Chapter Twenty
TEAMWORK

Liriel launched her knives, one by one, at the quag-goth’s back. Each found its target, but the creature’s thick fur and deep layers of muscles kept any of the small blades from hitting vital points. The bearlike fighter roared with pain, but it continued its advance on Fyodor.

The female quaggoth, however, snarled its rage and charged the little drow who’d attacked its mate. Liriel resolutely stood her ground, a knife in each hand. A flick, and the two small blades took flight, sinking into the quaggoth’s red eyes. The beast shrieked and pawed at its face.

Liriel pulled her short sword, knowing she must finish the creature before it entered its death frenzy. Bunded or not, a battle-mad quaggoth was deadly in its strength and fury. She darted toward the wounded creature, sword in hand, and slashed it once, twice, across the belly. The quaggoth slumped, furred hands clutching frantically at the gaping wound. With one last stroke, Liriel cut its throat.

Behind her she heard an angry hiss. She spun to face a hideous visage, like that of a dark blue fiend, with scaly skin and ears like long pointed horns. Its red eyes gleamed with malevolence, and its snakelike body swayed as it spoke an arcane phrase in a sibilant whisper. Liriel had never seen a dark naga, but she knew it for what it was—a magical creature of the Underdark that was in its own way as dangerous as a rampaging quaggoth.

The naga’s thin lips pursed, and a thin stream of burning black fluid shot toward the young draw. A venom bolt.

Liriel snapped up her sword and swatted at the stream with the flat of her blade. A spray of droplets—a mixture of acid and melted metal—flew back toward the naga. The creature screamed and recoiled, and Liriel hurled aside the rapidly diminishing weapon before the corrosive venom could reach her hand. The insidious liquid could consume flesh as readily as it ate through metal.

The naga recovered fast and began to hiss out the words of another spell. To Liriel’s astonishment, she recognized this spell. It was one her father had created. She remembered it well, though she had been little more than a babe when she had first heard those words. That spell, and the terror and confusion that had followed it, was her earliest memory.

In response to the naga’s magic, a cluster of rocks melted, elongated, and flowed into the form of a giant snake with a nightmarish elven visage. The stone naga slid toward its drow prey with the screech of rock scraping against rock.

To buy a moment’s time, Liriel hurled a throwing spider at the hideous golem. The magic-enhanced weapon bit deep into the creature’s throat. It would surely have killed a living creature; the golem had no blood to shed. It bared its fangs and kept coming.

But Liriel countered; she repeated that most-hated spell and summoned a golem of her own. Rock spilled from the wall of the cave like mist, forming itself into an elfmaid of pale gray stone. The stone drow ran to defend its mistress, and the golems collided with an echoing crash.

The stone naga quickly encoiled the elf-shaped warrior and tried to squeeze, but there was no give in the slender stone body. Its head reared back, and then it struck with wide-flung jaws. The next moment it spat out shards of its own rocky fangs. The drow golem wrapped slender hands around the stone naga’s throat and tried to strangle it, with no more success than its opponent. Together the magical creatures rolled and thrashed, equal in strength and mindless obedience.

Meanwhile the dark naga mounted its own attack. It darted forward, holding high the barbed tip of its poisoned tail. Liriel dove to one side, rolled, and came up holding the quaggoth’s discarded sword. Lifting it high overhead with both hands, she lunged forward and slashed into the naga’s deadly tail. The heavy blade went through scale and bone, then met the stone floor with a muted crack. The naga shrieked and writhed with pain. Nearby, its severed tail twitched in an uncanny echo of the creature’s anguish.

With the dark naga out of the fight for a while, Liriel had time to consider Fyodor. He was holding off the quaggoth male, but his sleeves were tatterefl and his arms bled freely. She snatched another bolo from her belt, twirled it briefly, and let it fly toward the quaggoth. The long strap wrapped again and again around the creature’s neck, gaining momentum with each turn, and the weights on either end hit the quaggoth’s head with a pair of satisfying thunks. Still, the deepbear did not go down. It merely gurgled and tore at the straps. The leather thongs snapped easily, and Liriel knew the death frenzy had come upon the creature.

She threw a second bolo, this one at the quaggoth’s ankles. The beast faltered momentarily, then continued, in a mixture of hops and shuffles, to close in on Fyodor. Liriel ran forward and leaped at the creature’s back, kicking out with all her might. At last, the quaggoth stumbled and went down.

The drow scrambled up and seized Fyodor’s arm- “Come on!” she shouted, tugging him along as she kicked into a run. He tucked his sword away and followed her in a headlong flight from the cave.

But Liriel stopped outside, some hundred paces from the opening. “Wait. I’m going to drop the whole thing,” she said grimly.

Fyodor watched as the girl sped through the gestures of a spell. She thrust out both hands, and arcane lighting coursed from her fingers, flashing into the cave’s dark mouth again and again. Dust flew; solid rock crackled and split. Finally the cave collapsed in an avalanche of dirt and stone.

The drow lowered her hands, and her whole body seemed to wilt. Fyodor put an arm around her and eased her to the ground. He had seen Rashemen’s Witches perform such feats in battle, and he realized powerful magic took its toll on the caster. That so young a girl could command such jnagic was astounding.

“Wychlaran” he murmured with great respect, crouching beside her.

She focused on him with effort, her golden eyes distant and glazed “What?”

“It is a title of honor, given to the Witches who rule our land. Is it so with your people? Do such as you rule in your land?”

The drow flincfiftd. “Not at the moment,” she muttered, looking away. “Forget the’terms of honor.’ My name is Liriel.”

Fyodor repeated the name, taking obvious pleasure in the lyric sound of it. “It suits you well.”

“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “I was hoping it might.”

She glanced at him and caught the glint of humor in his eyes. He did not seem at all offended by her sarcasm or ill at ease in her presence. She noted how young he was—little more than a boy, actually. A boy with the muscles of a dwarf and the scars of a warrior. So many contradictions, these humans. This one’s blue eyes were clear and ingenuous, his manner of speaking forthright. In Menzoberranzan, such behavior would be regarded as simpleminded. But Liriel could not be fooled twice. She noted the taut readiness of the young man’s muscles, the way his hand lingered near the hilt of the wicked hunting knife tucked into his sash.

Just then a rumble of stone came from the ruined cavern. Horror and disbelief froze Liriel in place for just a moment. A second rumble galvanized her, and she leaped to her feet. “The quaggoth,” she said urgently.

Fyodor stood with her, but he regarded her with puzzlement.

“The bear-creature!” she shrieked. “It’s coming!”

“But that cannot be,” he said. His eyes were wary, as if he were waiting for her to try some dark ploy.

Liriel hissed with frustration and launched herself at the stubborn human. They fell together, rolling away from the cave in a tumble of arms and legs. She thrust him away from her and curled into a ball, covering her head with her arms just as the stone-filled mouth of the cave exploded outward. A spray of dirt and rock arched toward them as the quaggoth burst from the ruined cave.

The deepbear was filthy and battered. Patches of dark red stained its fur, and a jagged spur of bone gleamed through the torn hide of one arm. Yet the creature seemed unaware of its condition; it merely kicked aside a boulder and staggered away from the cave, nose twitching as it scented the air for its prey. The quaggoth’s eyes gleamed red even in the bright moonlight, and its coarse, filthy fur stood up straight, making the seven-foot creature appear even larger and more fierce than it was. In its one good hand it held the battered naga by its mangled tail, lashing the ten-foot creature back and forth as if it were a whip.

“You wouldn’t listen,” Liriel hissed at Fyodor.

Nor was he listening now. With quick, fluid movements Fyodor rose to his feet, sword drawn. The young fighter’s eyes became cold and hard, and to Liriel’s astonishment he seemed to grow to a stature than matched that of the enraged quaggoth. No fool, the drow scrambled out of the path of the coming conflict. She threw herself behind some boulders and watched as the human charged forward.

The bear-creature jerked back the dead naga, then snapped it toward Fyodor with incredible force. The man was ready. He pivoted hard to the left and swung his sword low and back. As the naga’s dead head shot forward, he sliced up to meet it. The broad dull blade cut cleanly through the scaly armor, and the severed head flew upward in an impressive arc.

“Mother Lloth,” Liriel breathed, watching with wide eyes and growing excitement.

Fyodor ran in close, sword leading. The quaggoth batted the weapon aside with its paw, ignoring the deep gash that opened across its palm. Again it flailed the dead naga. Ichor splashed freely from the severed neck, but the human was in too close for the macabre whip to do him much harm. The quaggoth tossed aside the snake body and backhanded the man with its bleeding paw; the blow connected hard and sent Fyodor reelinp

Sensing an advantage, the quaggoth sprang. But the human had already regained his balance. He nimbly sidestepped the lunge, and the quaggoth measured its length on the rocky ground. Fyodor closed in, sword raised high for the finishing stroke.

But the deepbear rolled onto its back and pulled its knees up high and tight against its body. It kicked out hard and caught the man full in the chest. Fyodor flew backward, his back hitting a tree with an impact that threw his arms wide and knocked the sword from his hand.

The quaggoth once again pulled in its knees, this time to spring up onto its feet. The creature waded in, fangs bared in a silent snarl and massive arms flung wide in a grim parody of an embrace.

Fyodor pushed himself off the tree and barreled in, clasping the bear-creature around the middle. They went down like wrestlers, each grappling for a killing hold. Several minutes passed as they thrashed, equally matched in rage and strength.

Finally the man pinned the massive creature, both paws above its head. The quaggoth’s furred head tossed from side to side, and although its jaws gnashed and snapped, it could gain no purchase. For the human’s head was firmly pressed beneath its chin, forcing the shaggy head upward. Fyodor’s head shook, savagely, several times, and blood began to flow down the furred neck of his captive. The quaggoth’s struggles slowed to a shudder, and finally ceased.

Liriel pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out in triumph. Fyodor had torn the creature’s throat out!

Yet some instinct warned her to keep silent, to stay out of sight. She watched from hiding as Fyodor rose slowly to his feet. He seemed to shrink in size right before her eyes, and he stared at the dead creature for a long moment, as if he could not fathom where it had come from. Then his shoulders slumped, and a low, despairing groan burst from him.

“What?” Liriel marveled, baffled by this response.

Then the human covered his mouth with both hands and darted into the bushes. That, Liriel could understand. The quaggoth smelled bad, even from where she stood. The taste of it would probably turn an ogre’s stomach.

She waited until the human was finished and had staggered back into the clearing. He looked better, if extremely pale. Liriel stepped into view, applauding softly. Fyodor spun to face her. He looked so startled, she realized he’d forgotten entirely about her. Though she was hardly accustomed to such inattention, she was in a mood to be generous.

“Very impressive,” she complimented him.

The young man’s eyes looked haunted. “You saw?”

“Yes, of course. It was wonderful to watch. From a safe distance, of course.”

“How can you say such a thing?” he cried. “By all the gods, I tore the thing’s throat out!”

The drow shrugged, not seeing the problem. There were more important matters to attend to. Night was fading, and so was the sleep-poison holding the drow hunters. “We need to take shelter. I know a place.”

When he hesitated, Liriel snatched his wrist and pushed up the tattered sleeve. There were marks where the quaggoth’s filthy claws had scored him, along with an older, deeper cut that badly needed restitching. “Look—you’re hurt, I’m tired. Try to be sensible.”

Indeed, Fyodor was weaving on his feet, for the familiar sickness that followed a berserker rage was upon him. “A truce,” he agreed wearily.

Too exhausted, too sick at heart to care whether the treacherous drow kept faith or not, Fyodor let her lead him to a cave nearby. With a snap of her fingers, the dark wizard lit a small fire. While Fyodor warmed himself, she deftly tended his hurts. From her travel bag she produced some trail rations—strips of dried meat he recognized as rothe—and they ate in silence. Feeling somewhat revived by the food and fire, he took a few swallows from his flask. He turned to offer some to the drow, but found she had left his side. He watched, puzzled, as Liriel settled down at the mouth of the cave.

“It’s silver,” she murmured in an awed tone. “The sky is truly silver!”

Suddenly he understood. This was her first sunrise, and her tense, expectant pose suggested it was an experience she had long awaited. Not wishing to disturb the elf’spleasure, but desiring to witness it, Fyodor came quietly to sit beside Her. Her eyes watered as if she were in pain, but she did not; turn away from the dawning light. Without looking at him, she seized his arm and pointed to some rosy wisps of cloud.

“Look at the smoke there! What is that color?”

Those are clouds, and they are pink. You’ve never seen the color before?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Liriel said, not once taking her eyes from the brightening sky. “Look there! The sm—the clouds there are purple, and gold. It is always like this?”

“Dawn? No. It is different each day. The colors come again when the sun sets.”

Liriel barely had time to absorb this marvel when the sun itself crested the hills. A sliver of red, brighter than molten metal, edged into the sky. She cried out in a mixture of pain and wonder. Her eyes burned fiercely, but she would not look away.

Fyodor was touched by the draw’s innocent joy, and loath to end the moment. But he took the girl by the shoulders and turned her firmly to him. “You must not stare at the sun, even now, when its light is faint. Even those born under its light cannot bear to do so.”

She cast one last, lingering glance at the wondrous sun as she followed Fyodor into the cave. “Its light is faintr she echoed incredulously.

Back in the soothing darkness, she turned her full curiosity upon the human. In answer to her eager questions, he told her what had befallen him since their last meeting. Her reaction was slight when he spoke of a red-haired drow wizard, but Fyodor did not miss it.

“You know him.”

“I’m afraid so. That could only be Nisstyre. Only he would know where to find you,” she said bitterly. She told him about the wizard’s part in arranging a false trail that would lead Fyodor out of the Underdark. “I thought you’d be safer on the surface,” she concluded with a wry grin. “I may reconsider that opinion.”

This news baffled Fyodor. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Liriel shrugged and tucked a bit of gold chain deeper into the neck of her tunic. “You tricked me. I admired that. But all that is done and over. I have work to do.”

The drow took a small bag from her belt and selected a large, beautifully cut blue diamond. She placed the gem in her palm and chanted softly. After a moment, the jewel crumbled into sparkling dust. Liriel arose and carefully sprinkled the powdered diamond in a nine-foot circle around the fire. Then, humming an eerie melody, she began to dance. Dipping and swaying, she wove an intricate pattern of beauty and magic. Fyodor watched, as fully enchanted as if the spell had been cast upon him.

Finally she sank to the cave’s floor, tired and satisfied. “No wizard’s eyes can penetrate that circle, not even Nisstyre’s. We should be safe enough here.”

“Is he so powerful, this Nisstyre?”

“He is drow.”

Liriel said this with a mixture of pride and grim foreboding that Fyodor found unsettling. What did it mean, truly, to be drow? He had no real understanding of this fey lass; at their second meeting she was more of a mystery to him than before. So intently did he study the girl that several moments passed before he realized she was observing him with equal interest.

“Do all humans fight as you do?” she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

Fyodor stared down at the fire. “No, praise the gods,” he said shortly.

“Then how? What magic do you possess?”

He could not bear to speak of it now, after what he had done. The berserker rages took from him his will and his wits: now it seemed they would steal his very soul. What he had done this night was simply not human. “It is a long tale, and I am very tired,” he said simply.

Liriel accepted this with a nod. “Later, then. You really must get some rest. But first, tell me: do you sleep, or do you enter reverie?”

“Reverie?”

She paused, searching for words. “You dream.”

“Ah! Well, that I do, waking or sleeping,” he said with a faint smile. “It is said in my land that there are two kinds of people: those who think, and those who dream.”

The drow thought this over, her white brows meeting in a frown of puzzlement. Dark elves either slept or rested in reverie. Whatever was the human talking about? This, and a thousand other questions, danced ready on her tongue. It was clear, however, that Fyodor could not answer them now. But a sudden, outrageous plan popped into her mind, and she voiced it at once.

“We can travel together for a while,” she said happily. “There are so many things you can tell me!”

The man smiled, clearly charmed by her beauty and enthusiasm. “Are you always so eager to learn?”

“Always,” she promised. They shared a companionable grin, and Fyodor was honestly tempted to accept.

“I cannot,” he said with regret. “I must find this Nisstyre and the other drow I fought before.”

Uriel’s smile vanished. She had forgotten for the moment what the human sought: the amulet she wore beneath her tunic. Nor was he the only one who wanted it!

“Then here, with me, is definitely the place to be,” she said grimly. “Why do you think Nisstyre showed up, why he sent the drow hunters back to these caverns?”

So, she was hunted. Why, Fyodor did not understand, but the cold anger the drow wizard had ignited in his heart burned a little brighter. “I will travel with you, then,” he said. “When this Nisstyre dies, we may both be free.”

Her eyes flashed. “Then it’s a conspiracy!”

“In my land,” he said, his lip curved in a faint smile, “we call it an alliance.”

Liriel nodded agreement. “That works for me.”

The fire was fading, so Fyodor picked up a handful of dry twigs to add to it. A tiny brown spider crawled out of the bundle onto his hand. Absently he flicked it off. The blow crumpled the delicate arachnid and sent its body tumbling into the gathering flames.

Liriel froze, her golden eyes wide with horror. Then, shrieking in wordless rage, she leaped at Fyodor. Her hands curved into talons and slashed toward his face.

Fyodor grabbed her wrists and held off her flailing hands, but the force of her attack sent them tumbling. The Rashemi was larger and stronger; even so, he had to battle the furious, thrashing elf for several minutes before pinning her securely under his body. Tiny though she was, it took all his weight to hold her down.

Contained but not subdued, Liriel fixed a blazing, defiant stare upon her captor. Fyodor returned her gaze with equal intensity. Always he was alert for an attack from this unpredictable drow, but as he studied her face he read not treachery, but wrath.

“What?” he demanded.

“You killed a spider! The punishment for your crime is death,” she spat at him.

Fyodor”s face fell slack with astonishment. “You cannot be serious,” he sputtered.

“Spiders are sacred to the drow goddess, you ignorant peasant!”

The man considered this with sober interest. He’d been through much of late, and his nerves had tightened nearly to breaking. In his current state of mind, the draw’s claim struck him as utterly, delightfully absurd. “Am I to understand,” he said slowly, “that you worship bugs?”

Maintaining her dignity under the circumstances was no easy matter, but Liriel was equal to the task. Her small chin lifted imperiously. “Yes, of course. In a manner of speaking.”

Fyodor stared at the drow for a moment, then dropped his head to rest in the tangled waves of her hair. His body began to shake. Laughter started in his belly and erupted into a full-throated roar, and he rolled helplessly onto his side, holding his ribs and rocking back and forth.

The moment she was free of his weight, the drow leaped to her feet, a throwing spider ready in her hand. The sight of this weapon sent the man into fresh gales of mirth.

Liriel glared at Fyodor, too baffled by his strange behavior to respond properly to his blasphemy. So she merely stood and waited for the human’s incomprehensible laughter to subside.

At length he came to himself, wiping tears from his eyes. “I can return to Rashemen without delay,” he said, and his blue eyes twinkled despite the sober set of his face. “For now I have surely heard everything.”