Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [121]
The wounded fighter drifted back to consciousness, and his gaze settled on the fiery vial in the cleric's hands. A gleam of fierce approval lit his eyes, and he gestured for the priest to administer the potion at once. Henge hesitated in midchant.
"Do it," commanded Gorlist in a faint, blood-choked whisper. He spat and then tipped back his head so Henge could pour the potion into his mouth. The priest complied, and the fighter downed the fiery liquid in a single swallow.
Convulsions gripped him at once. The other two drow lunged for the fighter and tried in vain to hold him down. Gorlist tossed them aside without thought or effort, utterly unmindful of their presence in the midst of the agony that seared through his every vein and sinew.
Since he could do nothing but wait, Nisstyre found himself a comfortable rock and sat down for the duration. He had seen many fearful deaths-most of them of his own plan and execution-but never had he witnessed such suffering. Yet he watched impassively as the magic fire seared through his son's body.
Finally Gorlist lay limp and still. "Did he survive?" ventured Henge.
"He did."
The answer came from Gorlist himself. The fighter spat out splinters of green wood and climbed slowly to his feet.
Nisstyre noted the bloodlust in his eyes. It would be difficult, he realized, to keep the headstrong young drow from pursuing the human who had so grievously wounded him. Nisstyre hungered for the taste of revenge, as well, but he needed Gorlist to focus on an even greater prize.
"By all reckoning, I should have died," Gorlist said. He walked over to the wizard, all the while unbuckling- the leather bracers that protected his arms. "I say you owe my bloodprice. Since I have no heirs, I'll collect it myself."
Nisstyre did not doubt what the fighter would demand. "The human was badly wounded," he lied. "Although he escaped, he will not long survive."
The fighter shrugged away this news and thrust his fist high, turning it so Nisstyre could see the thin line of scar that ran down his forearm.
"I want her," Gorlist said through clenched teeth.
The wizard rocked back, momentarily at a loss for a response. Nisstyre tended to indulge his followers, encouraging them to enact revenge as the spirit moved them. Drow needed a focus for their inbred hatred, an occasional vent for their simmering rage. It was unfortunate Gorlist had chosen such a valuable target.
"Then you will lead the search to find her," the wizard told him smoothly. "However, you are not to kill her. She is too important for that, both for the magic she wields and the children she may bear to follow Vhaeraun. You know the importance of bringing drow females into the Night Above. I will not have her destroyed."
Gorlist scowled.
"There are more ways than one to humble the little princess," Nisstyre said softly. "I want this female for Vhaeraun, and for my own pleasure, but I am not averse to sharing. In time, you shall have your revenge."
The fighter's eyes widened as the meaning of the wizard's words became clear. Drow routinely inflicted horrors upon their own people and slaughtered the surface races merely for the pleasure of the kill, but what Nisstyre suggested was beyond the unspoken code of dark-elven behavior. No female, not even one conquered in battle, was taken against her will. Centuries of indoctrination had forged a taboo that was seldom questioned and rarely violated.
Females wielded power in their society, and all female drow, even commoners, were viewed as the mortal incarnations of Lloth.
And yet… "We follow a god, not a goddess," Gorlist mused aloud.
"You begin to understand," Nisstyre said approvingly. But as he spoke, his hand lifted to rub the ruby that gleamed in the center of his forehead. He wondered if his "partner" had heard his words, and if so, how Shakti Hunzrin would regard such heresy.
It would take him time, remembering to tailor his words and actions to please a priestess of the drow goddess. It was not a