Dark Vengeance (5 page)

The Evendoom timing was perfect: the banners of Raskshaula and Maulstryke were just now advancing into the forecourt, arriving on carefully separated approaches.

“And now it comes,” Clazlathor murmured aloud as a sudden hush fell over the forecourt, and a tension as heavy as a statue's stone fist descended.

There were suddenly three Nifl atop the podium, on the platform that had been bare and empty stone half a breath before.

Clazlathor's eyes narrowed.

So Jalandral Evendoom had magic to carelessly spend on whims, did he? Or did he just want all watching Talonnorn to think so?

The tallest, foremost Nifl of the three now looking down on the forecourt was Jalandral Evendoom, of course; the other two looked to be priestesses or crones; all three wore dark cloaks that covered them from throat to ankle. The horns all blared at once, now, a long and deafening cacophony that drowned out all other sounds and made even Munthur wince.

When it died away, silence fell—for as long as it took Jalandral Evendoom to draw in a dramatic breath, step to the front of the podium, and cry, “Talonnorn crumbles!”

Magic made his voice carry clearly to every ear without need for shouting. Every word came clear and hard, to every staring Talonar Nifl.

The figure atop the podium waited for applause or cries of denial, but his words echoed around a silent forecourt. The crowd of Niflghar were standing still, now, looking up at him and waiting to hear whatever he'd prepared to say.

Thus far, their silence said, they were unimpressed.

“Our city is yet great,” Jalandral told them, “but not long ago was peerless, the mightiest city in all Niflheim! You remember, I remember, a time before nobles were hated! A time when they were great darklion leaders over us all, not feuding, lazy,
unworthy
preeners!”

That awakened a rumble of muttered acknowledgments. Jalandral didn't wait for it to die.

“And I remember—surely you remember—a time when the Consecrated of Olone were wise, just, and admired by all, holy Nifl-shes whom all Talonar willingly obeyed and looked to for guidance! A time before our temple became a blood-drenched battleground of priestess slaying priestess and crone clawing at crone, all of them so lost and fallen from the grace of Olone that they
fought each other in nakedly self-serving ambition! A time when the very approach of a priestess awakened awe in us all, not wary fear!”

The rumble was louder, this time, and held a note of gruff agreement. Jalandral flung his arms wide and bellowed, “
I want that greatness back!
I want a Talonnorn brighter than everywhere else in Niflheim, a Talonnorn that Ouvahlor will never
dare
attack!”

The crowd was with him, now, but wary, their cries of agreement muted.

They were still listening more than they were roaring along with Jalandral.

“I want a Talonnorn where Nifl can feel
safe,
and dwell drenched in gems, as befit the citizens of the greatest city of all! I want a Talonnorn cleansed of decadence and sneering laziness and the powerful being casually cruel to all the rest of us!”

The crowd agreed, loudly but still warily.

“And I only know one way to
get
that Talonnorn!” Jalandral roared. “
I
will have to do the work to build it! I
ache
to get to work on building it! I weep that I cannot reach out and grasp that bright, great Talonnorn right now!
I must have that Talonnorn!
”

This brought heartfelt shouts of approval at last; not many, but they were there, amid a rising din of excited talk and anticipation.

“Talonar, I will bring you that Talonnorn!”

The crowd roared their eagerness.

“I will bring you that Talonnorn if you let me, proud people of Talonnorn! Yet I cannot do it if I must fight selfish, grasping-after-power crones and House lords and priestesses at my every stride! I must be Lord of Talonnorn, not just Lord Evendoom fighting against five other Houses and the priestesses of the temple, all of whom will want the city ordered
their
way—the corrupt, self-serving way that brought our city to this! Make me Lord, and I will serve you all!”

Down in the forecourt, beneath the flapping Grim Skull banner, Paerelor Dounlar—who had been Lord Dounlar for so short a time he yet failed to turn his head and heed when one of his own
warblades called, “Lord!”—looked grimly past a sea of Nifl warblade noses to catch the eye of Lord Klasrar Oszrim.

They exchanged curt nods.

“I have heard enough,” Paerelor snapped as he turned to look behind him, and thrust aside a tall Dounlar warblade standing in his way, “and more than enough.”

His eyes sought and found the face they were seeking: Lord Morluar Raskshaula. The senior House Lord of Talonnorn wasn't standing under his banner—and was wearing full and gleaming black battle-armor. Paerelor gave him a slow, firm nod, and saw it returned.

He also saw Lord Raskshaula turn his head to a Raskshaula spellrobe, standing next to him, and saw that Nifl's eyes glow with the power of a suddenly unleashed magic.

Smiling, he turned his attention back to Jalandral Evendoom.

This should be fun.

“If I am proclaimed Lord in Talonnorn—
if
you want me as your Lord, citizens of Talonnorn—I shall prepare a guard for our city without delay, and pay them well. They will keep our cavern safe, and be ready for foes seeking to strike at us from the deeper Dark. Then I shall found—and pay well!—work gangs, to direct slaves in the rebuilding of every shattered street and building in our city, shaping larger, brighter dwellings for all! Talonar who desire to found their own new businesses shall find me generous in sponsoring them and ordering affairs in our city so they can flourish, for—”

Gasps and startled cries among the Talonar below warned Jalandral Evendoom then, even before the crones standing with him did.

Those two Nifl-shes flung off their robes to reveal black leather garb hung about with battle-scepters that could blast more of Talonnorn, to make those work gangs ever more needful. Snatching those blasting wands into their hands, they hissed words that awakened the scepters to almost blindingly glowing power.

Nifl murmured in alarm and sought to draw back from around
the podium, recognizing that they might imminently face the full-risen might of Nifl magic, the wildest fury that consumed its source, and so was unleashed only in dire moments, when all must be sacrificed.

Yet the crones weren't looking down at the crowd.

They were gazing high across the cavern, at the swift-approaching menace—a flying force that some in the crowd had seen bursting out of the spell-glow of a great translocation that had snatched it from afar.

The Hunt of Talonnorn! Whipswords and longlances gleaming, their spell-armor glowing like gems of all hues caught by firelight, the surviving Nifl of the flying Hunt of Talonnorn swept across the cavern on their long-necked, many-clawed darkwings.

Like fell dark arrows they came racing, right at the high podium. The crones standing with the Lord of House Evendoom hurled bright blasting-spells at them in swiftly hissing frenzy, but Jalandral Evendoom merely glanced at the Hunt once, smiled, and turned again to the Talonar crowded into his forecourt below him.

“Citizens, have no fear! I will stand for Talonnorn against even this treachery!
I will save Talonnorn, and I will rule Talonnorn!
”

The foremost darkwings loomed up over the podium, jaws parting eagerly—before a bright burst of fiery magic tore it apart.

Writhing black scaled fragments hurtled wetly in all directions, spattering those on the podium and the pushing, shoving-to-flee Nifl below. With them tumbled all that was left of its rider: a severed hand clutching a whipsword crawling with dying lightnings.

“People of Talonnorn, I am your Lord!” Jalandral Evendoom bellowed, his spell-augmented voice like the deep roar of the fabled Ghodal Below.

“I shall prevail!”

And he smiled a broad and crooked smile as the air behind him flared with a new spell-glow, so bright and terrible that it made even the great Eventowers seem no more than a few black, vainly reaching fingers.

“Tears of Olone!” Clazlathor whispered. “
Now
what?”

Will you stand waiting
When the nightskins come up?
Is your sword sharp enough
Dark blood to sup?
Will you be ready
To fight and to die?
Or hide, run, or cower
And when dawn comes, to cry?

—
Orlkettle firesong

S
omething moved in the night, a darker shape amid the deep shadows—a shape as softly supple as any serpent.

Grammoth's eyes narrowed. Was it just Kellurt creeping over to tap on Naraya's back door again? Or heading down to the back fences, to seek the shuttered window of the widow Tayevur right down the far end of Orlkettle?

What any woman saw in the sour-faced jeweler was beyond Grammoth. Aye, Kellurt the Grand took them food and left them coins, but still . . .

The shadow advanced with sudden purpose, and Grammoth
smelled a faint whiff of something that prickled in his nose, something he'd never smelt before.

Something . . .
other.

The swiftest lad in all Orlkettle rolled away, as far and as fast as he could, coming to his feet with a shout. He flung the little bell he'd been holding the clapper of as hard as he could one way, to clang and clatter along the street, even as he hurled himself in the other direction.

Answering shouts arose, near at hand and then farther off, and lanterns flared as they were unhooded. By then Grammoth was running as fast as he'd ever run in his life, whimpering in fear with his dagger half-drawn and the lean, furious-faced dark thing right behind him and reaching for him with fingers that were long and taloned.

It can run faster than I can!

Desperately he ducked around the corner of a shed, slipped and stumbled his frantic way up and over a midden-heap, shrieked as he smelled that smell again and his pursuer's long arm came down—and then gasped, breath snatched out of his lungs in terror, as a steel sword longer than he was sliced out of the night to hack that reaching arm away.

Behind Grammoth, the nightskin sobbed in astonished pain. Through his sweating, shivering fear the scrambling youth saw teeth just above that sword; teeth that flashed in a smile that wasn't at all nice.

The sword came slicing again. As he swung it, Orivon Firefist stopped smiling long enough to hiss something sharp and triumphantly challenging in a fluid, bubbling tongue that Grammoth didn't understand—as the nightskin screamed, loud and agonized, right beside Grammoth . . .a horrible scream that turned into a wet choking and then a weaker bubbling.

The forge-giant's sword bit into jet-hued flesh again.

The long-limbed dark elf reeled, whimpering, and fell.

Orivon's blade thrust down ruthlessly, and the nightskin stopped making noises.

The forge-giant reached out a long arm, dug fingers bruisingly into Grammoth's shoulder, hauled the frightened lad to his feet, and growled, “Stay by my side. There'll be all too many others!”

Grammoth was only too happy to obey. Shouts and screams rang all around them, now, and torches were flaring, spitting brightness into a night that seemed full of running men with axes and hay-forks—and swift-darting shadows.

Orivon Firefist hadn't waited for Grammoth's reply. He was racing back out into the street, that fearsome sword gleaming as he swung it. Another nightskin shrieked, staggered, and fell. The sword thrust down brutally again, a black body spasmed—and Grammoth's gut heaved.

As he spewed his supper into the dirt, another two shadows ran past, moving like a storm wind yet making no more sound than a night breeze. Firefist heard them, though, and turned with that hard, nasty smile on his face, sword sweeping up.

The dark elves promptly veered apart, waving swords that looked like black fingers of darkness, and then ran toward each other again, trapping the forgefist between them. They meant to . . .

Grammoth threw his dagger desperately, right at one nightskin face.

The dark elf calmly turned his head aside and tilted his head away, to let the hurled knife whirl harmlessly past—but Firefist had already spun to face the other nightskin, smashed that dark sword aside, buried his own blade in the dark elf's other forearm, and sat himself down, jerking at his sword as he did so.

Helplessly, the spitted elf was hurled over him and forward, keening in pain, to crash headfirst into the nightskin Grammoth had distracted. The two raiders stumbled together, entangled, and the forge-giant sprang up to hew at the backs of their knees. They fell heavily, and suddenly men of Orlkettle were all around them, shouting in fear and rage, and stabbing down with hay-forks like madmen.

The heads of those two dark elves started to vanish messily under all the thrusting Orl steel, and Firefist turned away to seek more nightskins. Still retching, Grammoth staggered after him.