Storm of the Dead - Lisa Smedman [5]
He followed the creature's trail. In places where grass grew it had left a swath of crushed stems. In other spots, it had knocked stones loose from the crumbling foundations. The drifting mist caused Q'arlynd to lose the trail once or twice, but he persevered and eventually spotted what he'd been looking for: a drow's body, missing the lower portion of one leg. It was a male. The stomach had been chewed open and intestines were strewn across the ground. Flies droned into the air at Q'arlynd's approach, buzzing about in lazy circles, then settled again.
The dead drow was large for a male-nearly as tall and well muscled as a female. He wore an adamantine chain mail shirt-the creature had dragged it away from the stomach to feed-and a simple bowl-shaped helmet. The white hair that splayed out from it was crusted with blood. The back of the helm was gone, snipped neatly away. So too was a large part of the scalp beneath. The monster had bitten right through the metal, perhaps knocking the male down before he could use the sword that lay on the ground near his feet. He'd managed to fire his wristbow, though: the bolt had torn a furrow in the ground, a few paces away.
Q'arlynd shook his head. The fellow should have spent more time aiming and less time shouting after his companion.
He passed his hands over the body and whispered an incantation. A weak aura sprang into being around the piwafwi, a stronger one around the sword. Both items were of drow manufacture.
Q'arlynd rummaged through the dead male's pack. It contained nothing of interest. Just a half-eaten loaf of spore-bread, a flask of wine, and the usual gear a House soldier carried: whetstone, spare boots, extra gut for his wristbow, and a vial of sleep-poison for the bolts. The male's clothes were of a plain cut, and he wore no insignia: a commoner, then, despite the magical sword.
Q'arlynd's stomach growled, reminding him that he'd gone the night without eating. He'd tried hunting after his latest batch of supplies ran out, but the few birds and rodents he'd managed to blast with his magical missiles had been bony and unappetizing. Right then, even sporebread looked good.
He ate the loaf, washing it down with wine. When he finished, he circled the area, looking for the tracks of the companion who'd fled. The ground was a confusion of mashed grass. It looked as though the pair had camped there for a day or two. Footprints led off in several directions-and back again. Nothing was immediately obvious as a trail someone might have had made while fleeing.
Q'arlynd sighed. "'Where are you,' indeed?" he repeated. It was possible, he supposed, that the dead male's companion had used magic to escape. Or that he'd bolted down a hole into the Underdark.
If there was an entrance to the Underdark nearby, it was well hidden-possibly concealed by magic. Q'arlynd had an answer for that. He pulled out his quartz crystal and held it up to his eyes. He turned slowly, searching the nearby ground. Anything magically hidden would…
Wait a moment. What was that, off in the distance? It looked like another drow. Another male, judging by the figure's height and build. He was standing several hundred paces away, leaning on a staff and staring at the ground.
Q'arlynd lowered the crystal. The figure vanished. He raised the crystal again, and saw that the hitherto invisible male still stood there. Staring at the ground. Not moving.
Paralyzed, perhaps?
No, not paralyzed. The male began walking in a slow circle, head down, as if searching for something on the ground.
Q'arlynd stared at him. "Lost something else besides your nerve, did you?"
Whatever the male was so intent on finding, it must have been valuable enough to warrant his full attention. He never even glanced in Q'arlynd's direction, even though Q'arlynd was plainly visible; all of his attention was focused on the ground.
Q'arlynd smiled and rendered himself invisible