Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [140]
Naked and bleeding, chilled to the very bone, he pushed himself away from the ground and looked about for something to cover himself. Not a difficult task, since the berserkers' clothing had all torn away with the coming of the change. He found a pair of boots-judging from the size, his cousin Petyar's-and a shirt and breeches. The lacings along the front of the shirt and both sides of the breeches had been torn away when their owner took on bear form, but that presented no problem. By Rashemaar custom, all warriors' garments were fashioned with a second pair of laces just below, in honor of the time when berserkers changed form at will.
Fyodor threaded and tied the second laces as quickly as his shaking hands would allow. He pulled on Petyar's boots and looked around for his sword.
A few weapons littered the ground, Rashemi and drow alike, but he reached for none of them. According to tradition, the black sword would be the last he wielded.
He looked for Liriel, his gaze following the black-robed witches as they moved with the other women around the field. She was not among them.
As the haze of his battle frenzy receded, he remembered when and where he'd last seen his friend. A priestess of Lolth awaited her, and so did a deadly drow swordmaster. She had bidden him leave her.
And he had left.
Fyodor turned and stumbled into the forest. He had no strength, no sword. There was nothing left to him but the drow girl he loved and the knowledge that he need never leave Rashemen again.
The water beside Liriel exploded upward, reforming in the familiar blue shape of the genasi. Azar gave the drow a fierce smile, and the light of insanity burned bright in her eyes. She showed Liriel the sword Gorlist had tossed into the water.
"The illithid wanted you dead," she said. "Live to spite her!"
Liriel had no time to respond, no time to claim and lift the blade. Gorlist's running charge was almost upon her. She did not see Fyodor streaking toward her, moving with the preternatural speed granted by his berserker frenzy.
The young Rashemi thrust himself between the girl and the warrior, accepting the thrust meant for Liriel. Drow steel sank deep and true. Fyodor fell heavily to his knees, and the strength of his final frenzy slipped from him like a sigh.
Liriel's keening wail tore through the clearing. She hurled herself at Gorlist, tearing at him with her nails and teeth like a wild thing. They fell together, but the stronger male quickly rolled her beneath him.
He captured her furious hands and pinned them above her head. Holding her captive with one hand, he reached in his belt for a knife and raised it for the killing stroke.
He froze, hand uplifted and neck chorded with an unvoiced scream. A crimson fountain spilled from his open mouth, and the light of hatred at last faded from his eyes. He fell slowly to one side and lay with Liriel's sword impaling his throat.
Azar stood over him. "The illithid wanted you dead," she explained to Liriel, "and so did this dark male." She extended a slim blue hand to the drow girl.
Liriel took it and allowed the genasi to pull her to her feet. She ran the few steps to Fyodor's side and fell to her knees beside him. Dimly she was aware of the clatter of horse's hoofs, and of Sharlarra's bright head close to her own. "What can I do?" the elf said softly.
The drow met her eyes. "He had a sword-a black blade without an edge. Find it and bring it here."
The elf woman leaped to her feet and onto her horse's back. Moonstone raced toward the battlefield as if sensing the time for this task was swiftly running out. Sharlarra backhanded tears from her face and scanned the field.
Finally her eyes settled on a sturdy woman of about thirty years of age. The woman's black braids were unraveled, her kirtle stained with blood. Two small boys clung to her skirts, and a black sword rested on her shoulder.
Sharlarra pulled up beside the woman. "Liriel sent me to find Fyodor's sword. Don't ask me why. Is that it?"