Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [145]
Liriel scrambled to her feet and turned to flee. The male grabbed at her, and his hand managed to close around her ankle. With her free foot, she stomped on Gorlist's wrist, but her soft deerskin boots lent little conviction to the attack, and she did not break his hold. Quickly abandoning that attempt, she kicked him in the face. She got in several more blows before Gorlist managed to capture her free foot, as well. With a quick, sharp jerk he pulled both feet out from under her. Liriel's arms flew out wide and she fell straight back. Her head met the rocky ground with a sharp crack. The force of the blow-although cushioned a bit by her thick white mane-left her stunned.
The male crawled over to her and drew a long knife from his belt. Pure malevolence glowed in his one good eye. Liriel knew a moment's relief-he meant only to kill her, after all.
"Get away from her!" demanded a deep bass voice.
Gorlist looked up, startled, as a familiar-looking human hurtled toward him. The drow was faster, though, and he brought the wicked knife up.
Yet Liriel was also drow, and just as fast. Summoning all her strength, she managed to strike Gorlist's arm aside an instant before Fyodor would have impaled himself on the knife. The two fighters rolled clear of her, thrashing and struggling for position. She watched intently; the outcome was by no means clear. The human was a head taller and probably outweighed Gorlist by half, but the elf was more agile and nearly mad with rage, pain, and wounded pride.
Liriel waited expectantly for Fyodor's berserker frenzy to come and settle matters. It did not. This worried her; Gorlist still held the knife, and it was only a matter of time before he found an opening.
So she crawled over to the fighters, ignoring the throbbing in her head and the weird sparks of light exploding behind her eyes. She pulled a knife from her sleeve, watched for an opening between the grappling fighters, then thrust the blade between them. She drew it back hard against Gorlist's throat. The drow managed a gurgled protest, then fell limp.
Fyodor pushed away from the dying drow. For a long moment, the rivals for the Windwalker regarded each other in awkward silence.
"Next time, don't announce your arrival," Liriel suggested icily. "Kill first, and if unanswered questions remain you can always hire a priestess to chat with the spirit."
He responded with a faint, bleak smile. "It is not my custom to strike from behind. We do things differently, you and I."
"So I noticed! It's not drow custom to give any advantage to an enemy, much less leave them gifts."
"Yet you wear these gifts."
"Of course. I'm practical," she stated. "As you're always pointing out, there are those who think, and those who dream. Well, together we've got one of each. I suggest we stop this foolishness and tend to business. Together."
"But how can that be, if there is no trust between us?" he demanded, his blue eyes searching her face.
The drow crossed her arms and stared him down. "So, what's the score now?"
Fyodor blinked and drew back. "The score?"
"The score. You know: I've pulled your tzarreth out of the fire four times, you've saved mine three-that sort of thing." She lifted one white eyebrow. "It says something, doesn't it?"
The light began to return to Fyodor's eyes. "Are you saying I should trust you?"
The drow shrugged.
"I suppose if we continue as we have been going, neither of us will possess the Windwalker," he said cautiously.
"Now you're talking!" Liriel could not suppress a smile of pure elation. "Then it's settled!"
"Is it? If only one can possess the Windwalker, who will he that one?"
"Let's worry about one thing at a time," Liriel advised him. She squinted downriver. The drow hunters were almost beyond sight. "Nine Hells! Well never catch them! Where are those long-legged lizards of yours?"
"The horses fled-probably the drow ran them off."