THE WARRENS

 

Liriel eyed the clearing uncertainly. It was a desolate little spot, ringed and roofed by tall trees. A small spring bubbled and spat, sending sulphorous steam into the air. She whirled toward the witches who had accompanied her. Zofia had brought along all of Dernovia's witches—thirteen of them—to meet their guest and to escort her to a sacred place. To the drow's eyes, this little excursion was most likely a means of getting her out of the way.

"Here?" she demanded, eyeing Zofia with mingled outrage and incredulity.

"The witch of Shadowdale has been too long away," Zofia told her. "This is a haunted land. To know it, you must know and respect the sacred places. We will return before the sun sets."

The old woman nodded to the others. They turned and left the clearing.

Liriel glumly surveyed her surroundings.

She walked over to the spring and peered into the bubbling water. She could not see the bottom and did not expect to. There were hot springs like this in the Underdark, and even those came from deep, hidden sources.

When she was certain that she was alone, she untied Sylune's mask from her belt and sighed with relief as she slipped back into her own form. She kicked off her boots and removed her clothes and weapon belts, leaving on only the knives strapped to her arms and calves.

She dipped one foot into the water and found it pleasantly warm. Carefully she climbed over the rocks and lowered herself into the pool.

The steam rising around her coalesced into a strange form—a dragonlike head sculpted from mist.

Liriel scrambled out of the pool, eyeing the ghostly thing.

Yet it was not a ghost. She was sure of that, though she could not exactly say why. She felt none of the instinctive sick dread that dead things inspired.

She remembered the lore books that she had plumbed in her attempts to learn about the Windwalker. Her hand went to the hollow of her throat, the place where the amulet rested. "Place magic," she whispered, "and place spirits."

The misty reptilian inclined its head and waited. Liriel remembered how the villagers on that remote Moonshae island had honored the sacred river. She wore no ornaments, but she took a small, jeweled knife from a wrist sheath and dropped it into the water.

The misty dragon favored her with a toothy grin and sank back into the pool. Liriel smirked. Dragons were the same all over, no matter what form they took. She'd be willing to bet that this one had amassed quite a hoard.

She remembered the White Rusalka Vale, and a grim possibility occurred to her. Perhaps some of those drowned maidens had been greedy in life, determined to loot a sacred spring or river. She didn't suppose the guardian spirits took kindly to that.

"Or so people would assume," she mused, adding a layer of drow logic to this unfamiliar place. "What better place to dispose of a rival or victim? What better explanation than 'the Rusalka did it' when a body washes ashore?"

Liriel felt the ghost before she saw it. Cold fingers, no more substantial than wind, brushed her shoulder.

The drow whirled and stared into a pair of empty white eyes. No delicate maiden, this. The ghost was white but appeared far most solid than the wispy dragon spirit. Liriel got a quick impression of muscle under sodden leather armor and noted the empty scabbard. The odd cant of the colorless head suggested a broken neck. A warrior, perhaps, slain during one of Rashemen's many invasions.

All this Liriel took in with a glance. She sprang to one side and rolled away. The ghost lunged and seized her ankle.

The drow kicked out with her free foot, lashing out repeatedly at the surprisingly solid spirit. The dead warrior woman headed for the pool, dragging the drow with her.

Liriel seized a rock. It came loose in her hand, and she let it go. The fingers of one hand dug furrows in the ground as she flailed about with the other, seeking something to halt her deadly progress. All she needed was a moment or two, long enough to cast a spell.

She remembered suddenly that she knew no wizard spells that would protect her against the determined rusalka. Learning them had seemed foolish, when a simple clerical spell worked just as well.

And clerical magic was dependent upon the favor of the goddess.

Even as the thought formed, Liriel's hand closed around something slender and strong. She seized it and looked up into a pair of multi-faceted black eyes. With a shriek, she released her hold on the giant spider's leg.

Ask, suggested a silent voice, one Liriel had hoped never to hear again. Lolth's power had followed her even into this alien place, tempting her, haunting her.

The rusalka dragged her inexorably toward the pool. Liriel twisted onto her back, trying to break the dead warrior's grip. That failing, she lashed out repeatedly with her free foot, connecting with the solid form again and again. None of her efforts had any effect.

Mist rose from the pool and surrounded the dead warrior. Before the drow's frantic eyes, it took the shape of an enormous dragon's head. The misty jaw gaped wide and lunged for the ghost. The rusalka let go of her prize and reached for her empty scabbard. A startled expression crossed the ghostly face. Liriel got the distinct impression that this was not the first time this warrior had been surprised by the lack of this weapon. Frozen once again in its moment of death, the rusalka offered no resistance to the dragon. It was swallowed by the spring's guardian and, strangely enough, disappeared into the less substantial form.

The dragon sank back into the stream, leaving Liriel on the bank. For just a moment, the drow caught a glimpse of her jeweled knife below the bubbling surface and understood that the impulsive tribute had saved her life.

Perhaps more than her life. The giant spider, the minion of Lolth, had also disappeared.

Liriel rose and dressed herself. She tied the mask back to her belt. Changing her appearance back to that of the human Sylune did not make her feel much better. Lolth had found her, and the stubborn goddess would be less easily fooled than the villagers of Dernovia.

Zofia had been right, she thought grimly. This was indeed a haunted land, and if it truly was her destiny to see the spirits to their rightful homes, where in the nine bloody hells was she supposed to start?

Gorlist glanced up sharply as the sound of scuffling feet approached the cave's opening. His mercenaries had finally captured something of value, or at least, of interest! By the Masked Lord, it was a feat long overdue!

One of his mercenaries broke free of the small battle and saluted his commander. "We have captured an elf. A female."

Well, that was something. "Bring her in," Gorlist ordered.

Three of his soldiers dragged in a tall faerie elf. Even bound and gagged, form half shrouded with the remnants of a canvas sack, she put up an impressive struggle.

Gorlist strode forward and seized a handful of her disheveled black hair. He jerked her head back and noted the distinctive light streak that framed one side of her face. With a start of dark pleasure, Gorlist recognized this elf. It was she whom he had fought on the deck of his lost ship!

With his free hand he fingered the silver braid. "Clever, that little shapeshifting trick. What would this braid become if I ripped the entire thing from your scalp?"

The elf spat a mouthful of blood at his boots. "Try it and see," she invited.

"Another time," the drow said coldly. "At present, I am more interested to learn why I see you in Skullport when fighting Liriel Baenre there and find you in Rashemen near the village of her pet human."

She sneered and started to work up another wad of spittle. Gorlist backhanded her hard, sending her head snapping to one side.

"Bring the irons," he commanded.

The elf spat out a jagged shard of tooth and laughed in his face. "I counted almost a hundred dark elves in and about these warrens, and I am one alone. Am I not bound tightly enough for you?" she snarled, holding out her bound wrists.

Gorlist nodded to Chiss. The young drow bared his teeth in a fierce smile and set to work. He snapped iron manacles on the faerie elf's wrists. Deftly climbing the stone wall, he threaded the attached chain through hoops embedded high overhead.

Gorlist nodded to his cohorts.

Two drow pulled swords and slashed away the ropes binding their captive. As she lunged at them, Chiss yanked the chains back, pulling her arms out wide and stopping her charge.

Gorlist strode around her, eyeing the marks that drow swords had left in leather and flesh. The female's toes barely touched the ground, and the angle of her arms suggested that they had been pulled from the shoulder sockets, yet her green-gold gaze remained steady and implacable.

"Cut off her armor and garments," he told the two drow. "Don't be too dainty about it."

His soldiers went about their work with obvious pleasure. Gorlist picked up a length of severed rope and knotted it. He handed this to one of the drow and a vial of salt to the other.

"Enjoy," he said as he settled down to watch. He smirked at the elf woman. "I certainly intend to."

The torture went on longer than Gorlist would have thought possible. In time, pleasure became tedium, but nothing they inflicted upon the faerie elf induced her to speak.

"Get Brindlor," he said at last.

One of the drow—a young female who had been born to Nis-styre's first mercenaries—went in search of the deathsinger. They returned shortly. Brindlor sent a quick look of distaste at the faerie elf that had nothing to do with her condition and little to do with the color of her skin.

"Merdrith is not here. You know more magic than any of us. Strip her secrets from her mind," Gorlist demanded.

The deathsinger sniffed. "Small wonder she did not talk. Didn't you know that iron draws the life force from some faerie creatures as a rag soaks blood from a wound? Perhaps this elf is one such creature. Cut her down."

Reluctantly Chiss lowered the chains and snapped off the manacles. What happened next took them all by surprise.

There was no spellcasting, no slow metamorphosis, no warning at all. One moment a battered elf woman lay at their feet, the next, a large black wolf regarded them with gold-green eyes. Her lip curled back in a snarl, her hind feet tamped down, and she leaped.

Chiss went down under her before he could draw a weapon. The wolfs teeth sank into his shoulder, and the massive head gave a savage shake. Then she was up, dodging this way and that as she evaded the swords of her tormenters. She darted out into the cavern with preternatural speed and was gone.

"Find her," snapped Gorlist, but he already knew that the effort would prove futile. He kicked in frustration at the fallen soldier.

"Drag him out under the sky and watch him until the moon rises," he commanded. "Perhaps adding a drow werewolf to our band will inspire the rest of you to act like hunters!"

Even as they reached for him, Chiss shuddered and died. They did as Gorlist commanded. Under the night sky they drew swords and waited, some with fascination and others with almost-concealed trepidation, for the transformation to come and their former comrade to rise.

Hours slipped by, marked only by the steady dripping of water in some nearby tunnel.

"The moon has long since risen," Brindlor said at last. "Bury or burn him or leave him to rot. It matters not."

"Not a werewolf, then," Gorlist mused. "What was she, to change like that? A druid? A sorceress?"

"Worse," the deathsinger said grimly. "The wench is a lythari."

The sky was thick with stars before Liriel finally made her way to her little hut. Fyodor was already there and was busy stirring herbs into a stew.

"You're cooking," she observed. "The domovoi isn't going to like this."

He looked up sharply. "You've spoken with one?"

"We came to an understanding." She shut the door and untied the mask from her belt, sighing with relief as she slipped back into her own form. Even more pleasant was the way Fyodor's eyes filled with the sight of her.

"Songs and stories claim that the Seven Sisters are the fairest among women," he said quietly. "Have the bards all gone mad, or are they merely blind?"

She ran into his arms. For a long moment they clung together, then she led him to the rumpled bed. They settled down side by side, her head nestled against his broad shoulder.

"Rashemen is an interesting place. I was undressed by a domovoi, inspected by a coven of witches, and attacked by a dragon-shaped water spirit and a muscle-bound Rusalka. How was your day?"

"Much the same."

"Hmmm."

She lifted her face to his, and for quite some time there was no need for other words. The stewpot scalded, the domovoi sighed, and neither warrior nor Windwalker cared in the slightest.

Much later, Fyodor took her into the courtyard and pointed to the stars. "Do you see that small cluster there, shaped like a crossroads? We call it the Guardians after the spirits who watch the four corners of the year. The bright star there is Mokosh, named for the spirit of the harvest. A similar star pattern marks each turning of the year. Soon we will celebrate the Autumn Sunset, the time when night and day stand in balance and the wheel of the year turns toward winter."

The drow pulled her cloak closer. "I have heard of this winter. Does it get colder than this?"

"Much, but there is a chill wind tonight. We should go inside."

She turned wistful eyes toward the forest. Fyodor caught her look and shook his head. "That is not wise. This is a haunted land, and the nights are filled with ghosts. More so in these days than in times past."

"Zofia said that I should get to know the land's spirits," Liriel argued. "What better way?"

He relented with a sigh. "We will break fast with Vastish and her children. Perhaps we could bring a rabbit or two for her pot."

"Or an uthraki," she said with a grin, referring to their recent misadventure.

Fyodor's eyes twinkled. "Why not? Everything Vastish cooks ends up tasting much the same."

They set a brisk pace down the rutted dirt road that wound through the fields. Liriel heard a faint rustle to her left. From the corner of her eye she noted a squat, malformed dwarf scuttling through the ripened grain, keeping pace with them. Strings of green hair sprouted from its head like tall meadow grass, and a thick green mustache bristled under a vast beak of a nose. Its large eyes were deeply set and shadowed by beetling green brows, but even at a glance Liriel could see that one was a light green shade and one a brilliant orange.

"A polevik," Fyodor said in a troubled tone.

"Dangerous?"

"Only if you fall asleep in the field or follow it into the grain. What troubles me is the hour. Usually the Polevik only wander about at highsun."

"Maybe it had a cup of Zofia's tea and can't sleep."

He chuckled briefly. The troubled look returned to his face. "You know I have a bit of Sight. Before I left Rashemen, I started to see things that should not be there. Ghosts, spirits, even heroes from tales my father's father heard from his grandsire. They wander about like drunken men locked out of their huts by angry wives, uncertain of where they are or where they should go. It has been so since the Time of Troubles. The magic of Rashemen lies in the land itself and in the spirits of the land. It is not like wizards' spells, which once cast and forgotten can be learned again. No witch will say so, but I suspect that this magic did not heal as it should have."

She considered his words, wondering if this was part of the confusing destiny Zofia foresaw.

Before she could give voice to this thought, a bitter wind ripped through the trees with a shrill, almost metallic shriek. Branches rustled sharply. The singing insects went silent, and a small bird fell from its perch. Liriel stooped and picked it up, marveling at how light the little thing was. How cold.

Fyodor seized her arm and pulled her to her feet. "Hurry," he urged. "We need to be within walls before the bheur song strikes again."

The urgency in this voice convinced Liriel to run now and ask questions later.

They raced through the forest, retracing their steps. They were almost free of the forest when they saw the old woman. She stood on the path ahead, leaning on a tall wooden staff. Her long, wild hair was as white as a drow's and her wrinkled skin nearly blue from cold. Barefoot and clad only in rags, she looked as if she would fall if not for the staff in her gnarled hands.

The Rashemi skidded to a stop and put Liriel behind him. "Lightning magic," he said tersely. "The most powerful you know, and quickly!"

She dug into her coin bag and took out an emerald—the last gem from her share of the deepdragon's hoard. With one hand she tossed this toward the hag, with the other, she gripped the Wind-walker and called forth the spell she had stored within.

The gem disappeared. In its place stood a half-elf female, taller by half than the wizard who had summoned it. Her sharply sculptured body was translucent as glass and green as fine emeralds, and in her hands was a jagged bolt of white fire. The golem drew back her arm and threw the lightning as a warrior might hurl a spear.

A shriek like the clash of elven swords tore from the hag. She lifted her staff and sent a spray of icy crystals flying to meet the oncoming lightning. The bheur's blast spread as it went into a lethal cone. The frost blast flared into brilliant life as the bolt passed through. It hit the hag and sent her hurtling backward. She hit the base of a pine, hard, and sank to the forest floor.

With astonishing agility the hag was up and running, fleeing back toward the mountains.

Liriel started toward the staff.

"Don't bother," her friend told her. "It only is magical in a bheur's hands. Even if you could use it, some magic is best left alone."

She caught the grim note in his tone. "I did something wrong?"

"The spell was wisely chosen," he said carefully, "but you must not summon a golem in Rashemen. Many such creatures were brought against us by Thay's Red Wizards. Any who see you cast such a spell will wonder where you learned it."

She shrugged. "There was a book of Mulhorandi magic in the Green Room. I had a lot of gems left over from the deepdragon's hoard, and this seemed a good use to make of them."

"Even so, such magic can be deadly in Rashemen. No outlander wizards of any kind are permitted here. Because Sylune was a friend to Rashemen and trained in some of the witches' minor arts, and because Zofia has taken you under her wing, my people accept you. If they saw you cast such a spell, neither of us would live to see the next dawn."

Liriel received this news in silence. "No such spells," she repeated, as if saying that words aloud would make them sound more sensible.

"Only to save your own life. Promise me this."

The words came quickly to the drow's tongue, but she found she could not speak them. She shook her head, unwilling to make a promise she doubted she could keep. To her astonishment, Fyodor looked oddly gratified by this.

"The day dawns," he said softly. "Vastish will expect us soon."

He took her hand, and they walked to the cottage where his sister's family lived. Already smoke rose from the chimney, and a kettle of boiled grains mixed with what appeared to be dried berries bubbled on stove.

Two small boys hurled themselves at Fyodor and attached themselves to his legs. A taller girl, one close enough to maidenhood to be mindful of her dignity, hung back, eyeing her brothers with disdain.

Vastish shook her wooden spoon and gave one of the urchins a light swat on the rump with it. "Do your manners fail you, or just your eyes? Can't you see that there's a wychlaran present?"

The children fell back, abashed, and dipped into jerky little bows. "You bring grace to this household," the trio chanted.

Liriel smiled uncertainly. Drow children the size of these males were still being word-weaned and were seldom seen except by the one or two people who oversaw this training. She had never had anything to do with anyone so small.

She gave her name and received the children's names in turn. Lacking other ideas, she suggested, "Perhaps a story before we eat?"

The boys greeted this with great and loud enthusiasm, Vastish with a grateful nod. Fyodor settled down and pulled a nephew onto each knee.

"Long years ago, a hero known as Yvengi walked the land. Times were troubled, and many brave men fell in battle. Yvengi's father was a great warrior, a berserker equal to any man alive, but one day he faced a foe that had neither blood nor breath."

"The demon Eltab!" the younger boy put in excitedly.

"None other," Fyodor agreed. "Yvengi knew that his strength and his sword would be powerless against the demon's armored hide, so he prayed to all the spirits of the land and was granted a magical sword. Not even a demon could stand before Hadryllis. Eltab fled to Thay—"

"To walk among mortal demons!" the child chimed in.

"You know the tale," observed his uncle with a smile. "Then you know that in each turn of the family wheel—from father to son, mother to maiden—another great sword will be raised for Rashe-men."

"Like yours," the boy said in worshipful tones.

A deep silence fell over the room. Judging from the stricken expression on the females' faces and the red flush staining the older boy's cheeks, Liriel surmised that some important taboo had been broken.

The little one glanced from one face to another, looking as puzzled as Liriel felt. "There is magic in this sword," he insisted.

Fyodor looked to his sister. An expression of mingled pain and pride crossed her face. "Thrisfyr has the gift," she said simply. "It is already decided that he will join the vremyonni. He will go to the Old Ones for training before next winter's snows."

"A great honor," he said softly. Vastish smiled but not without irony.

The morning meal passed swiftly with nothing more serious to mar it than a mug of spilled milk. They thanked their hostess and left to tend to the day's business.

"What was all that about?" Liriel asked softly as soon as they were beyond hearing's range. "What did the little boy say that made your sister turn pale?"

Fyodor's shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. "When we first met, you commented on my blunt sword. I told you that it was thus fashioned so I would not cut myself. You thought I was merely being foolish, but I spoke the simple truth. A warrior who cannot control his battle rages is given such a sword, and for several reasons. First, so he is less likely to harm his brothers. Second, so he does not cut himself and die by his own hand. There is no greater disgrace to a Rashemi than this. Finally, so he will die with honor and purpose. The berserkers go first into battle. Any man with a blunt sword leads the way."

The grim truth came to Liriel slowly. "It is a sentence of death."

"Yes. Zofia lent this sword magic so that it might cut those not of Rashemen and that I might stay alive long enough to complete my quest."

"Throw it away," she said passionately. "Get another sword. Your battle rages are under control—you don't need a blunt sword anymore."

"That is not our way," he said softly. "This is the last sword I will wield. That is our law and custom. I must die with this sword in my hand."

Liriel's first impulse was to protest this new example of human stupidity, but memories flooded her mind and stilled her tongue: Fyodor facing drow and Luskan warriors, fighting sea ogres, slaying a giant squid—by cutting his way out from the inside. She relaxed. He had won many battles with that blunt, black sword. Why shouldn't he continue to do so?

A tall, gangling youth trotted toward them, his arms full of what appeared to be a bundle of black sticks and his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. He pulled up short and bobbed his head to the "witch" at Fyodor's side. Fyodor quickly completed the introductions and asked what Petyar was about.

"We're to scout the Warrens," the boy said without preamble. "Treviel's orders. The others are waiting at the west gate." He grinned broadly. "There will be a lightning wand for each of us. The vremyonni sent them."

Liriel noted the grim set of Fyodor's jaw. "The male wizards?" she asked.

"Yes," he said shortly. "They live and study and create in a hidden place."

"These Warrens," she concluded. "These are caves?"

The look he sent her confirmed her unspoken concern. Where there were caves, there were tunnels. Where there were tunnels, there might well be drow. She did not doubt that Gorlist would catch up with her sooner or later. This was not, however, the time she would have chosen.

"I'll come with you," she stated.

The boy's face fell. "With all respect, Lady, this is a simple scouting expedition."

Fyodor claimed one of the ebony wands. It was about the length of a big man's forearm and the thickness of his thumb. It had been intricately carved with a tiny design that spiraled up the length of the wand. It was a priceless work of art, created to be destroyed in a single moment.

He lifted this pointedly and raised one brow. "For a simple scouting expedition we need such a thing? Speak truth, Petyar. We are hunting. Not your black wolf, I hope."

Liriel blinked in surprise to hear this term.

"The beast does not travel with any pack," the boy said, his tone defensive, "and a lone wolf often seeks easy prey, becoming a danger to livestock and children."

Fyodor hefted the wand. "Even if you convinced Treviel of that, this was not meant for a wolf."

"I followed it into the Warrens," the boy admitted. "I was hoping to find her lair. What I found instead was a dead drow."

Fyodor glanced at his friend. "This drow was killed by the wolf?"

"Who cares?" Petyar retorted. "A dead drow is a blessing, however it came about, but yes, it appears so. His shoulder was torn open, his throat savaged."

Fyodor drew him away from Liriel and placed himself between the two—whether for Petyar's protection or hers, Liriel couldn't say. Fyodor glanced back at her.

"It is best that you stay close to the village today. Promise me this."

She did and was rewarded by the glad flash in her friend's eyes. His word, his honor—these were no small things to Fyodor. Apparently he considered her refusal to give her word, unless she meant to keep it, a good thing.

For the first time, she wondered how he felt about the deception she had forced them both to live. Perhaps Zofia's word might have been enough to gain cautious acceptance for a drow, but the lie had been told. To the eyes of the truth-loving Rashemi, concealing her nature most likely confirmed it.

"We will talk when I return," Fyodor said gently. He took her hand and raised it to his heart then turned and strode off beside his lanky kinsman.

They met the other warriors at the west gate. Horses awaited them, and they rode hard toward the Running Rocks.

The scouting party stopped at the mouth of the caves and lit small torches. They waved these overhead as they ducked into the tunnels, warding off a sudden rush of startled bats.

Petyar led them down to the narrow passage where the dead drow lay. Fyodor crouched beside the body for a closer look. After a few moments he glanced up.

"He did not die here. Something dragged him to this place, and not the wolf."

Treviel sneered. "What else should we expect? Of course there are more of these two-legged vermin. The drow do not hunt alone."

"They leave their dead in a tunnel for the rats?" Fyodor asked.

"What else would they do? It is difficult to bury or burn in a cave."

Fyodor had had enough experience with dark elves to understand that their thinking was seldom so simple. He lifted his torch high and surveyed the tunnel. Though the passage was narrow, the ceiling soared overhead. Fyodor made out odd shadows and impressions in the uneven rock that might be nothing or might be passages into unseen tunnels. The drow had moved their dead comrade for a purpose. Bait for a trap, perhaps?

The warrior lowered his torch. "No wonder Petyar chose this tunnel. The ceilings are high enough to keep the cobwebs from tangling in his hair," he said lightly. He made a show of sweeping the torch low to check the floor. "No sign of wolf scat. She hasn't been back to feed yet, and from the looks of things the rats will polish these bones within a day or so. I warrant that we'll find no wolf in these warrens today."

1

Petyar looked puzzled, but before he could speak Treviel gave him an ungentle shove. "Move it, boy, and hold your tongue," he said in a stern, soft voice.

The men fell into step, moving swiftly toward the open cavern beyond. They were almost there when the drow attacked.

The Rashemi scouts reacted at once. Swords hissed free, and the warriors ran eagerly to meet this much-hated foe. Men near the rear of the party gave shouts of warning as more dark elves clambered down the stone walls and into the torchlight.

A drow female, small, lithe, and clad in scant leather armor, leaped into Fyodor's path. She leveled two weapons at him: a broadsword and a coldly beautiful smile.

Fyodor hesitated just for a moment. Even so small delay was too much. The female lunged, her sword seeking his heart. He gathered his wits and used his best weapon—his size—against the smaller and more agile drow.

He leaned away from the drow's attack then lunged at her, pinning the small female to the wall. She writhed and thrashed but could not bring her weapon to bear. Knowing Liriel's penchant for multiple weapons, he immediately seized the drow's wrists and pinned them high over her head.

"Go!" roared Fyodor, waving the others to pass as he struggled to hold onto the drow. Treviel repeated the command.

The female wriggled away and climbed the wall. Fyodor let her go, suspecting that he might yet have cause to regret this. He took the ebony wand from his belt and took stock of the battle.

Most of the men had retreated down the exit tunnel. Bright lights flared suddenly, driving the drow back and providing an escape for the Rashemi. Only Petyar and Treviel remained in the cavern. Side by side, the two warriors backed down the narrow tunnel, holding off the cat-quick swords of several attacking drow. Fyodor made a quick count and came to an unanticipated conclusion:

There were not enough drow.

The irony in that observation did not escape him, hard-pressed though he was. But it was better to see one's enemy than to wonder when a hidden foe might strike. The drow for whom he could not account had probably taken the same route as the female, nimbly climbing the walls along paths only they could see.

Again Fyodor lifted his torch high. This time the light was reflected back by several pairs of red eyes and small, gleaming knives.

Fyodor tossed his wand straight up, sending it spinning high into the cavern. It struck the ceiling and shattered. He shielded his eyes for the resulting blinding flash.

Instead, the tunnel filled with a faint, deep purple light. Clearly revealed in it were the mocking faces of the drow warriors—and the smug countenance of a bald human not more than ten paces from where Fyodor stood. He shoved young Petyar out of the way and moved to block the tunnel himself.

"You go no farther," he told the lurking drow.

Soft, mocking laughter bounced along the high ceiling, and the dark elf warriors swarmed down the rock wall toward him.

Fyodor slammed his black sword back into its sheath. He would not need it. His eyes drifted shut for a moment, and he swiftly reached back into a place deep within, seeking a force that was both ancient and newly discovered.

The change hit him like a panicked stallion. Power surged through him, knocking him to the stone floor, but when he struck the ground, it was not with his hands. Enormous black-furred paws slapped down against the stone, claws clicking like ready daggers.

The power flowed on and on, bursting from him in a roar that shook the tunnel and froze the attacking dark elves where they stood.

Or so it seemed.

It was always so when the berserker frenzy came. Time slowed around him, giving Fyodor room to observe, to respond. To attack.

One paw lashed out, lightning quick, and slashed the nearest elf across the throat. Fyodor caught the falling body in his jaws. With a toss of his massive bear's head, he threw the dead elf onto the swords of two attacking dark elves. Both went down under the weight of their comrade. The berserker kept coming.

Fyodor felt the sting of nimble swords, but his thick fur and tough hide proved more effective than leather armor. The human hurled sizzling balls of light at him. These singed and stank, filling the tunnel with rank smoke, but the berserker felt no pain. He never did, until after.

Roaring with battle fever, he charged past the last of the drow in the tunnel and hurled himself at the bald wizard.

A sharp crack, like the flap of an unsecured sail in a gale wind, announced Fyodor's newest foe. A terrible creature dropped from a high perch, an enormous birdlike monster with a bat's leathery wings and a long, pointed beak lined with needlelike fangs. It hurtled down, seemingly intent upon stopping the berserker's charge.

In the part of his mind that was still human, Fyodor recognized the handiwork of a Red Wizard. The avian spread its massive wings and leveled its beak at Fyodor in a bizarre parody of a knight's charge. Fyodor reared up and charged right through the monster's path, his claws slashing and his fangs snapping at that dangerous beak. His onslaught shredded the thick membrane of the wings, and the pointed beak snapped between his jaws. The berserker spat and came on.

The wizard was not yet finished. He threw a handful of powder onto the floor and stepped into the rising cloud. For a moment he was obscured by the thick mist. When he stepped out, it was on two strong, furred legs. A fierce gray cave bear waded toward the berserker, its powerful upper limbs spread in preparation for a lethal hug.

The two combatants tangled and went down, snapping and rolling. In the cavern beyond, flares of light flashed and waned, and the sounds of fierce battle rang through the warrens. Fyodor clung to the transmuted wizard, worrying him with fang and claw, determined to keep him from joining the drow band.

He did not know how much time passed or how long he fought. After a while Fyodor noticed that the tunnel had gone dark and that his opponent no longer struggled.

No longer breathed.

The warrior pushed himself away and padded on four feet into the cavern. Two torches were still burning faintly. Someone among the fighters had had the presence of mind to wedge them among the scattered rocks.

The scene revealed in the dim light was a grim one. The Rashemi band had won but at a high cost. Three men lay dead, and most of the others had taken wounds.

Petyar noticed the bear and let out a yelp of alarm. The older warriors went alert at once, swords ready.

The fyrra held up a hand to keep them back. "Chesnitznia," he said wearily, explaining Fyodor's altered form.

The survivors eyed him with awe and respect. This was nearly too much for Fyodor to endure. His borrowed form slipped away, and he slumped against the cavern wall.

Someone wrapped a cloak around his naked shoulders and pushed a flask into his hand. He took an obliging sip and found that it contained strong tea thick with honey. The sweetness sickened him, but he remembered the old tales that spoke of shapeshifters who were ravenous after a change. Perhaps the thick liquid would restore his strength. It was too much to hope that it might quiet his thoughts.

His stomach roiled, and a bit of the tea washed back. Fyodor wiped his mouth, and his hand came down smeared with a viscous red. The realization of its source sent him staggering off to be sick in earnest.

"Better?" inquired Treviel when at last he returned.

Fyodor nodded, not able to bring himself to meet the fyrra's eye, but the older man seized his chin and forced it up.

"What you did was well done," he said firmly. "While the wizard lived, the lightning sticks could not do their job. Without them more of your brothers would have died."

"If anything, the wizard died too easily," one of the other men spat. "He was the worse kind of traitor—a human who sided with the drow against his own kind."

The others murmured a vicious assent. Fyodor noted the hatred on their much-loved faces, and his heart broke. It was all too easy to imagine it turned upon him. He was not certain that he did not deserve it.

The Rashemi gathered their dead and walked in silence through the warrens. Fyodor was glad for this silence. He had much to think about.

He had always tried to be an honest and honorable man. Many times he had warned Liriel away from the goddess of her childhood, challenging her to consider if any good could come from a union with evil. Perhaps he should have more closely heeded his own advice.

On the surface of things, this thought was unfair to Liriel, and he knew it. She was no more evil than a snowcat. On the other hand, she had no more morals than the same wild cat. Without guides or restraints, how could anyone safely chart his way? The result of this lack was the tangled deception they now lived. Any lie was difficult to sustain, and Liriel's was especially dangerous.

Fyodor regretted also his naivete in thinking that his people might come to accept Liriel, perhaps even to see her as he did. The Rashemi hated the drow, and he could not fault his people for their deeply ingrained prejudice. Their history bore this out—as, he had to admit, did his own experience.

He loved Liriel, deeply and completely. More importantly, however, he knew her. It was not without reason that Lolth wove Her webs around the errant drow princess. Liriel battled a dark nature, and she never seemed quite sure of the line between right and wrong. Sometimes she didn't seem to realize that such a line existed or even that it should exist.

These troubling thoughts followed him through the winding caves and tunnels of the warrens. By the time the silent band stepped into the light, Fyodor had dragged himself to a painful but inevitable conclusion.

He had done his people a disservice by bringing Liriel among them. If he had not done so, these drow would not have followed her here. These men would not be dead. For the sake of all concerned, he would take Liriel far from Rashemen as soon as he returned to the village. Even if this meant abandoning his duty as a warrior. Even if it meant committing what his people would certainly regard as an unforgivable treason.

Even if it meant leaving his homeland forever.