Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [79]
Fyodor lifted his eyes upward. A deep tangle of trees met overhead, and through the thick green curtain he glimpsed the faint pink and silver glow of sunrise. Dawn was breaking. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and one he had not expected to see again. Thanks to the drow girl, he had found his way back to the sun. He therefore owed her his life, not once, but twice over.
He rose and scrambled up the steep bank, searching for anything that might tell him where he was. The forest around him was thick and dark, but ahead to the west the foliage around the dry riverbank dwindled to a low growth of brambles and newly leafed bushes. It was springtime here, and the season was much further along than in his native Rashemen.
Fyodor made his way quickly along the riverbank toward the forest's edge. A hill sloped down before him into a low, fertile valley. There were meadows, already thick and lush, and a vast tangle of berry bushes dusted with white flowers. Even more encouraging were the fields of rye growing beyond, for the carefully tended crops spoke of a nearby settlement.
The young warrior nodded in satisfaction. Despite his joy in finding a way to the surface, he was determined to return to the Underdark as soon as possible so he might pick up the trail of the drow thieves. Even if the settlement were no more than a few farmhouses, he could purchase what supplies he needed for his journey. The silver coins he had earned during his apprenticeship still hung heavy in his purse. With long, eager strides, he took off in search of the village.
He had not gone far before he heard the busy sounds of hammers and saws. Beyond the fields huddled a cluster of buildings within a sturdy wooden palisade. Fyodor hurried to the gate and knocked loudly.
A small portal opened, and a stern, gray-whiskered face glared out at him. "Who are you, and what do you want?" the man demanded coldly.
"I am a traveler seeking to purchase supplies," Pyodor replied.
"Hmmph! Too early for that," the guard grumbled, but he eyed the young man with a slightly less glacial expression.
Fyodor glanced back toward the east. The sun had broken over the forested hills and was shining over the grain-fields in long, slanted rays. "The morning is young," he agreed, "but I can hear that your village is already hard at work."
"Getting ready for the spring fair, we are," the guard offered, "The river's gone down a mite, and merchants will be coming through any day now. Where did you say you hailed from?*
"My homeland is Rashemen."
"I heard tell of it," the guard said, and las eyes narrowed in speculation. "You be one of them crazy berserker fighters?"
For a moment Fyodor was uncertain how best to answer. Many people feared the warriors of Rashemen, and they might well deny him admittance to their village. He desperately needed supplies and could not afford to lose this opportunity. On the other hand, it was his custom to speak the truth.
"I am, sir, but I fight only when I must."
"Hmm. Well then, it might be that the townsfolk can sell you what you need."
The wooden gate swung open, and Fyodor gazed in puzzlement at the strange village beyond. Cattle and goats were penned in small enclosures, munching dried winter fodder despite the lush grazing in the meadows beyond the village walls. Buildings lined the street: strong, sturdy wood-and-stone structures that lacked any of the homey comfort of Rashemi cottages. There were no painted shutters, no carefully tended beds of herbs and flowers to brighten these dwellings. No storks nested on the roofs, which were fashioned not of neatly woven thatch but of hard, dark slate. There was not a touch of color, not a bit of beauty. All stark wood and stone, the town reminded Fyodor of a forest in midwinter.
Its inhabitants were no less grim. No small clusters of villagers stood about in courtyards, sharing mugs of steaming kvas along