The Realms of the Elves a-11 Page 11

  He drew his cloak tighter and shivered. For him, there would be no more singing. The ache inside him had stoppered his voice like a plug of ice.

  He strode on, chin tucked into his chest, the club that hung from his belt swinging as he walked. Eventually, in the dusk ahead, a massive oak tree loomed. It had a trunk the size of a tower. A dozen elves with hands joined might just have encircled it. As Sorrell drew closer, he could see that the oak was utterly black, just as the songs had said. Its trunk, branches, and leaves-which had never fallen, not for five millennia-were as dark as a drow's heart.

  Between two of the massive roots was a hole in the ground. Stairs, slick with ice, spiraled down into darkness. Sorrell paused at the top of it. He'd traveled so far, but he was finally there-and in time for Midwinter Night. After two years, did he still want to quench his sorrow in blood?

  He reached under his cloak and slid a finger into the pocket of his shirt-the pocket over his heart-and touched a lock of auburn hair, tied with a frayed ribbon.

  He touched the black bark. Brilliant white light flared around his hand, bright enough to reveal the dark shadows of the bones within his flesh.

  "I givemyself to you, Shevarash," he intoned in a voice made flat by grief. "A weapon in your hands. Use me well."

  The air in the cavern beneath the oak stank of damp stone and earth, the smells of the Underdark. The cavern was large, but the black tree roots that twisted down through it made it seem tight and confined. Dozens of elves filled it: pale, willowy moon elves; sun elves with skin the color of burnished bronze; stockier wood elves like Sorrell-even a couple of wild elves with black tattoos on their bark-brown skin. All of the Dark Avengers were dressed in the ritual vestments of Shevarash's faith. Elven chain mail gleamed in the light of the candles they held, and blood-red cloaks draped their shoulders. Their faces were hidden by helmets with a fixed half-visor, revealing only their eyes and their grim mouths.

  One of the dhaeraowathila led Sorrell to an altar at the center of the cavern. Weapons were piled around it in a heap: axes with broken handles, rapiers with notched blades, battered bucklers, splintered crossbows missing their strings, and hundreds of broken crossbow bolts. Drow weapons, all. SorrelPs breath lumped in his throat as he spotted a dagger with a spider-shaped pommel; a furrow in its blade held the remnants of poison, faded to a dull brown. The sight of it tore a sick hollow in his gut.

  He climbed across the shifting pile of broken weapons, onto the altar. As he turned to face the dhaeraowathila, the elves in the cavern began to keen in voices both male and female. That there were women among Shevarash's faithful shouldn't have surprised him; Dalmara had been stronger than him, that terrible night.

  The dhaeraowathila who had led Sorrell to the altar-a sun elf with hands criss-crossed with old scars-handed him a crossbow bolt fletched with bone-white feathers. Sorrell gripped it at both ends, crunching the fletches in his right fist. The barbed point cut into his left palm; the pain was sharp and clean-and welcome.

  As the keening grew to a wail, the dhaeraowathila nodded. Sorrell lifted the bolt, then broke it across one raised knee.

  The keening stopped.

  "Sorrell Ilithaine," the dhaeraowathila intoned, "what do you seek?" His voice was gravelly, as low as a dwarfs.

  The poisoned dagger atop the heap of weapons still held Sorrell's eye. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

  "Vengeance," he whispered.

  The dhaeraowathila' hand shot out, grabbed Sorrell's shirt. The priest pulled Sorrell's face close to his own. His eyes blazed from behind his visor. "Does your heart not burn?"

  Sorrell managed a nod. A lie. His heart didn't burn. It was ice.

  "Then shout!"

  Sorrell reeled backward as the priest released him. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists tighter around the broken pieces of the crossbow bolt. He pictured the horror he'd seen in the cellar that night. The two he held most dear, dead.

  "Vengeance!"

  He raised the halves of the broken bolt and tipped back his head, shouting at the ceiling above. "Vengeance!"

  His body was rigid, tense. He expected something to break, to release the tears that were dammed up inside him.

  It didn't.

  Slowly, he lowered his hands.

  One of the other elves stepped forward, handing the dhaeraowathila a helm filled with blood. The priest held it out. Sorrell glanced down, wondering whose blood it was, then decided it didn't matter.

  He dipped the broken ends of the bolt in it then raised them to his face. He touched one to each cheek, just below the eye, and waited. Blood dripped onto his hands, and trickled down his wrists.

  "Do you swear to serve Shevarash?" the priest asked.

  "I so swear," Sorrell answered.

  "To be his weapon of vengeance against the drow?"

  "I so swear."

  "To give no quarter, and to demand none? To carry the fight ever onward and downward? To continue on, until your own death should come?"

  Sorrell gave a wry smile. Death would be welcome. A release. "I so swear."

  "Never again to laugh, never to smile, until the day the last drow lies dead?"

  Sorrell's jaw tightened. He could feel a blaze kindling in his own eyes. "I so swear."

  With a savage yank, he pulled his hands downward, painting twin streaks of red down his cheeks.

  Blood tears.

  The dhaeraowathila lowered the blood-filled helm and said, "Then welcome, brother. Welcome to our war."

  Sorrell waited on the veranda that encircled the High Council chamber. Snowflakes blew in through the veranda's latticelike outer wall and swirled around his boots. The floor shifted slightly as the tree branches that supported it bent in the wind. Sorrell's shoulders hunched, but not against the morning's cold. Tension bent him like a strung bow as he silently composed the plea he was about to deliver. His fists clenched. His entreaty had to work. It had to.

  After a moment, a door opened. A wood elf with a high forehead framed with graying hair stepped out, shutting the door behind him. His clothes were of green velvet, embroidered with gold; on his right index finger was a gold ring with an enormous carved emerald: a council seal stone.

  Sorrell touched his right hand to his heart and bowed low. "Councilor Relhthorn."

  Hands clasped Sorrell's shoulders and straightened him. The older elf stared at the dried blood on Sorrell's cheeks. One hand shifted slightly, as if to wipe it away, then returned to Sorrell's shoulder. The older elf squeezed Sorrell's shoulders tightly, and for a moment Sorrell thought he was going to be drawn into a hug.

  "Sorrell. Welcome home, nephew." The older elf he took a step back, reestablishing a formal distance. "What is so urgent that you insisted on interrupting an emergency meeting of the High Council?"

  Sorrell's jaw clenched. "I heard about this morning's attack, Uncle Alcorn. Everyone in the temple was talking about it after the High Council summoned the dhaeraowathila. You're going to send one of the Dark Avenger war bands out." He touched the handle of his club. "I want to go with them."

  Alcorn shook his head. "You're untrained. The war band we're sending won't take you-especially on a mission of such importance. The two attackers came through the portal that joins us to the Yuirwood; somehow, they discovered how to use it. They were part of a scouting party, and must be hunted down before they can return with this information to whatever drow city sent them. If we fail, Cormanthor could face an attack in force-and at the worst possible time."

  Sorrell nodded. After six hundred years of debate, the High Council had finally come to a decision. Cormanthor, like Eaerlann before it, would be abandoned to the encroaching humans. The elves would retreat to Evermeet, a land the humans could never defile. Even then, preparations were being made-preparations that would all be for naught, if the drow attacked in the meantime.

  Sorrell squared his shoulders. "The drow that was killed. I heard…" His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "They say his fist was blackened w
ith pitch. Is it true?"

  It took Alcorn a moment to meet Sorrell's eyes. "It's true."

  Those two simple words punched into Sorrell like blows, leaving him slightly dizzy. He took a deep breath. "Uncle, can you not see the hand of Shevarash at work? Midwinter Night, and I am accepted into his faith. The very next morning, there is an attack by the same group of drow who…" He paused, choked down the emotion that clawed at his throat with fingers of ice. "Please," he pleaded, his script forgotten. "This might be my only chance to avenge Dalmara and… and…"

  Alcorn's eyes softened. He glanced at the door that led to the High Council chambers, then back at Sorrell. "I'll see what I can do."

  O

  Sorrell returned to the room the Dark Avengers had assigned him. It was sparsely furnished, with only a chest to hold his belongings and a hard wooden bench for Reverie. The walls were of plain stone, bereft of the carvings and paintings that usually decorated an elven dwelling. He sat on the edge of the bench, twisting the leather thong that hung from the grip of his club, wondering if his uncle would follow through on his promise.

  The answer came a moment later, when Pendaran, the priest who had initiated Sorrell into Shevarash's faith, opened the door. The dhaeraowathila wore a plain brown cloak and trousers, a contrast to the polished armor he'd worn the night before. The scars on his hands and the gnarled mass of scar tissue where the tip of his left ear had been attested to his many battles. Sorrell had heard that the sun elf had been an officer in Evermeet's cavalry before joining Shevarash's faithful.

  Pendaran held a worn pack in his hands. He tossed it onto the bench where Sorrell sat, then folded his arms across his chest. His face and hands were a dull metallic gray, as if his skin had been painted.

  Sorrell stared at the pack, realizing what it meant. He nearly smiled, catching himself just in time. "I'm going?"

  Pendaran's wheat-blond eyebrows pulled down into a scowl. "By order of the High Council, yes."

  Sorrell's heart beat a little faster as he rose to his feet. And so it began-his chance at vengeance. "You won't be sorry."

  "We'll see." Pendaran nodded at Sorrell's club. "I noticed that your weapon is ensorcelled. Do you know how to use it?"

  Sorrell lifted his club. Made of black thornwood, it only had a simple haste dweomer placed on it, but Pendaran was right in one respect: Sorrell knew this weapon. He'd spent months learning from the best fighters he could find, and more months smashing massive gnarlwood nuts, imagining each to be a drow head. Practicing hard, until the weapon felt as natural in his hand as a lute Imce had. He could hold the heavy club at arm's length, level with his shoulder, for an entire afternoon without so bnuch as a twinge in his muscles. He was as strong as any warrior-a far cry from the man he had once been. "I know how to use it," he assured Pendaran.

  The sun elf nodded. "You'll be joining the Silent Slayers-the band of crusaders that I lead. You'll be club bearer."

  "Shevarash's fifth and final weapon," Sorrell recited. I'The club Maelat, which he carries together with Shama, his spear, and Ukava, his sling, when he appears in the guise of Elikarashe, as he is called in the songs of the Yuir." He nodded at the quiver at Pendaran's hip. "His other two weapons are the Black Bow, and Traitorbane, his sword."

  Pendaran's eyebrows raised slightly. "For a novice, you already know a lot about our faith."

  "I learned that from a song years ago. Long before-"

  "Before the assassins of the Blackened Fist struck," Pendaran finished for him. "Your uncle told me why you're here." His eyes bored into Sorrell's. "That's why I agreed to take you. Not because of the High Council's orders, but because this is your fight." He paused. "You will have to do everything you're told, exactly as you're told, the instant you're told. Understood?"

  Sorrell gave a fierce nod. "Understood."

  Pendaran's eyes blazed. "We will have our vengeance. The drow have no mercy, and deserve none. They're vermin that kill man, woman and-"

  Sorrell blinked in surprise. "They killed your child?"

  "She may as well have been." Pendaran's mouth ticked with silent emotion. "Her name was Alfaras. She was a moon-horse. A loyal mount, fierce in battle-until a drow bolt found her heart."

  Sorrell could only stare. How could the loss of a horse compare to "I raised her from a foal," Pendaran whispered. "She came to me, willingly, from the herd. I rode her for nearly a century. One day, I'll ride her again. In Arvandor."

  He turned and picked up the pack. "Inside is every thing you'll need in the Underdark." He untied the main flap and pulled out a belt with a series of loops that held small metal vials sealed with waxed corks. "Potions for curing, and for neutralizing poison." He draped the belt over the chair, then pulled out a bandolier with larger loops that held rough-cut quartz prisms. "Flash gems. With a time delay. Speak the command word, throw one into a cavern or drop it down a rock chimney, then close your eyes for a count of three. Anything that's sensitive to light will be blinded long enough for you to kill it."

  Next came soft leather boots, as new looking as the pack was worn. They were dark red, embroidered with thread-of-gold. Pendaran held them up, then let them fall to the ground. They landed without making a sound.

  "Boots of silent striding?"

  "More than that." Pendaran spoke a command word: "Levarithin."

  The boots gently lifted from the floor. Pendaran held out a hand, stopping them before they rose to the ceiling. "Descenthallan." The boots sank gently to the floor. He stared a challenge at Sorrell. "You got that?"

  Sorrell nodded. "Levarithin… descenthallan. Got it." The boots rose from the floor, then sank again.

  "Good." Pendaran lifted a fine silver chain from the pack; dangling from it was a circle of what looked like clear glass. A ring. Unfastening the chain, he slid the ring off and handed it to Sorrell. "Put it on."

  "Which finger?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  Sorrell slipped the ring onto his left index finger. The magical ring adjusted to fit, then seemingly disappeared. Sorrell could feel it, but couldn't see it.

  "Vanessaril to become invisible," Pendaran instructed. "Maniferril to become visible again."

  Sorrell repeated the first command word. Going invisible was an odd sensation. He had to fight the urge to turn around and see where his body had gone. It left him feeling off center and slightly dizzy.

  "Maniferril," he said, glad to be able to see his feet again.

  "You'll get used to it," Pendaran said. "But don't come to rely on it. The Underdark's filled with traps and wards that will kill you just as dead, visible or invisible."

  Sorrell lowered his hand. "How soon do we leave?"

  "As soon as you've put this on." Pendaran pulled a metal jar from the pack and handed it to Sorrell. Like the potion vials, it was sealed with a cork. The wax seal had already been broken, and the outside of the jar was smudged with gray. It smelled like mud mixed with herbs.

  "Magical armor paint," Pendaran explained. "Strip down, and smear it over every bit of your body-especially those bits you'd most like to keep."

  Sorrell met Pendaran's eyes. The dhaeraowathila was testing him, seeing if Sorrell would forget his vow by smiling at the joke. The veiled reference to lovemaking, however, reminded Sorrell of Dalmara… and of children.

  The lump of ice returned to his heart.

  "Something wrong?" Pendaran asked.

  Sorrell managed to shake his head. "No, sir." The title came unbidden to his lips; it fit. Sorrell met his eye and slapped a hand against the handle of his club. "I'm looking forward to splitting drow skulls."

  "Good. When you've finished, join us near Shevarash's Oak. I'll be briefing the war band there."

  Sorrell stood with the other members of Pendaran's war band near the portal, waiting as two elves swept it clear of snow. There was evidence of a recent fight. The snow that had fallen since then hadn't quite covered up the crystallized patches of red that were frozen blood.

  Pendaran briefed his war b
and. "Two drow came through. One was killed, but the second escaped back with an entrance no wider than a crack; the half-elves had to use magic to see inside it. They spotted a chimney in the rock, leading down to the Underdark. From the boot prints they found they estimate there were five drow in total."

  Pendaran ran a scarred hand through his wheat-colored hair. "A scouting thalakz" he concluded, using a drow word. "One down, and four to go. And one of the four wounded, and slowing the rest down. Their leader, obviously, or they would have killed her."

  As he listened, Sorrell stared at the other three members of Pendaran's war band.

  Koora was a heavily tattooed wild elf, with dark brown skin and black, wavy hair, and the nervous, watchful air of a woodland creature that would startle at a sudden move. A small, dark blue gem-obviously magical-orbited her head like a restless fly. A sling hung coiled at her belt, next to a lumpy looking leather bag that probably held sling stones. Her feet were bare, despite the snow.

  The other two-Nairen and Adair-were clearly related. They had the same triangular jaw, the same thin eyebrows that met in a V over a narrow nose. The resemblance was close enough that they were probably brothers-though Nairen, the one with the broadsword at his hip, was a full moon elf, and Adair, the one leaning on the short spear, was part human. Both were tall and wiry, with fair skin the color of cream and hair so black it shone a deep, silken blue. Nairen wore his in a neat braid that hung down his back, while Adair's was loose and looked as though it had been hacked to its shoulder length with a knife. There were threads of gray in it; Adair looked twice as old as Nairen. But half-elves aged faster. The two might very well have been only a year apart.

  Both men were still young. Added together, their ages would probably barely match Sorrell's own hundred and twenty-six years.