FIGHTING DROW

 

In a small clearing in the High Forest, the dark elven priestesses of the Wildwinds Coven gathered around the embers of their fire, listening with grim fascination to Thorn's terse recitation of Liriel's recent past. From time to time their red-eyed glances licked like twin flames toward the place where the puzzling young drow and her companion stood, just beyond the range of hearing and under heavy guard.

When the tale was finished, Dolor, the priestess who had challenged Liriel to battle, rose to speak.

"This girl is a danger to us all and to those we serve," she said. Drawing her lips into a firm, straight line, she resumed her seat, clearly signifying that all that needed to be said had been spoken. Her eyes dared the elf woman to challenge her assessment.

Thorn returned the drow's glare calmly. "You are high priestess here. It is your decision whether to help these two or not, but they will pass through the forest."

Several of the priestesses shot glares at the elf, but no one challenged her decree. The Champion of Eilistraee was honored by all of the MoonShards. These, the scattered bands of the Dark Maiden's followers, were named for the celestial fragments that followed the moon through the night sky - small points of light scattered through the darkness, isolated yet united in their veneration of the Divine Huntress.

"As Lady Qilué learned to her sorrow, these travelers cannot be sent through moon magic," one of them pointed out, "and it's a long walk to Rashemen."

"Not through my people's lands," Thorn said.

The priestesses fell utterly silent. For several moments they stared, slack-faced, at the elf.

"You would do this?" marveled Dolor. "Why, when none of us— not even Ysolde, not even Qilué!—has been permitted to see your homeland?"

The elf rose. "Perhaps in time Liriel will tell you about it. She's more likely to do so, of course, if you work with me to ensure that she survives her journey."

One of the priestesses responded with a short burst of sardonic laughter. "So we are to fight for an Underdark noble, a priestess of Lolth. I suppose your people will be joining us?" she said in a catty tone.

"I will ask them."

The silence that greeted this response was even deeper and more profound than the last. Those who were charitable by nature had supposed the priestess's comment to be a rhetorical question. Those not inclined to call a spade an entrenching tool more properly recognized it as a bitchy little jab. No one had expected any response at all from the Champion and certainly not this one!

Thorn rose to her feet. "Sound the horns. Send word to Ysolde and the Whitewaters Coven that we three—the drow, the Rashemi, and the hunter—will walk beneath their trees tomorrow before the mornmist fades."

She strode toward the place where Liriel and the Rashemi awaited their sentence. The young drow impatiently shoved aside one of her guards aside. She took a single belligerent stride forward before her way was barred by a pair of crossed swords.

"Took long enough for you to decide whether or not I 'needed killing,'" Liriel growled, tossing Thorn's recent words back at her. She bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile. "If you think that was a chore, just wait until you try to implement the decision."

The elf woman's gaze skimmed over Liriel and settled on Fyodor's watchful face. "We three will be leaving now. I will take you as far as the White Rusalka Vale."

"The borders of Rashemen," he observed in a wistful tone. He studied the tall elf for a long moment. "You fought for Liriel when I could not. For this, I thank you."

"A bit too much courtesy to give a gray elf," Liriel said, remembering Sharlarra's advice about insulting the faerie elves.

Fyodor looked appalled. "Little raven, this is a Moon Hunter!"

In response, the drow pointed skyward to the waning moon. "There it is. Now that I found it for her, can we go?"

The tall elf merely sniffed. "Where would you go? To Rashemen, yes, but do you know the way?"

Liriel looked expectantly at Fyodor. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "It pains me to admit this, but I could not mark our location on a map if you held a knife to my throat. Where are we now?" he asked Thorn. "How many days' travel to Rashemen?"

"On foot, you could not arrive before hard winter. Follow me, and you'll still see your homeland tomorrow by day's end."

He considered this. "I know but little of magical travel, but are not gates like doorways? One passes the threshold and stands at once in some distant place. Yet you speak of a day's journey."

"Distant places," Thorn repeated. "It is said that Rashemi on darjemma are fearless travelers. This is so?"

Liriel, who had been listening in uncharacteristic silence, let out a short laugh. "He's traveling with me," she pointed out.

"Well said," Thorn told her coolly. She turned her attention back to the human. "We walk," she told him, "through the lands of my people."

Fyodor jolted with surprise. Thorn noted the sudden flare of understanding, the way his eyes widened with wonder. Apparently this one had paid close attention to the old Rashemaar tales. More important, he believed them.

"Exile or silence," she reminded him.

"Your secret and my honor," he vowed, holding up two entwined fingers.

Liriel propped her fists on her hips and wheeled toward her friend. "What in the nine bloody hells just happened here?"

Thorn swung a sudden, roundhouse punch toward Liriel's face. Startled, the drow nonetheless managed to throw up both arms, wrists crossed, to block the attack. The elf's blow drove right into the parry and slammed Liriel's joined hands into her face with stunning force. The girl's amber eyes rolled up, and she slumped to the ground.

In a single fluid movement Fyodor drew his sword and stepped between the elf and his fallen friend. "No one harms Liriel while I live," he said quietly.

The elf lifted one ebony brow. "If I wanted her dead, I would have permitted Dolor to finish the task."

"Then why?" he demanded, nodding toward the unconscious girl.

"You know what I am," Thorn said, "and therefore you should not need to ask. You are not like this drow with her talk of 'fairies' or 'gray elves.' You are Rashemi, and you have heard tales of the lands through which we must walk. My people's lands are in this world and yet not. I do not know for certain whether the eyes of a drow goddess can follow us there. I have seen Lolth gazing through Liriel's eyes. I will not take that risk."

The Rashemi accepted this development with a wince and a sigh. "Liriel will not sleep long. Even now she stirs," he pointed out.

The elf took a spring of dried herb from a bag at her belt. "This is from my homeland. The scent of it is very powerful and will hold her deep in slumber."

"You couldn't have mentioned this before?" Fyodor demanded.

"It will hold someone in slumber," she said pointedly. "The amount needed to place someone in a deep sleep is much greater and can be dangerous. Knowing this, would you have chosen the herb?"

A soft groan came from the wakening drow. Fyodor put away his sword. He stooped and gathered his friend into his arms then met Thorn's gaze.

"It was not my choice to make," he said softly, "nor was it yours. You do not wish to invite the Goddess of Spiders into your people's lands. I understand what you did, but I do not like it. Next time we come to a crossroads, speak of the paths we might walk, and let Liriel chose the way she will go."

"Fair enough."

The elf twined the stem of the herb through the weave of Liriel's cloak, so that the dried herb rested against her cheek. Instantly she went limp in Fyodor's arms.

"It will not harm her," Thorn said testily, noting the flash of alarm in the Rashemi's eyes. "Nor will it cause you to be drowsy or forgetful. Keep your wits about you, and come."

She turned and strode into the forest. Fyodor followed with the drow girl in his arms and his blue eyes alight with excitement and anticipation. He would have to reckon with Liriel come tomorrow, but in his heart burned the Rashemi's restless eagerness to see and know.

All young people in his homeland, male and female, devoted a year or more to the wandering they called darjemma. None of them had been permitted to see the place to which Thorn promised to take them—or more accurately, of those few who had stumbled into Thorn's homeland, none had returned. Or perhaps some did return, without memory of the places they had been or the wonders they had witnessed. The herbs of the Moon Hunters were powerful indeed.

A sudden doubt assailed him. Despite Thorn's measures, what if Lolth's power extended into this distant place? He doubted that it could, but then, Qilué and her priestesses had been surprised by the Spider Queen's invasion. Was it true that where Liriel went, conscious or not, Lolth would follow?

If so, he was not likely to see Rashemen again. Thorn and her kind were fierce people. They would not forgive any who endangered their homeland.

For that matter, what of Fyodor's people? What was he bringing their way, and how would they respond?

Find the Windwalker, Zofia Othlor had told him. Bring her back. She will bind and break, heal and destroy.

Fyodor gazed down at the drow in his arms. For the first time he fully understood why the witch had spoken of the amulet as "she." Somewhere along the way, his quest had changed. He would bring the ancient artifact back to Rashemen, but in some mysterious but important way it was no longer the Windwalker of legend. Liriel was.

Zofia's grandson knew this to be true through the Sight that was his heritage and his curse.

A sad smile touched his face. It was a blessing that Liriel, for all her power, could not know the destiny ahead.

•©•

A day passed, and twilight was drawing near as Sharlarra pulled up to a small cluster of stone-walled travel huts located a hard day's ride from Waterdeep. She swung down from her horse and grimaced in distaste at the latest collection of skulls displayed on the stone plinth outside the caretaker's hut, an expression she quickly replaced with a smile when a bandy-legged old man hurried out to greet her.

A few dull strands of once-red hair clung to caretaker's pate, and his teetering gait was reminiscent of a sailor pacing the deck of a storm-tossed ship. The sword resting on one still-powerful shoulder gleamed in the fading light, and the carefully displayed remains of would-be bandits and horse thieves gave grim testament to the old man's ability to hold this outpost.

The elf's host squinted at her for a moment. His rheumy blue eyes lit with pleasure.

"Well, if it isn't Lady Judith, come to call on her old sword-master! Come in, girl, and it's heartily welcome you are."

It took Sharlarra a moment to tune her ears to the thick North Moonshae burr. Shaymius Sky had been swordmaster to the Thann family. He remembered Judith's red-gold hair, all his eyes could pick out from the blur that people had apparently become. As far as Shaymius was concerned, Lady Judith remembered her old tutor. The aging warrior took so much pleasure from these visits that Sharlarra hadn't the heart to rob him of his fond notion.

She remembered something Danilo had told her at Galinda Raventree's last soiree and said, "The Westgate caravan was to pass through this way. I trust all went well and that you received the box of new wines and harvest cakes?"

Shaymius patted his belly contentedly. "That I did. The mead was as smooth as an elfmaid's arse. Already there's a nip in the air come nightfall, and nothing's better to push back winter aches than a flagon of mead heated with spice bark. The horses come first, o' course, but you'll have a mug?"

"If the horses leave any for us, certainly."

"Don't be daft, Judy girl. Horses don't—" The old man broke off, caught the jest, and cast his eyes skyward. He unhooked a hoof pick from his belt and flipped to it the elf. "For that, you'll help putting these three fine stallions to bed. Concerning that, what are you needing with three horses? By the looks of them, you haven't been riding hard enough to require a change of mount."

Sharlarra lifted a front hoof and began to scrape away the bits of crushed acorn clinging to the shoe. "The mares out at Ethering Farms are in season." That was true, as far as it went, and Shaymius would draw his own conclusions.

The old man grunted in agreement and patted the glossy black flank of the horse Liriel had ridden from Waterdeep. "Aye, these are well-chosen sires. The Lady Cassandra still keeps the stud books, then?"

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least." The Thann matriarch controlled every other aspect of the family businesses, and from what Sharlarra had observed she attempted to do the same with each member of the family. Such was the force of Lady Cassandra's will that Sharlarra suspected every stallion on the outlying Thann farms would instinctively await her advice on this matter, stud book or not.

"Great lady, your mum," Shaymius said, eyeing Sharlarra as if daring her to contradict him. "Good eye for business."

"Posting you here was certainly a good day's work," the elf said, getting straight to the heart of the matter. "The horses left with you couldn't want better care, and not a single merchant who's slept under these roofs has offered a word of complaint."

The caretaker nodded, satisfied. Old though he was, his employers were content, and his post was secure. He set to work brushing down the black stallion, happily unaware of the real circumstances of his current position.

Sharlarra had heard the gossip, of course. That was one of the benefits of an apprenticeship in Blackstaff Tower. Ballads had been written about the exploits of young Shaymius Sky, and Lady Cassandra had gladly paid a high price to have the sheen of his ancient glories bestowed upon her firstborn son. For a time, she even overlooked her steward's regular morning-after trips to the Brawlers' Den, a chamber in the prisons of Waterdeep Palace devoted to those who grew bellicose in their cups. But the price of Shaymius's freedom, meted out after every tenday, soon came to overmatch his wages. That, and the crescendo of whispered rumor, ended the matter. No sordid little scandal dared touch the heir to the Thann title and estates.

It had been Danilo who'd persuaded the steward to buy Shaymius free one last time and to offer him this new employment. The old warrior, increasingly restless with city life and longing for adventures that would never come again, regarded this post not as banishment for brawling but as a reward for the skills he so routinely displayed. As far as Dan was concerned, Shaymius Sky deserved to believe this pleasant lie until the day he died.

Sharlarra couldn't have agreed more.

Once the horses had been tended and fed, the old man and the elf settled down by the caretaker's hearthside to chase tales and songs of faded glory with mugs of well-spiced mead. As much as Sharlarra enjoyed her occasional stolen moments with the old warrior, she was relieved when at last Shaymius's stories faded into silence. She sang one more ballad just to make sure and kept singing until the music was lost in the old man's grating snores.

She eased away from the hearth and crept out of the hut, making her way into the clearing behind the stables. She took from her bag a large, unset sapphire and the small vial of powdered magic she'd stolen from Khelben. She had one more task to complete before she slept, on behalf of one more misfit in search of a place in an oft-confusing world.

Back in Waterdeep was a sea elf awaiting help in his quest to become a mage. Though Sharlarra had not yet found a suitable teacher, she wanted to assure the elf that he was not forgotten— and while she was at it, reclaim the bag of gems she'd left with Xzorsh as surety. Since leaving Liriel and Fyodor, it had occurred to Sharlarra that if she and Khelben could trace the drow girl through possessions she had once held, it was likely that others could do the same. Xzorsh held a fortune in his webbed hands, but a dangerous one.

The young wizard's fingers sped through the arcane gestures, a difficult spell but nearly identical to one the Blackstaff had recently taught her. Sharlarra finished the spell and braced herself for the result. An invisible hand seized her and pulled her along a magical trail. For a moment, all the colors she had ever seen or imagined careened past like a rainbow gone mad.

She came to rest suddenly. Momentarily blinded by the brightness of the magical transport, she drew in a deep breath, fully expecting the tang of salt water and the complex stench of the Dock Ward. Instead, her senses filled with the coppery scent of fresh blood and the dank, dusty smell unique to places that had never known the sun. The sort of place that she knew far too well.

"T'larra kilaj," she murmured, speaking a simple elven cantrip Khelben had taught her, one from archmage's long-ago childhood. Her vision cleared at once.

She stood in a rock-strewn cavern, a rugged place dimly lit by the glowing lichen that clung to the stone walls, and she stared with dawning horror into the equally startled face of a drow warrior.

The drow, a male with close-clipped white hair and a dragon tattoo across one cheek, was crouched over the body of a large lizard, his knife poising in the act of cutting off strips of flesh. The creature was not yet dead. It did not move its stick-straight tail or rigid limbs, but its eyes rolled wildly.

A stray bit of information rose to the surface of Sharlarra's shock-becalmed mind. The Harple treatise claimed that drow preferred to devour living animals, believing that the mixture of pain and terror lent a certain piquancy to the meat.

The dark elf spat out a half-chewed morsel of raw meat and rose to his feet. A sword appeared in his hand so swiftly and smoothly that Sharlarra's eyes didn't perceive the act of drawing it.

The thief shook off the moment of shock and drew her own sword. She did so recognizing the futility of defense, even before she saw the shadows stir and shift. A circle of dark warriors broke free of the endless, underground night and began to tighten around her.

"Zapitta doart!" snapped the drow hunter. Instantly his cohorts' advance stopped. His red-eyed glare flicked to the sapphire still clutched in Sharlarra's hand.

"Are there more?" he demanded, lending the Common speech an accent that was at once harsh and musical.

The elf swiftly followed his line of reasoning. He wanted to know whether someone else might follow.

"More of these gems?" she said, and shrugged. "Three or four, I suppose. This is the only one in my possession, but there were several other uncut stones at the auction and a number of other wizards bidding."

"Give it to me."

Sharlarra's first instinct was to toss the gem to the drow, but she realized that such action could be perceived as an attack. It galled her that it would not be an attack and that she had no other spell prepared. She had stepped into a magical gate, one with a variable destination, without any defensive spell at the ready. It was a mistake no sensible first-year apprentice would make.

One of these days, she really had to start paying closer attention to detail. Demons hid in them, that she knew. Apparently drow did as well.

She stooped slowly, lowering the gem to the stone floor, holding her sword in guard position.

The drow closed the distance between them in a few swift, fluid steps. Before Sharlarra could respond, the dark elf dealt a brutal kick to the ribs that stole her breath and sent her sprawling.

"Lies," sneered the warrior as he stalked a circular path around his victim, "and clumsy lies, at that. Only one gem was missing. Do I think I would fail to learn exactly what price was paid to free the pirate's ship?"

It occurred to Sharlarra that the drow leader was speaking not to her so much as to the other elves. His words were a boast and perhaps also a defense. If there was discord in these ranks, perhaps stoking it might offer her a chance for escape.

She managed to suck in enough air to fuel speech. "Useful knowledge, provided you also know enough about gems to realize when a bit of colored glass had been substituted for a sapphire."

The expression of fury and hatred that crossed the drow's face chilled Sharlarra to the bone. She felt the effort it took the warrior to refrain from glancing at the other dark elves. If he had, he would have seen flashes of malicious pleasure in their crimson eyes and smirks on their dark faces. Even so, Sharlarra knew with cold certainly that she would pay dearly for the leader's embarrassment.

"Stand," the drow commanded.

She did so, ignoring the pain of bruised ribs as best she could. The drow came on, delivering a clattering barrage of jabs and slashes that came faster than Sharlarra could block. When the drow stepped back, the elven thief was quite frankly stunned to realize that she was still on her feet.

"Your sword," the drow said, his eyes moving pointedly to the jeweled hilt.

Sharlarra glanced down. The gems had been pried from the hilt and pommel, leaving empty sockets. Her opponent opened one palm to show the small, glittering hoard—including the sapphire she had placed on the ground.

"Impressive," she said and meant it.

"To you, perhaps. I could remove your lungs and liver without leaving a scar."

The gleam in the drow's eyes revealed how eager he was to begin this new project, but as he spoke, he shifted his forearm slightly, a subtle movement that nonetheless drew the eye. Sharlarra noted the faint raised line that traced a path from elbow to wrist—a mark that the drow was obviously eager to keep from view.

"No scar?" she said, gazing pointedly at his arm. "Too bad your former opponent didn't have your skill."

Fury twisted the dark face, and Sharlarra knew she had struck the right chord. She would die—there was no help for that—but a least her fate would be swifter and kinder than that suffered by the half-slaughtered lizard.

The drow lunged and caught Sharlarra's now-unbalanced sword with his weapon's cross guard. A deft twist disarmed the elf, and another quick stroke slapped aside her attempt to pull a dagger. The drow leaped and spun, lashing out high and hard with his elbow, slamming into Sharlarra's face and following with a smash from his pommel.

There was a bright burst of pain, followed by the quick flow of blood. Sharlarra dashed it away as best she could, but her eyes stung and swam. Blinded, she was helpless to block or dodge the repeated blows from the flat of the dark elf's sword, the taunting, stinging cuts from its edge.

Dimly, as if from a great distance, the elf became aware of a great light dawning somewhere beyond the cavern. She felt herself falling and did not care.

A sense of peace came over her, an easing of pain that had little to do with the abuse meted out by a vengeful drow. Despite all she had done, all the mistakes she'd crammed into her life, a place of light awaited. Sharlarra had never dreamed that such a thing was possible.

So it was that when at last the darkness came, the elf went into it with a smile on her face.

Khelben Arunsun crouched in a deserted cavern a few leagues from Skullport, backlit by the fading remnants of his blinding light spell. He carefully split his attention between the battered elf female on the cavern floor and the silent tunnels beyond. The drow band had scattered like cockroaches before a suddenly lit lamp, but where dark elves were concerned, not even an archmage could afford a moment's incaution.

Sharlarra groaned and stirred. The wizard pinched her jaws open and poured another healing potion into her mouth, grimly vowing to make the apprentice work off the cost of all three of them. He mentally listed the most odious chores and invented a few more for good measure.

The elf's eyes flickered open and slowly took focus. For just a moment, their green depths held all the bleakness of a northland winter.

Khelben did not have to ask what that meant. There had been times when he, too, had been less than pleased to awake and find himself still among the living.

He banished these thoughts from his face and arranged his features in a fearsome scowl. "Stupid girl. What I have told you about fighting drow?"

Sharlarra struggled up, propping herself on one elbow and gingerly pressed the fingertips of her other hand against the large knot on her forehead.

"Don't?" she ventured.

"That, too." The wizard sighed and settled back on his heels. "Lady Sharlarra Vindreth—if that is indeed your name—have you any idea what you've done?"

"I thought I was helping two companions on their way."

"You didn't think at all! Liriel Baenre is not just any drow, although Mystra knows that would be bad enough. She opened herself to Lolth's power in a way few mortals ever have. She was, albeit briefly, an avatar of sorts. Some might call her a 'Chosen.' "

The returning color drained from the elf's face. "So that explains what happened in the Promenade," she said slowly.

"Yes, we heard about that," Khelben grumbled. "Laerel has gone to Evermeet to try to recruit elven clerics to help shore up the Promenade's defenses. My lady has a fondness for the impossible challenge and the hopeless cause."

"True, but she's also attracted to your sunny disposition," she said, attempting a flippant tone and a wry little smile. Never before would she have dared such a comment, but her apprenticeship was well and truly over.

Khelben stared at her for a moment. "Aren't you going to ask about the sea elf?"

Her facade shattered, and her violet eyes were haunted. "No need," she said softly. "I looked for Xzorsh and found drow warriors instead. I'm not stupid enough to think that they might have thanked him for returning Liriel's gems and sent him on his way."

The archmage knew all too well the weight of this particular burden.

"Then nothing more needs to be said. You're done with this, and so am I. Others must follow Liriel to the end of her particular quest, and we must find a way to be content with whatever comes of it."

Khelben rose and traced a sweeping, circular path with his black staff. Several paces away a glowing arch appeared, mirroring the archmage's movement. When the circle was complete, the light spilled inward, filling in the darkness and forming a sheet of translucent magic. He turned back. "Are you coming, or not?"

Sharlarra rose slowly to her feet. "You want me back?"

"Not particularly, but Laerel does, and I find that my life is considerably more pleasant when she gets what she wants."

There was a glint of self-deprecating humor in his eyes and astonishing charm in the smile that thoughts of his lady inspired. Khelben was not unaware of this charm, and not above using it.

He noted with satisfaction that Sharlarra stepped toward him before she realized that she'd decided to return.

Together they walked through the gate. Khelben noted the regret on the elf's face, regret that came with the acceptance that Liriel's fate was beyond her reach. Even so, he resolved to keep a closer eye on her in the future.

And in a distant forest, Liriel stirred in her sleep, troubled by one of the dreams that had begun filling her resting hours. In it, she wandered through a gray world, bereft of both the sun's warmth and the cool mystery of the Underdark—and she was utterly alone.

Half awake, half dreaming, she groped for Fyodor's bedroll and found it empty. For a moment her sense of isolation and abandonment was complete, then a strong hand closed around her seeking fingers. A warm presence filled her with reassurance and love.

She slept on, comforted.

Fyodor saw this from his perch in a tree a few paces away from the campsite where he kept the first watch. He noted the sudden restlessness that marred his friend's sleep and the soft smile that replaced her moment of turmoil. A shaft of moonlight touched the drow, lending cool blue highlights to her ebony features.

The Rashemaar warrior's eyes traced the soft light up into the forest canopy. Though he could not see it, he allowed himself a moment to envision the night sky of his homeland and to dream of the mysteries that awaited him beyond.