Dark Vengeance (8 page)

“Forgive me, Revered Mother, but the Watchers of Ouvahlor aren't the only ones who have been watching over Jalandral Evendoom. You charged me with this same duty yourself, and I have been attentive to it. I have watched this Lord Evendoom, and he is clever, and energetic, and cunning—
very
cunning. Most of his foes are already dead, and although it can be argued that slaying a Talonar noble just transforms his blood-kin into your next deadly foe, Evendoom has already eliminated most of the capable and influential Talonar nobles, and subverted the Holy of Olone who might have stood against him. His hands are already around
Talonnorn's neck; any who dare to oppose him now will have to flee smartly, or be dead even more swiftly. Talonnorn's time of greatest weakness is right now.”

Excited by her own unfolding words, Semmeira started to stride about the chamber, waving her hands dramatically. “If we give Jalandral Evendoom the time he needs to get Talonar defenders into the habit of obeying his orders without dispute or delay, and those defenders better ordered and deployed, Talonnorn will soon become even more formidable than it was when we defeated it. Far weaker in spellrobes and sheer numbers of fighting sword, yes, but with the internal dissension that so sapped them then—infighting that mattered more to Talonar even than our invading forces striding their very
streets!
—banished. Smaller swords than Talonnorn could once assemble, yes, but swords that obey one command, not fighting each other with a dozen masters more interested in settling Talonar disputes than the intrusions of Ouvahlor or anyone else.”

“And if this Evendoom is already arming Talonnorn for war, and our attack on him becomes the very flame that forges the Talonar into one blade against us? What price your bright scheming
then
?”

“Why, then we will at least strike at them before they are ready and have taken their forces out into the Dark, so the fighting will again be at the very doors of Talonar houses, bruising their pride and shaking their loyalty to this new High Lord to whom they have given so much authority, in exchange for . . . what? No protection that they can credit! We may well doom Evendoom to face new knives at his back, new traitors in ‘his' streets who otherwise would dare not challenge him!”

“You are persuasive, Semmeira. Yet ears are all too often bent by loud and oft-winded war-horns, where softer warnings should perhaps be better heeded. Ithmeira, what say you?”

The other dark-clad priestess spread her hands and said mildly, “Revered Mother, you know that I have long clung to another view. I cleave to it still. That if ever we truly humble Talonnorn, we make our greatest mistake.”

Semmeira shook her head in exasperation, but Ithmeira raised her voice a trifle and continued. “So long as Talonnorn proclaims its peerless and ‘rightful' greatness, and in its prideful folly presumes to publicly hold opinions as to what all other Nifl should do—and lashes out at other cities at will, with their Flying Hunt raids and by various Talonar noble Houses sponsoring their own attacks on merchants and slave-bands just as they please, they are seen as the great evil.”

Ithmeira turned to face Semmeira directly, and added, “Against the great and ever-restless peril of Talonnorn, other Niflghar see Ouvahlor as a lesser evil, and a useful bulwark against Talonnorn's ambitions. We are the traditional foe of the City of Spires, the rival who feels its armed might most frequently and heavily, and who strives ever to ‘get even.' Is this not so?”

Semmeira shrugged. “It is so, yes, but—”

Revered Mother Lolonmae held up a hand to silence her, and then inclined that hand toward Ithmeira, bidding her to say on.

She obeyed. “Wipe Talonnorn away, however, or reduce it to a few Talonar huddling in ruins, and all the other cities across the Wild Dark, far and near, of Olone or the Holy Ice, will begin to see Ouvahlor as a greater threat than boastful Talonnorn ever was. For do we not have the great Klarandarr, and mighty Coldheart, and apparent peace between both?”

“Oh,
come!
” Semmeira burst out, unable to contain herself longer. “You raise the prospect that city after city will send their armies far, across great stretches of dangerous Wild Dark, against us? Or even ally, combining their forces against us? These are the fears of drunken younglings, who babble endlessly of the Hairy Ones coming down from the Blindingbright with sword and fury, unless we cease taking slaves! Or warn that taming darkwings will awaken the wrath of the dragons, who will claw aside the very Rock itself to tear the Dark asunder and let in the Brightness that they may devour us! You raise wild tales told to children, that have never befallen and never will! We cannot flourish—cannot even
live,
as free Niflghar know ‘life'—if we fear such impossible ‘may-haps'!
Aside from long-ago legends, have you
ever
known Niflghar cities to muster together, against another city?”

Ithmeira shrugged. “And if Nifl only ever did just and only what they have done before, why are we not wearing the robes Ouvahlans wore when our city was founded? And still eating only guth-worms, that turn our stomachs today? How could our city have been founded at all, if Nifl had not dared to venture far through the monster-haunted Dark, to reaches never seen by Niflghar before? Semmeira, you seek not to assail your desired plans and beliefs with the same swords you thrust at mine!”

“I would be delighted never again to thrust a sword at anyone's
plan,
” Exalted Daughter of the Ice Semmeira said bitingly. “
I
want to be thrusting swords at the foes of Ouvahlor—before they put
their
swords through us! While we stand about doing nothing, but talking and talking and
talking
!”

“So before we all become truly enfeebled crones,” Lolonmae asked her mildly, “talking until our teeth fall out and you become utterly deranged through drowning in the seething spittle of your own impatience, what do
you
want to do right now, Semmeira? If you could do anything at all, what would it be?”

“Command our army—and attack Talonnorn just as fast as we can get there!”

Lolonmae nodded.

“Every third or fourth rampant in that army thinks he should be leading it,” she pointed out. “So with so many commanders to choose from, why you?”

“I—I—” Semmeira struggled for a reason, seeming for a moment like a trapped beast in a cage, looking around wildly, her hair swirling. Then her eyes flashed fire, and she said triumphantly, “On your orders, Holy Lolonmae, I have watched Jalandral Evendoom more closely than anyone else in all Ouvahlor! I know him and his preparations! Even more than the Watchers, I know exactly where and how to strike!”

“More than the Watchers?” the Revered Mother repeated, in gentle disbelief.

“More than the Watchers!” Semmeira thundered, striking her fist against the nearest pillar. “May the Ever-Ice bear witness!”

“Oh, it does,” Lolonmae said mildly. “It always does. Well, then, Exalted Daughter Semmeira, hear my will. I have no power to command the army nor name its commander, for there are those in Ouvahlor who respect Coldheart but fall short of trusting us. Wisely.”

She rose from her throne of ice, releasing a small flood of water, and added, “I have, however, been entrusted with a few of the most untried swords of Ouvahlor—the younglings, who have never fought before—who are intended to serve as a guard for we Anointed, when we venture into battle. A way, I doubt not, to free the most capable warriors of our city from having to wait upon priestesses they fear rather than do their best work, in battle—and to give them some chance of surviving, by putting them beyond reach of any truly foolish orders we may give. These untried few, Semmeira, I can put under your command.”

“To lead into death and disaster, when I need so many more to bring down Talonnorn?” The most ambitious priestess of Coldheart did not trouble to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“To lead in a
successful
attack, bold-for-blood Anointed,” the Revered Mother replied reprovingly, “on the Ravager trademoot of Glowstone. Wherein you and our untried swords can taste battle and learn, and do Ouvahlor great service thereby. It is agreed by all of us who debate and decide what swords our city shall swing, and against whom, that Glowstone must be retaken before we assault the City of Spires.”

“Yes?” Semmeira was afire with excitement now, but wary of a snare in this bright offer. “Retaken why?”

“To serve as a way-base for attacking Talonnorn, so our forces can advance on the Talonar cavern from Ouvahlor in one direction and Glowstone in the other. Anyone trying to flee Talonnorn will be caught between us, and slaughtered.”

“Yes!” Semmeira agreed excitedly, and then cocked her head in open suspicion and asked, “But why does it need ‘retaking' at
all? Didn't we conquer it with ease when last we struck at Talonnorn? Is some sort of peril hiding in Glowstone?”

Lolonmae tossed aside her robes and gestured to Ithmeira, who caught up a dipper of water from the icy pool and delicately drenched the Revered Mother from her throat downward.

“N-no,” Lolonmae told Semmeira, starting to shiver. “When we took Glowstone, most of the Ravagers there knew its tunnels much better than our rampants, and fought their ways out into the Wild Dark and escaped—only to creep right back to Glowstone the moment our forces returned home. As to why they returned: unlike Talonnorn, Ouvahlor has no interest in conquering cavern after monster-roamed cavern of the Wild Dark, and making ourselves known targets for all in doing so.”

Whatever else she might have been going to say was lost in a sharp gasp of pain as Ithmeira finished casting the spell that turned the water still running down Lolonmae abruptly into a hard casing of ice.

A deep blue glow in the ice under their feet brightened and started to rise; the Ever-Ice was responding to Lolonmae's yielding of herself.

Semmeira stood watching it impatiently, almost dancing in her eagerness. “When can I make ready?” she snapped, courtesy forgotten in her excitement.

“Now,” the Revered Mother replied, managing a smile. “Yet mind you return here, to me, before you depart Coldheart. The Ice desires your surrender.”

“Of course!” Exalted Daughter Semmeira almost shouted, ere she darted from the chamber. “The Ever-Ice be with me, in everything I do!”

“Indeed,” Lolonmae murmured. “For all our sakes.”

“Revered Mother,” Ithmeira murmured, running reverent hands up the slick, cold ice she had caused to coat the body of her superior, “is this wise?”

“Of course not,” the ranking priestess of Coldheart replied, stiffening as the cold blue light of the Ice reached her ice-locked feet
and started to ascend through her body, causing it to glow. “Semmeira and wisdom never consort together in comfort. Yet better she be out heroically roaming the Dark than skulking around Ouvahlor stirring up dissent with her impatient mutterings about the Revered Mother being an indecisive coward unworthy of the Ever-Ice, and Coldheart a fraud that has fallen away from the holiness that she—of course—alone embodies. Let her cause trouble outside our walls, for once.”

Ithmeira winced. “It only has to be once, if she causes trouble enough.”

Lolonmae's smile was as bright as it was sudden. “Semmeira said those very words, once. About me.”

 

“The Anointed,” Aloun said carefully, “never fail to surprise me. To us, they're all cold superiority and orders not to be questioned, but within their walls, they're—”

“Just as Nifl as the rest of us,” Luelldar replied softly. “Thank the Ever-Ice.”

He turned his head suddenly, to give Aloun the same sort of bright grin favored by reckless Niflghar younglings, and added, “Yet to speak of the passing entertainment they afford us, what think you thus far?
I
think Semmeira is almost certainly overeager in rushing to her own doom.”

If life you spurn and pain you scorn
Seek out a duel in Talonnorn.
No cause too great nor too forlorn
To be worth a duel in Talonnorn.
Better yet you'd never been born
Than to fall in a duel in Talonnorn.

—
Talonar tavern song

“
N
ew arrivals?” Vaeyemue murmured, settling her whip onto her shoulder.

Children of Hairy Ones were always largeeyed with fear, and either mute or weeping.

Not that it lasted long.

They went mad and went to the stewpots, or found a way to kill themselves, or grew up fast.

Their snivelings were muted in the soft, damp warmth of the yeldeth caverns.

Everything was muted in the soft, damp warmth of the yeldeth caverns.

The rampants who'd brought the new slaves in hadn't bothered to answer her.

They seldom did.