Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [86]
The deathsinger noted Gorlist's answering scowl and marked how it faltered before the obvious delight of his soldiers.
Brindlor suppressed a smile. Perhaps Gorlist was beginning to understand how his father, the brutal and canny wizard Nisstyre, had held the band of renegade drow together. Perhaps all Gorlist required was a nudge, a suggestion, to help him understand what his followers needed.
He strode toward the fighters. "Can our human wizard change Ansith's appearance to that of a female?"
A dark flame leaped in Gorlist's eyes as he seized his death-singer's suggestion. "If not, he will quickly learn how." His gaze shifted from Chiss to Taenflyrr. "We will take Ansith back to the Skullport caves, and there he will die as a wench."
Chiss was the first to shrug. After all, his sword had also been lifted against his leader, and he could more easily lose a brother than a hand or an eye. The two drow soldiers seized the impetuous youth and dragged him toward the return gate.
Gorlist rewarded Brindlor with a cold smile. "We will return to the High Forest, and soon. Slaying Ansith will whet their appetites for the Dark Maidens."
If Gorlist wished to claim this notion as his own, thought Brindlor, then all the better. The deathsinger gave a small, ironic bow. "I am a bard. What argument could I possibly make against the benefits of practice?"
Sunset colors stained the sky as Fyodor and Thorn paused at the edge of the forest glade and gazed out over the silver waters of Ashane. The elven warrior bent over the doeskin and birch litter upon which slept Liriel, surrounded by springs of potent herbs that grew nowhere in Faerыn. She busied herself with the herbs, removing them along with the protective enchantments that had held the drow in deepest slumber-and beyond the reach of Lolth's seeking magic. Fyodor, who knew better than to trouble magical folk at their work, turned his gaze toward the east.
Toward home.
The Rashemi drank in the familiar sights: the sharply sloping hills and the silver threads of rock-strewn water that stitched through on their way to Ashane. A shallow valley surrounded the lake. It was bordered by mountains, upon which grew a dense pine forest. Massive trees huddled so close together that from any distance at all they appeared to form an impenetrable wall. Near the edge of the forest grew smaller trees, their branches clad in the bright colors that spoke of coming winter. Falling leaves drifted and danced on the crisp evening wind.
Fyodor drew in a long, slow breath. The fragrance carried on the wind was unmistakably that of Rashemen, where even in summer the scent of coming snow seemed to linger. Though he could not see them from where he stood, bright crimson juniper-gia berries added their own distinctive spice. Even the pines smelled different here than in any other forest through which Fyodor had traveled. They were darker, more intense, and somehow melancholy.
His gaze rested upon the deceptively calm waters of Lake Ashane. The silver surface reflected the Rashemen sunset, which to Fyodor's fond eyes was brighter than any other sky he had seen. Certainly the sun's farewell this day reflected the tastes of his people. Gold, crimson, and purple swirled together in bold, bright patterns, a cheerful welcome that offered a powerful contrast to the stark stone tower at valley's edge.
A strong, slim hand rested on his shoulder. He turned to Thorn, noticing as he did that her pale gold-green eyes were on a level with his own.
"The drow will awaken soon. If all goes well, we need not meet again."
It was not the friendliest farewell that Fyodor had ever heard, but he understood why Thorn's ways were not his own. He extended his hand, one exiled warrior to another.
"If ever I speak of what I have seen this day, may my bones lie forgotten in a distant land."
"If I thought you would talk, they already would," the elf responded. She took his offered hand briefly then turned back to Liriel. A frown furrowed her pale face.
"She should have awakened by now. Get me several small, wet stones."
Fyodor