Dark Warrior Rising by Ed Greenwood Page B

fall in tatters.
    Yet the deepserpents were all gone—and so was Orlarra. And anything that left Maharla the foremost crone of House Evendoom, no matter what else happened, could be counted nothing less than a great victory.
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    The senior Watcher of Ouvahlor turned from his whorl with a gleeful hiss. “They’ve done it!”
    Aloun had never seen Luelldar this excited; his eyes glittered like sword blades catching firelight. “Their wards are down! Send in our blades!”

    For once in his life, Aloun sprang eagerly to cast a farspeaking spell.
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    As she left the balcony behind, Taerune’s mind was awhirl. Down the stair she sprinted, scabbarded sword in hand, the buckle of its belt flailing her arm at every step, and plunged into the mad tumult of the armory hall.
    It was every bit as crowded as she’d expected, as she ducked and dodged her way through the hastily arming Nifl of House Evendoom, furiously snarling warblades, aging uncles, and young Hunt braggarts among them.
    Jalandral was laughing, of course, when she caught sight of him, clapping warblades on their shoulders and spitting swift orders into their ears, directing them to this gate and that hall in a manner that could only be deemed gleeful.
    â€œHa-ha, little sister!” he cried, catching sight of her hurrying toward him. “Blood! Blood at last!”
    â€œAnd much of it Evendoom blood! Our walls are breached, Dral! Breached! And this makes you laugh ?”
    â€œBut of course!” Jalandral’s eyes danced with delight. “I’ve something to do at last! Something important! Something that matters !”
    â€œYour death will matter to Ravan, yes, and no doubt please more than a few crones, but— Olone forfend !”
    Taerune’s angry words rose into a shout as she pointed. At the far end of the hall, gorkul were lumbering forward, sweating, fearful humans, right behind them. Nifl were at their backs, urging them on with whips and goads. Weapons bristled in every hand, and some of the goads crackled with angry lightnings that shed flickering light enough for Taerune to see eye patches and scars among the Nifl. No disfigured dark elf rampant of Talonnorn would be commanding warriors; these were strangers—Ravagers, or Nifl of a city that did not revere Olone.
    With shockingly casual ease the foremost gorkul thrust their long-claws deep into Evendoom warblades, hurled the dying Nifl aside and shook them free, then stuck their bloody blades into the next House defenders.
    Taerune wasn’t the only one shouting and pointing by then, and warblades alerted in the din spun around to fight no matter how little harness or blades they had ready.

    â€œHow did they get this far?” she snarled, to no one in particular. “Who’s guarding our gates?”
    It was then that a heavily armored Nifl came reeling down a side passage, drenched in blood. Not recognizing him, Taerune drew her sword and almost slashed open his face before she saw it was Ravandarr.
    â€œBrother!” she shrieked. “What—?”
    He struck her sword aside wearily with one armored forearm, and stumbled past, gasping, “The East Tower’s down, and all the rest back to the Hall of Helms is lost to us! Hansur’s dead, and Doualaur, and Malavvan …” He shook his head. “So many coming at us …”
    â€œHo, Ravan!” Jalandral called cheerfully. “I need you here—can’t let them seize this hall, and use all our weapons against us! To me!”
    Ravandarr shook his head, face a loose mask of despair under all the blood, but turned and started back across the room, hefting a notched and bent sword as he staggered.
    â€œThey’re pouring in from the back tunnels!” a warblade shouted, bursting out onto a balcony above.
    Jalandral looked up, nodded eagerly, and turned his head to snap, “Ryskraun! Naernar! To the Long