Dark Vengeance by Ed Greenwood Page B

cast me out, with the battle still raging, to hide her crime.
    Treachery forgotten in the rush to deem me the greater offender.
    Blasphemer, outcast . . .
less than Nifl.
    Because I wouldn’t kill myself, they think I’m a monster.
    Suddenly Taerune was awake and panting in the darkness, staring up at the rough ceiling of the cavern overhead.
    A cave out in the Wild Dark.
    Where she was lying alone, on her back, fully clad and wrapped in a blanket, some distance from the other Ravagers who snored or sleep-sighed gently around her.
    Far enough away that her sobbing awakenings wouldn’t rouse them.
    Out here where hungry monsters slithered or stalked. Where she was safer, among the lawless Ravagers—almost every one of them a dirty, ruthless rampant who’d not seen a willing, yielding Nifl-she in too long a time to rightly remember—than she’d be in Talonnorn.
    Yes, she was safer out in the Wild Dark, sleeping with the Ravagers, than in her own palatial bedchamber in the tall, spired heart of the Eventowers.
    She lifted her left arm and gazed at the blade the human Orivon Firefist—the best slave she’d ever had, tall and strong Hairy One that he was—had fashioned and fitted to the stump of her arm.
    She was safer because of this, too.
    She turned it, sharp and deadly. Part of her, now.
    The Consecrated say this makes me a monster. So all Talonar call me “monster.”
    And so I am.
    I
am
a monster. Yet we Niflghar—we’re
all
monsters.
    Â 
    Black flames swirled up around him as Jalandral Evendoom strode grandly away from the steps that ascended to his throne, and started putting on a show. The spellblade in his hands moaned again, and spat more black flames. Pity they did so little against the defenses of the spellblade being wielded against him.
    Olone
damn
Morluar Raskshaula for defying him and starting this—but he, Jalandral, was damned if he was going to let old Raskshaula go on making him angrier and angrier.
    No. If he had to die, he was going to do it his way. Jaunty, smiling, with a jest or two and a sneer or six. Just as that grinning old highnose on the other side of yonder spellblade had been doing to
him.
    â€œWell, now, bright bauble of House Raskshaula,” he drawled, lifting his chin as he advanced, Lord Morluar’s calm old face quite close now, “have at you again. Olone has just whispered to me that she’s quite pleased with me, so—”
    â€œIndeed. She said those very words to me, too,” Raskshaula replied with a smile. “And followed them with some more: I thought he was going to whimper and wet himself before your blades have even struck a handful of sparks off each other. Yet itseems he
can
stand up unaided, Lord Raskshaula, if you just give him a little, ah, aid. From time to time.”
    â€œBlasphemer!”
Jalandral snapped triumphantly, making his eyes flash and the fire of his sword flare up in a perfect echo. “You—”
    â€œNo, Evendoom,” another Consecrated said loudly, using magic to make her older, dagger-sharp voice carry. “
You
are the blasphemer, to claim Olone spoke with you personally when She did no such thing. We Her priestesses are attuned to Her; we can see, hear, and feel Her every nearby manifestation. None of us did, High Lord. Which means you are a liar.”
    â€œAnd Lord Raskshaula is not?” Jalandral snarled, feeling anger surge in him again, almost chokingly this time.
    â€œMorluar Raskshaula has been Lord of House Raskshaula for a long time. We
know
he is a liar, and he confirms—not disappoints—our expectations. He did not name himself High Lord of Talonnorn, Evendoom.
You
did.”
    Jalandral stared at the priestesses beyond the flames, and they looked back at him. Eyes gleaming.
    Then he turned and looked at Lord Raskshaula. Who stood courteously awaiting him again, blade grounded.
    The bastard.
    Jalandral did not spare a glance