Condemnation

12

Ryld crouched in the shadows of a great tree with a trunk so thick and tall it might have been the forest’s Narbondel. Splitter rode between his shoulders, virtually unused in the company’s most recent battle. He leaned out a little and carefully peered into the dappled moonlight and shadow of the forest floor, searching for a target. With Pharaun he’d waited quietly to guard the party’s backtrail, hoping to turn the tables on the elves and humans who’d harried them so long. After several valiant attempts to bring the drow to close combat, the surface elves and their human allies had learned to respect the dark elf party’s skill and ferocity. They soon fought a slow and stealthy battle of arrows in the dark, punctuated with quick ambuscades and quicker retreats.

An arrow hissed in the dark. Ryld jerked back just in time to glimpse a white-feathered shaft fly past, so close to the tree trunk that its fletching kissed the bark. Had he relied on the tree for cover, the expertly aimed arrow would have skewered him through the eye.

“No point waiting any longer, now,” Pharaun whispered.

The wizard had greeted Quenthel’s order to lay an ambush with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, and he wasn’t at all unhappy to call the effort a failure and rejoin the rest of the band. He muttered the harsh syllables of a spell and gestured in a peculiar fashion, concentrating.

In a moment the wizard straightened and motioned to Ryld, Come. I’ve created an image that will make it seem that we still stand guard here, but you and I are invisible to our antagonists. Follow me quietly, and stay close.

Ryld nodded and moved off stealthily just behind the wizard. He took one last glance at the desolate forest behind them, wondering if the wizard’s trick would work.

Halisstra is back there somewhere, he thought. Most likely dead.

The surface dwellers had shown no interest in taking prisoners, and in the logical part of his mind Ryld simply wrote off her loss as another casualty of battle, just as he might account for the untimely fall of any useful comrade. He’d fought enough battles over the years to understand that warriors die, but despite that, he found Halisstra’s loss strangely unsettling.

Pharaun paused, turning in a slow circle as he searched for some sign of the rest of the company or any foes still on their trail. Ryld held still and listened. A gentle wind moved the treetops and sighed in the branches overhead. Leaves rustled, and branches creaked. A small brook trickled nearby, but he could detect nothing that might signal danger—or Halisstra’s return.

Stupid to hope for such a thing, he told himself.

Something troubles you? motioned Pharaun.

No, the weapons master replied.

The wizard studied him, the brilliant silver moonlight gleaming on his handsome face.

Tell me you’re not worried about the female!

Of course not, Ryld replied. I’m concerned only because she’s been a valuable comrade, and I don’t like the idea of proceeding without her skill at healing. But I am not concerned on any other account. I am no fool.

I think perhaps you protest too much, Pharaun signed. It does not matter, I suppose.

He started to say more, but at that moment a soft rustle behind them cut off his words. Wizard and swordsman turned together, Ryld’s hand stealing to Splitter’s hilt as he aimed his crossbow with the other hand, but from the bright shadows Valas Hune suddenly appeared. Of all the company, the Bregan D’aerthe seemed almost as skilled as the surface dwellers in the patient cat-and-mouse game of forest hunting.

Did you catch sight of any of our foes? the scout asked.

No, but someone saw enough of Ryld to shoot an arrow, Pharaun replied. Since they seemed to guess where we were, we left an illusion and came to rejoin you. Any sign of Halisstra? Ryld asked.

No. Nor you, then? Valas replied.

Perhaps half an hour ago we heard sounds of fighting from back down the trail. It went on for a couple of minutes. That might have been her, Pharaun signed.

“There it is, then,” Valas muttered under his breath. “Well, come on then. The others are waiting, and if we can’t ambush our pursuers, we might as well keep moving. The longer they keep us here, the more likely it is that more of them will show up and join the fight.”

The scout led the way as he hurried through the trees and brush, moving swiftly and silently. Pharaun and Ryld could not match the softness of his steps, but the wizard’s magic seemed an adequate ruse, since they encountered no more hidden archers or spearmen. In a few hundred yards they came to a small, steep ravine, well screened by thick brush and large boulders. There they found Quenthel, Danifae, and Jeggred lying low, watching vigilantly for any sign of a renewed attack.

“Did you surprise the archers?” Quenthel asked.

“No. They located us quickly, and avoided a fight,” Ryld replied. He ran a hand over his stubbled scalp and sighed. “This is not a good battlefield for us. We can’t bring the surface elves to grips, not with the advantage they have in this terrain, but if we don’t do anything, they’ll eventually surround us and cut us to pieces with arrows.”

Valas nodded in agreement and added, “They’re working to find and flank us now. We’ve got a few minutes here, but we’re going to have to move or fight soon. Ten minutes or less, I think.”

“Let them come,” rumbled Jeggred. “We killed a dozen of them not an hour ago when they stole up on us from behind. Now that we know the day-walkers are out there, we’ll slaughter them in heaps.”

“The next assault will most likely consist of a rain of arrows from archers we won’t even be able to see,” Valas said. “I doubt that the surface dwellers will oblige us by lining up for us to kill. Worse yet, what if the rangers sent for help? The next attack might come at daybreak with two or three times the numbers we’ve seen so far. I don’t relish the thought of being showered with arrows and spells after the sun comes up and our opponents suddenly begin to see much better than we do.”

“Fine,” Jeggred snarled. “So what would you do, then?”

“Withdraw,” Ryld answered for the scout. “Make the best speed we can and keep moving. With luck we’ll outdistance our pursuers before the sun comes up, and maybe we’ll find a good place to hide.”

“Or maybe we’ll reach territory controlled by the Jaelre,” Valas added.

“Which may, of course, prove to be even more dangerous than playing cat-and-mouse with our friends the surface dwellers,” Pharaun said. “If the Jaelre aren’t fond of visitors. . . .”

“It doesn’t matter if they are or not,” Quenthel said. “We came to speak to their priest, and we will do so, even if we have to cut our way through half their House to do it.”

“Your suggestion is not very encouraging, Master Hune,” Danifae said. She bled freely from a wound in her right arm, where a hard-driven arrow had actually punched through her mail and transfixed her upper arm. As she spoke she worked awkwardly with one hand to bind the wound. “What happens if we fail to outpace our enemies? They seem well able to keep up with us in these damnable woods.”

“One moment,” Ryld said. “What about Mistress Melarn? She’s back there somewhere.”

“Most likely dead already,” Valas said with a shrug. “Or a prisoner.”

“Shouldn’t we make sure of that before we leave her?” the weapons master replied. “Her healing songs are the only magic of that sort we have left to us. Common sense dictates—”

“Common sense dictates that we don’t waste time and blood on a corpse,” Quenthel interrupted. “No one came after me when—”

She stopped herself, then stood and walked over to help Danifae cinch her bandage.

“Our mission lies ahead of us, not behind,” the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith said.

“The quest is more important than any one drow.”

Ryld rubbed his hand over his face and glanced around the company. Valas looked away, busying himself with some unimportant fastening of his armor. Pharaun stared at Quenthel with an expression that made it clear the wizard noted the priestess’s hypocrisy, if nothing else. She had, after all, spent more time in Ched Nasad hoping to empty Baenre storehouses of their goods than seeking the renewed attention of Lolth.

Danifae stared off into the woods behind them, her brow furrowed with concern, but obviously unwilling to argue the point on behalf of her mistress.

Finally Quenthel turned to Pharaun and said, “Perhaps our skilled wizard has some magic that might help us discourage these cursed day-walkers from following too closely?”

Pharaun stroked his chin, and thought.

“Our chief difficulty in these circumstances,” the Master of Sorcere said at length, “lies in the fact that our antagonists are able to use this terrain to their advantage, and our disadvantage. Should a forest fire suddenly arise, the smoke and flames would—”

Valas laughed and interrupted, “I’m afraid you know little of surface forests, Master Mizzrym. These trees are far too wet to oblige you with a forest fire now. Try again in a few months, after summer has dried them out.”

“Oh,” the wizard replied, “I can see that’s true for mundane fire.”

“You won’t be able to prevent fire from sweeping back on us,” Ryld said, the idea giving him some anxiety.

“Well, I can’t be certain they won’t, but my fires will burn in the manner I choose,” Pharaun said. “As Master Hune observed, the forest is damp enough that the trees won’t catch unless directly affected by my spell. We will, of course, have the advantage of knowing how and when the fires begin.”

Quenthel thought for a moment, then said, “Very well, you may proceed.”

Ryld felt his throat tighten and he stepped away from the group, quickly regaining control of himself.

The Master of Sorcere stood and reached into a pouch at his belt to withdraw a tiny silk purse. He emptied it into his hand. Red dust glittered in the moonlight. Pharaun studied the forest, turned to sense the wind, and spoke his spell quickly, casting the powder into the air. Bright crimson sparks appeared amid the falling dust, growing brighter and more numerous moment by moment. With another gesture, Pharaun scattered the burning motes across a great, wide arc of the forest before him.

As each tiny mote settled to the ground, it flared into life, growing into a spiderlike shape fully as large as a man’s head. Wreathed in crimson flame, the fire spiders scuttled across the ground, moving deeper into the trees. Whatever they touched smoldered at first, then burst into flame. The wood was indeed wet, and the flames were smoky and slow to spread—but Pharaun had conjured hundreds of the spider creatures. The living motes of fire seemed to set upon the moss-grown trunks with a peculiarly savage ferocity, almost as if the presence of so much timber had provoked them into a frenzy of fiery destruction.

“Good, good,” Pharaun murmured. “They like trees . .. they truly do.”

“The fire’s too slow to burn our pursuers,” Quenthel observed.

“I’ve never heard of a surface elf who’d allow a fire such as this to burn unchecked in his precious forest,” Pharaun said with a smile. “They’ll be busy chasing down my spiders and extinguishing the flames for some time.”

Quenthel watched the blaze a moment longer, and smiled.

“It may serve, then,” she said. “Master Hune, take the lead. I mean to reach House Jaelre before we’re troubled by the surface dwellers again.”

Kaanyr Vhok folded his well-muscled arms and frowned.

“How many this time?” he asked.

Kaanyr surveyed the aftermath of a battle between the tanarukks of his vanguard and a titanic purple worm, a carnivorous giant over a hundred feet in length. The worm was dead, hacked to death by dozens of the half-demons soldiers, but a handful of the Sceptered One’s troops lay torn and crushed by the monster they had killed.

“Seven, my lord, but we slew the beast, as you can see.”

The tanarukk captain called Ruinfist leaned on his huge greataxe, spattered with the foul juices of the creature. The orc-demon’s left hand had been mangled in some battle long before, and was encased in a locked battle-gauntlet that served as a better weapon than the damaged hand it covered.

“The warriors heard it moving in the rock,” Ruinfist continued, “but it came through the ceiling and dropped on them.”

“I didn’t bring you here to slay mindless worms,” Kaanyr said. “Nor did I bring warriors to this spot to feed whatever monster happens by. This was a battle best avoided, Ruinfist. These seven warriors won’t be with us when we meet the dark elves, will they?”

“No, my lord,” the tanarukk growled. He lowered his head. “I will tell the patrol leaders to do what they can to avoid needless battles.”

“Good,” said Kaanyr. He offered the tanarukk a hard grin and clapped the creature on the shoulder. “Save your axes for the drow, Ruinfist. We’ll be on them soon enough.”

A hungry light flared in the tanarukk’s eyes, and the demon-orc raised his tusked jaw again. He growled in assent and trotted off to go find his fellow captains.

“You did not discipline him?” Aliisza asked, slinking out of the shadows.

“Mercy is not a quality I am accustomed to in you, love.”

The cambion lord turned at her approach.

“Sometimes,” he replied, “one soft word serves the purpose of two hard ones. Knowing which to choose and when is the art of leadership.” Kaanyr nudged one of his dead warriors with his toe, and smiled. “Besides, how can I take offense at a show of the very fighting spirit I’ve worked so hard to instill in my Scoured Legion? It’s the nature of a tanarukk to throw himself into battle and bring down his foe or die trying.”

Aliisza looked at the purple worm and shuddered.

“I think that’s the biggest worm I’ve ever seen,” she murmured.

The half-demon’s seat of power in the ruins of ancient Ammarindar was the better part of two hundred and fifty miles southeast of Menzoberranzan, and the Darklake was an obstacle in their path. Fortunately, tanarukks were fast, hearty, and could endure swift marches with few supplies. The dwarves of ancient Ammarindar had carved great subterranean highways through their realm, broad, smooth-floored tunnels that ran for mile after mile through the endless gloom. Kaanyr was somewhat disconcerted to think that the tremendous cavern of the Darklake lay somewhere a mile or two beneath his feet, but the old dwarven road offered far and away their best route to the environs of Menzoberranzan. If the road happened to be plagued by hungry monsters, well, any other route would have problems of its own.

He shook himself from his reflections and started to walk back toward the long file of his warriors, streaming past the scene of the battle in a ragged double-column.

“So, tell me again about this Nimor,” Kaanyr said. “I can easily understand Horgar Steelshadow’s motive in mustering this attack. The gray dwarves and the dark elves have fought many wars over the centuries. What I don’t understand is what’s in it for a drow assassin?”

“As best I can tell,” Aliisza replied, “he hates the great Houses of Menzoberranzan enough that he’ll destroy the city in order to bring about their fall.”

“Such a purity of intent is rare in a dark elf. You know he’s lied to you, of course.”

Kaanyr suspected, as always, that Aliisza was holding something of her encounter with Nimor to herself. After all, she was an alu-fiend, the daughter of a succubus, and her weapons and methods were obvious.

“Lied?” she quipped. “To me?”

“I merely point out that that one should beware of dark elves bearing gifts,”

Kaanyr replied. “He might have convinced you it was in my best interest to bring my army here, but I don’t believe for a heartbeat that your mysterious assassin doesn’t have more to gain from this alliance than I do.”

“That goes without saying, doesn’t it?” she said. “If you see that, why did you agree to bring your army to the Pillars of Woe?”

“Because something is going to happen there,” Kaanyr said. “My ambitions have reached the borders of old Ammarindar, and I don’t care to arrest them there.”

The cambion watched his fierce warriors marching by, staring past them to the dark visions that enthralled him.

“We’ll be approaching from above and to the east,” Kaanyr said, “perfectly positioned to flank a force trying to hold the Pillars against the approach of Gracklstugh’s army. On the surface, that is why Horgar Steelshadow and his drow assassin want us there. It might suit their purposes to sit in the gorge a few days and let the drow decimate my soldiers before they attempt to force the pass. Being on the same side of an obstacle as our enemies carries a liability, as well as an opportunity. I wouldn’t put it past Horgar to manufacture some excuse for a delay in order to let my tanarukks handle the brunt of the fighting.”

Aliisza cozied up beside him and purred, “Until the battle is joined, love, you haven’t chosen sides. The dark elves might pay, and pay well, for your assistance at a critical juncture of the campaign. Even if that assistance takes the form of simply not doing anything to aid the gray dwarves in their attack.”

Kaanyr Vhok bared his pointed teeth in a wry smile.

“There is that,” he admitted. “All right, then. We’ll see what happens when the Pillars of Woe stand before us.”

Halisstra was marched for several miles through the forest, gagged, hooded, her hands manacled behind her. The surface elves had healed the wound in her calf in order to keep her from slowing them down, but the rest of her injuries they didn’t bother to tend. While they’d removed her mail and shield, they did permit her to keep her arming jacket against the cold night air—after searching carefully to make sure they didn’t miss any hidden weapons or magical devices. Eventually they reached a place where the forest floor underfoot gave way to stone, and she could hear the whispers and rustles of a number of people around her. The air grew warmer, and sullen firelight penetrated the hood over her eyes.

“Lord Dessaer,” a voice close by said, “the captive Hurmaendyr spoke of!”

“So I see. Remove her hood. I would look on her face,” said a deep, thoughtful voice from somewhere ahead of her.

Her captors removed the hood, leaving Halisstra squinting in the bright light of an elegant hall made of gleaming silver-hued wood. Flowering vines wound along posts and beams, and a fire glowed to one side in a large hearth. Several pale elves watched her carefully—apparently guards of some kind, dressed in silver-hued scale mail with polearms and swords at their hips.

Lord Dessaer was a tall half-elf with golden hair and pale skin with a faint bronze hue to it. He was well-muscled for a male, nearly as big as Ryld, and he wore a breastplate of gleaming gold with noble accoutrements.

“Remove her gag, too,” the elf lord said. “She’ll have little to say otherwise.”

“Careful, my lord,” spoke the captor beside her, whom Halisstra saw was the black-bearded human she’d fought in the forest. “She knows something of the bard’s arts, and may be able to speak a spell with her hands bound.”

“I will exercise all due caution, Curnil.” The lord of the hall moved closer, gazing thoughtfully into Halisstra’s blood-red eyes, and said, “So, what shall we call you?”

Halisstra stood mute.

“Are you Auzkovyn or Jaelre?” Dessaer asked.

“I am not of House Jaelre,” she said. “I do not know of the other House you name.”

Lord Dessaer exchanged a worried glance with his advisors.

“You belong to a third faction, then?”

“I was traveling with a small company, on a trade mission,” she replied. “We sought no trouble with surface dwellers.”

“A drow’s word is regarded with some skepticism in these lands,” Dessaer replied. “If you’re not Auzkovyn or Jaelre, then what was your business in Cormanthor?”

“As I said, it was a trade mission,” Halisstra lied.

“Indeed,” drawled Dessaer. “Cormanthor was not entirely abandoned during the Retreat, and my people object strongly to the drow effort to seize our old homeland. Now, I would like to know who exactly you and your companions are, and what you were doing in our forest.”

“Our business is our own,” Halisstra answered. “We intend no harm for any surface folk, and mean to be gone from this place as soon as our business is done.”

“So I should simply allow you to go free, is that it?”

“You would do yourself no harm if you did so.”

“My warriors engage in deadly battles every day against your kind,” Dessaer said. “Even if you say you have nothing to do with the Jaelre or the Auzkovyn, that doesn’t mean you’re not our enemy. We do not ask quarter of the drow, nor do we extend it to them. Unless you succeed in explaining to my satisfaction why you should be spared, you will be executed.”

The lord of the surface folk folded his arms before his breastplate, and fixed her with a fierce stare.

“Our business is with House Jaelre,” Halisstra said. She drew herself up as best she could with her arms bound behind her. “It does not concern surface elves. As I said before, my company is not here to cause any trouble to you or your people.”

Lord Dessaer sighed, then nodded to Halisstra’s guards.

“Escort the lady to her cell,” he said, “and let us see if she becomes more helpful with some time to fully consider her situation.”

Halisstra’s guards replaced her hood, covering her eyes again. She stood passively and allowed them to do so without protest. If her captors came to expect compliance from her, there was always the chance they might make a mistake and give her a chance to get out of her bonds.

Her guards led her out of the hall and back outdoors again. She could feel the deep chill of the air, and sensed the growing brightness in the sky even through her hood. Dawn was near, and the night was vanishing at the sun’s approach. She wondered if her captors meant to lock her in some open cage, a place where the curious and malcontent could come by to jeer and torment her, but instead they led her into another building and down a short flight of stone steps.

Keys jangled, a heavy door creaked open, and she was led through. Her hands were unbound, only to be secured again in heavy iron manacles as rough hands maneuvered her into place.

“Listen well, drow,” a voice said. “You will be unhooded and ungagged, at Lord Dessaer’s command. However, the first time you attempt to work a spell, you will be fitted with a steel muzzle and hooded so closely you will labor for every breath. We don’t go out of our way to mistreat prisoners, but we’ll repay every trouble you cause us threefold. If we have to break your limbs and shatter your jaw to keep you docile, we will.”

Her hood was removed. Halisstra blinked in the bright cell, illuminated by a hot beam of sunlight pouring in from a grate up in one corner. Several armed guards watched her carefully for any sign of trouble. She simply ignored them and allowed herself to slump against the wall. Her hands were chained together tightly, and the manacles were bound to a secure anchor in the ceiling, cleverly designed to take in any slack.

The guards left her half a loaf of some kind of crusty, gold-brown bread and a soft leather jack of cool water, and they exited the cell. The door was riveted iron plate, evidently locked and barred from outside.

So what now? she wondered, staring at the opposite wall.

From what little she’d seen of the surface town, Halisstra suspected that her comrades could break her out easily enough with a determined effort.

“Hardly likely,” Halisstra muttered to herself.

She was a Houseless outcast whose usefulness did not overcome the simple fact that, as the eldest daughter of a high House, she stood as Quenthel’s most dangerous rival in the band. The Mistress of the Academy would be only too happy to abandon Halisstra to whatever fate awaited her.

Who would argue against Quenthel on her behalf?

Danifae? Halisstra thought.

She allowed her head to drop to her chest and she laughed softly and bitterly. I must be desperate indeed, to hope for Danifae’s compassion, she thought. Once dragged off as a battle captive herself, Danifae would find the situation deliciously, perfectly ironic. The binding spell wouldn’t let Danifae raise a hand against her, but without specific instructions, the battle captive would not be compelled to seek her out.

With nothing else to do but stare at the wall, Halisstra decided to close her eyes and rest. She still ached in calf, torso, and jaw from the injuries she’d sustained in her desperate last stand. As much as she longed to use the bae’qeshel songs to heal herself, she dared not. The pain would have to be endured.

With a simple mental exercise she distanced her mind from her body’s pain and fatigue, and slipped deep into Reverie.

In Dessaer’s audience hall, the half-elf lord watched his soldiers lead the dark elf away while he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“So, Seyll,” he said, “What do you make of this?”

From behind a hidden screen a slender form in a skirt and jacket of embroidered green glided forward. She was a full-blooded elf, thin and graceful—and she was also a drow, her skin black as ink, the irises of her eyes a startling red. She moved close to Dessaer and gazed after the departing soldiers with their hooded captive.

“I think she’s telling the truth,” she said. “At least, she’s not a Jaelre or an Auzkovyn.”

“What shall I do with her?” the lord asked. “She killed Harvaldor, and she damned near killed Fandar as well.”

“With Eilistraee’s grace, I will restore Harvaldor to life and heal Fandar,” the drow woman said. “Besides, is it not the case that Curnil’s patrol attacked her and her companions on sight? She was simply defending herself.”

Dessaer raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at Seyll.

“You intend to give her your goddess’s message?”

“It is my sacred duty,” Seyll replied. “After all, until it was given to me, I was very much like her.”

She inclined her head to indicate the absent prisoner.

“She’s a proud one from a high House,” Dessaer said. “I doubt she’ll care to hear Eilistraee’s words.” He rested a hand on the drow priestess’s shoulder. “Be careful, Seyll. She’ll say or do anything to get you to lower your guard, and if you do, she’ll kill you if you stand between her and freedom.”

“Be that as it may, my duty is clear,” Seyll replied.

“I will delay my judgment for a tenday,” the Lord of Elventree said, “but if she refuses to hear your message I must act to protect my people.”

“I know,” said Seyll. “I do not intend to fail.”