Dark Warrior Rising by Ed Greenwood Page A

the crones frozen at them slack-jawed in terror, watching death rushing to claim them …
    They heard the blows of those great heads, faintly, but felt nothing. And in every watch-whorl, dung-worms writhed in agony, rearing back into the air trailing plumes of golden lightning, twisting and shaking from side to side, seeking to be rid of the pain they could not escape …
    Vast and sluggish they fell back, coiling and thrashing, their great loops crushing loping pack-snouts and running servants and flattening the walls of the Eventowers gardens—and then the gardens, too.
    More than one crone laughed in triumph, peering into her watch-whorl, but that mirth was short-lived. The golden glow in the room faded slowly, bringing down a darkness lit only by the bright eyes of the whorls.
    Eyes that were now showing other, larger dung-worms surging out of ruined Talonnorn into the Evendoom grounds, swaying and slithering, gliding through wards that should have crisped them … wards that no longer seemed to be there.
    â€œNo!” Galaerra gasped. “How can Olone let this happen?”
    â€œFool!” snapped old Baraule. “Forget never: Olone tests us always! Those who prevail win brightness in Her eyes!”
    Maharla stood alone in the center of the chamber, watching these new menaces, ruby fires dancing and flickering around her clenched fists.
    Over the feebly moving coils of the burned dung-worms the new deepserpents came, purposeful, moving forward together. Heading straight for this tower, this chamber …
    â€œAll of you!” Maharla snapped. “Look at me, think of me— open your minds to me ! I need you with me!”
    And she spread her hands and whispered a Word.
    The air itself tingled, every hair in the chamber standing on end, sword-stiff and straining.
    Maharla said another Word, and the tingling air went very dark, only the frightened faces of the crones glowing faint and pale as they stared at each other. More than one of them looked enraged.
    â€œHow dare you! That, Maharla, is only to be used when all else has failed, and the end of our family is upon us!”
    â€œI’m glad you remember the rules so well, Klaerra.” Maharla’s eyes
glittered in the gloom like two dark flames, blazing without brightness. “A pity you’re too wan-witted to understand that all else has failed—yes, just this swiftly!—and if I don’t use it, you and I will be sharing in the extinction of House Evendoom!”
    It was a sickening feeling, this jostling of minds. Suspicions and dislikes seethed like acid, searing, and more than one crone moaned or mumbled prayers to Olone.
    Deepserpent heads towered dark and massive in the lone watch-whorl that was still bright, the one floating nearest to Maharla.
    â€œ Now, sisters of Evendoom!” she snapped. “Work with me now, or we are all undone! Strike! ”
    Her own mind was full of roaring flames—a flood of conflagration that plucked at those of the other crones, seeking to tug them into the quickening flow, bearing them along to …
    â€œRaaaaaah!” Involuntarily they cried out together, wordlessly, shouting their rage and fear and pain … and, slowly unfolding, their exultation as bolts of flame snarled out, searing the air, to strike dung-worm after dung-worm, darting into parted jaws to cause great heads to burst, or splashing over snouts and sending fire raging around serpent heads.
    The huge monsters flailed about, headless and convulsed, or swayed and burned, seeking to scream but managing only a vast, wet hissing.
    Crones slumped all over the chamber, weeping or clutching at their heads. Maharla stood triumphant, arms crossed, watching the dung-worms die.
    It had cost the wits of several in the chamber—and she had seen to that. It had stripped the Evendoom wards of much of their power, snatched away from within; even now, she could feel wards all around Eventowers fail and