaken to expand both their domains and their magical power. Only through change and growth, through hard-won insight, did such a rune come to the caster.
Shaking with excitement, Liriel picked up a large parchment scroll and smoothed it flat. It was a map of the northlands, and according to Nisstyre it depicted the lands that lay above the Underdark she knew. Her finger found the distant city of Waterdeep and then traced a path across the sea to Ruathym. On that island lived the ancestors of the Rus. And on that island stood Yggsdrasil’s Child, the ancient sacred oak tree.
This, then, was her destination. If her journey yielded her the rune she needed, she would cast the spells that would give her permanent possession of her drow magic.
First, though, she would have to carry this magic across the miles to Ruathym. The droplets of water trapped in the sheath had suggested an answer to that problem, for her book of rune lore contained many stories of sacred wells and springs. Water was plentiful in the Underdark and had little potency beyond its common, life-sustaining nature. But Liriel’s dark homeland had its own places of power.
“Liriel Baenre, you have finally gone utterly and completely mad!”
This pronouncement, coming as it did from an insane, two-headed purple dragon, lacked some of the impact it might otherwise have had.
“I’m telling you, Zz’Pzora, this will work,” the young drow insisted as she chipped away at the wall of the grotto with a small mithril pick. “Just try to hold steady for another minute or two.”
“Hold steady, she says,” grumbled the dragon’s right head, literally talking to herself as she addressed her other head. “What does the drow think we are, a hummingbird?”
The left head’s answer was lost in the noise of yet another ringing blow and the thumping whoosh of the dragon’s wings as the creature struggled to maintain its position. A warm, strong updraft helped hold the dragon aloft, but hovering in one place was extremely difficult for any dragon under the best of circumstances.
Zz’Pzora’s task was complicated by the added weight of the drow who straddled the base of the dragon’s dual necks. Liriel was not all that heavy—most deep dragons considered a ninety-pound drow a snack, not a burden—but Zz’Pzora was small for her kind. Nor did the drow balance herself well. She leaned far to the side, and each time she pounded the rock her hold on her dragon mount became just a bit more tenuous. At any moment, the reckless dark elf would take them both crashing to the floor of the grotto.
“Look around you,” the dragon’s right head begged. The creature dipped dangerously close to the cavern floor, and she beat her purple wings frantically until she had regained her position. “The entire cavern glows with energy! Take something that’s easier to get at.”
Liriel shook her head and pounded again. A thin crack appeared in the rock, outlined by an eerie blue glow that shone even through layers of magic-dead stone.
“This is the best place, Zip, and you know it,” the drow said in a distracted voice. More careful now that the rock had given way, she tapped gently at the wall, slowly enlarging the network of spreading cracks. “The Banshee’s Needle holds more magic than any ton of rock in this place.”
The Banshee’s Needle, a slender bit of glowing rock that seemed to hold and condense the radiations of this hidden cavern, was so named for the banshee—an undead drow female—that had once haunted Zz’Pzora’s lair. The banshee was gone long before Zz’Pzora’s time; the dragon’s mother had vanquished the undead elf in a horrendous magical battle that may well have contributed to her future offspring’s unusual appearance. Whatever the case, the mutant dragon did not like to think about the matter too deeply or too often.
At that moment Liriel dropped her pick to the rocks below and began to painstakingly peel away the layers of rock with her hands and a knife. Zz’Pzora flinched at the metallic crash of mithril meeting stone.
