Realms of Magic - Brian Thomsen King [135]
In any setting, dark elves survived only through constant vigilance. Liriel, although deep in her studies, remained alert to possible dangers. So, when the garish tapestry decorating the far wall shuddered and began to fade away, she responded with a drow's quick reflexes. In a heartbeat, she was on her feet, a dagger in one hand and a small, dangerously glowing sphere in the other.
Before she could draw another breath, the wall dissolved into a vortex of shimmering light-a magic portal to some distant place. Liriel's first thought was that her enemies had found her. Her second thought was that her enemies were definitely getting better.
She herself had been well trained in dark-elven wizardry and was no stranger to magical travel, but never had she seen anything like the silent storm raging before her. The colors of a thousand sunsets glimmered in the whirling mist, and pinpoints of light spun in it like dizzy stars. One thing was clear: whoever came through that portal would be worth fighting. A smile of anticipation set flame to the drow's golden eyes, and every muscle in her slight body tensed for the battle to come.
Then the portal exploded in eerie silence, hurling multicolored smoke to every corner of the room. The magical gate disappeared and was replaced by the more mundane tapestry, before which stood a most peculiar warrior.
Liriel blinked, wondering for a moment if a barbarian marauder had somehow stepped off the tapestry's battle scene. The figure before her was more like some ancient illustration, brought improbably to life, than any being of flesh and bone that Liriel had yet encountered.
The drow stared up-way up-at a human female warrior. The woman was taller than the elven girl by more than a foot and was at least twice as broad. Fat braids of flame-colored hair erupted from beneath a horn-bedizened bronze helm and disappeared into the thick reddish bearskin draped over her shoulders. Apart from these garments and a pair of knee-high, shaggy-furred boots, the warrior was virtually naked. Leather thongs bound weapons to her person and held in place a few strategically placed scraps of metal-studded leather. The woman's skin was pale, her muscles taut, and her curves of the sort usually encountered only in the fantasies of untried youths and libidinous artists. In fact, the warrior's curves, costume, and theatrically grim expression suggested to Liriel that this woman was supposed to be part of someone's evening entertainment. Obviously, she'd missed a turn somewhere on magic's silver pathways.
"Nice entrance," Liriel observed dryly, "but the floor show is in the main tavern."
The barbarian's sky-colored eyes flamed with blue heat. "Do you take me for a tavern wench?" she roared. The warrior batted aside a wisp of glowing smoke and squinted in Uriel's direction. With a slow, ominous flourish, she drew an ancient broadsword from its scabbard. Tossing back her helmed head, she took a long, proud breath-dangerously taxing the strength and expansion capacity of her scant leather garments-and lifted her sword in challenge. Remnants of the luminous smoke writhed around her, adding significantly to the overall effect.
"Behold Vasha the Red, daughter of Hanigard, queen of the ice water raiders, captain of the Hrothgarian guard, and hired sword arm of the Red Bear Clan," the warrior announced in a voice that shook the windowpanes and promised doom.
Liriel got the feeling that