Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [84]
"What is this strategy that your deathsinger will render in immortal prose?"
"Use the gem. Trace the female. When we find her, we kill her."
"Ah, yes," Merdrith said with arid sarcasm. "The famed subtlety of the dark elves."
A knife flashed into Gorlist's hand, and he pressed the point between the wizard's eyes. "Do the magic, old man, or I'll peel off those tattoos, and your scalp with them!"
The wizard shrugged and held out his good hand. Gorlist tore the bag of gems from his belt and spilled two of them into the human's palm.
Merdrith tossed the jewels into a shallow, stagnant puddle. The green water steamed and swirled, then settled down into a crystalline blue sheen as smooth as polished glass. Merdrith leaned over the scrying pool. After a moment a sardonic smile curved his lips.
"All my recent travels, and where should I find them but on my back stoop?" he murmured.
One of the warriors, a young male known as Ansith, looked up from his whet stone and grimaced. "Days of travel. More time wasted."
"We follow a wizard," Gorlist reminded him, "and we follow as wizards do."
He turned an inquiring stare upon Merdrith. In response, the human pointed toward the pool. Gorlist nodded then glanced toward the watchful drow. "Ansith, Chiss, and Taenflyrr, follow me. You too, Brindlor."
With that, he leaped into the scrying pool. The serene blue circle swallowed him without splash or ripple.
Impressed, Brindlor left his "hiding place" and followed the warriors through the portal. He dropped through a short span of darkness and landed in a crouch on the forest floor.
The deathsinger scanned his surroundings, noting that the moon was past its zenith, that a river played softly nearby. At the same moment, it occurred to him that the river's voice sang alone.
The night was far too silent. No predators snarled, no nightbird keened. Even the chorus of night insects, usually lifted in a raucous farewell to summer, had fallen silent.
The other drow had already disappeared into the forest shadows. Brindlor crept away from the almost imperceptible portal, edging his way carefully into a tall stand of ferns.
A green glow caught his eye, a light so faint that it blended easily into the dappled interplay of moonbeams and forest shadow. The source was Gorlist, who was crouched behind the moss-covered truck of a fallen tree. The dragon tattoo on his face shone with subtle green light.
Wild elation swept through Brindlor. There would be battle at last, and with a green dragon! That would be a song worth singing!
Gorlist turned a stern glare toward a massive, vine-shrouded tree and the trio of warriors who hid among the shadows. His fingers danced through the silent drow cant, unmistakably warning them off.
Astonishment, anger, and suppressed mutiny darted across the warriors' shadowed faces. Brindlor recognized these emotions, for they closely mirrored his own.
Couldn't Gorlist see that his fellow drow were restless, itching for combat? It was not natural for them to go so long without blood on their hands!
To Brindlor's surprise, however, the young drow obeyed the leader and held their places. The deathsinger watched with wistful eyes as the dragon-a juvenile, not an easy kill but a rousing night's entertainment all the same-slipped through the deep shadows.
Its long, undulating form found pathways among the thick forest that even an elf might miss, and its bright green scales gleamed in the moonlight. The soft whisper of its passing called to Brindlor as a night breeze might beckon trysting lovers. Blood-lust burned in the deathsinger's veins, the fierce instinct that prompted predator toward prey.
With great difficulty Brindlor held his position, remaining silent long after the dragon had disappeared. The tentative chirp of scattered crickets resumed and melded into a steady chorus.
Ansith exploded from his hiding place with a sweep of his frustrated sword, severing a handful of vines. He stormed over to the place where his leader lay hidden and kicked viciously at the log.
Gorlist was