They'll also be running faster, now that they're no longer encumbered by her, Nairen observed.
Sorrell shook his head. He'd heard that the drow noble Houses were all matriarchies, but somehow, it hadn't sunk home. The drow who had killed his son might have been a woman. He thought of Dalmara, of her tenderness. How could a woman have been so cruel as to murder a three-year-old boy?
Pendaran was praying over the corpse. To what end, Sorrell couldn't guess-until, with a creaking yawn, its jaws sprang open. Breath hissed from dead lungs.
'Asssk,' it whispered, its lips glowing with Shevarash's holy light.
'Your thalakz-what city sent it?' Pendaran asked.
'Brundag,' the corpse answered. Bile bubbled at the back of its throat and trickled down its chin as it spoke.
Sickened, Sorrell turned away. He walked over to the pool and dipped his arm in it, trying to wash the blood from his sleeve.
Good idea, Nairen said as he squatted beside Sorrell. Just remember to renew your armor paint; it washes off.
He dipped his sword in the water, cleaning it. By the light of the lichen, Sorrell saw the inscription on his blade, done in black filigree: 'Bane of the Depths.' He dried the sword and sheathed it, then dipped his hands in the pool. As he splashed water on his face, his sleeves fell back, revealing forearms mottled with patches of pale white-the healed scars of what must have once been terrible burns.
The polite thing to do would have been to pretend not to have noticed, but Sorrell couldn't contain his curiosity.
What happened?
It was many years ago, Nairen said. We lived in the High Forest. Not in Nordahaeril itself, but on the outskirts, because of Adair. The night the drow came, the townfolk drew up their rope ladders, too frightened to help us. Even when our tree began to burn. He stared at the wall with eyes as green and restless as a storm-tossed sea. Even when our mother started screaming.
Sorrell took a deep breath. My son Nairen held up a hand. Don't try to play the 'my grief is greater than yours' game, he warned. I've heard it all before.
He stood abruptly and walked to the exit. Slowly, Sorrell rose to his feet and walked back to where Pendaran crouched beside the corpse.
Pendaran glanced up at him. Have you ever been to Amrutlar?
Sorrell frowned at the odd question. Yes. Years ago.
How far would you say it is from the Yuirwood, by surface travel?
Sorrell shrugged. A tenday. Or maybe a tenday and a hand, depending on the weather. Why?
Pendaran gestured at the corpse. The city she named-Brundag-lies roughly under Amrutlar. A journey through the Underdark would take twice as long. Interconnected passageways stretching for such a distance are hardly likely.
Sorrell could see where the sun elfs thoughts were leading. A portal?
Pendaran nodded. He turned back to the corpse. 'Where is the portal that the scouts will use to reach Brundag?'
'In the maglustarn sarg zhaunil.'
Sorrell leaned closer. What did she just say?
Nothing that will help, Pendaran answered. 'Place-apart of battle-might learning'-a drow term for a warriors' academy that isn't within a city. It could be anywhere. We need something more specific in order for Koora to find it with her magic.
As the sun elf stared at him, Sorrell realized that Pendaran expected him to have the answer. All Sorrell knew about the Blackened Fist was that he wanted them dead.
Sorrell wet his lips. The academy doesn't have a name?
What do you mean?
They always do, in the ballads. Have a name. Palaces, temples…
Pendaran's eyes brightened. Let's find out. Then, to the corpse. 'What is the name of your academy?' 'Maglustarn Jainna'hil Krish.'
Monastery of the Black Fist, Pendaran repeated. Got that, Koora? Got it!
Pendaran stood. Close up on me, and get ready to move out.
The others acknowledged his order and began making their way to the cave. When Koora entered, her face was even grimmer than usual. After a brief, private exchange with her, Pendaran turned to the group.
The academy is inside a faerzress, he told them.
The others glanced at each other, uneasy.
What… does that mean? Sorrell blurted.
A faerzress distorts magic, Pendaran explained. If we try to teleport into it, we'll wind up inside solid stone.
Should we split up? Adair asked. That will guarantee that some of us will live to carry on the hunt.
Pendaran shook his head. No use. The thalakz has too good a lead. If we don't teleport, we won't catch them. But-this could be it. Short of a miracle, we're not going to make it.
May Shevarash grant one, Koora whispered. And if we do make it, I'll need every one of you, Pendaran continued.
There was silence for a moment. 'I'm ready,' Koora said. 'So are-'
'— we,' the brothers answered, nearly as one.
Sorrell took a deep breath, and met the leader's eye. 'To continue on, until our own deaths should come.' I'm in.
Pendaran nodded, as if he'd expected no less. Good. Let's go.
Sorrell gripped his club. 'Vengeance,' he whispered. And he remembered…
He and Dalmara had been passing through Shadowdale, on their way to Tilverton, and had stopped for the night at the Old Skull, an inn named after a nearby, dome-shaped hill of white granite. The place had a cozy feel, with a low, smoke-stained ceiling of hardwood beams and a warm fire crackling in the hearth to ward off the night's chill. They had earned their supper through song; he playing his lute, and she, her dulcimer. Taking turns, one sang while the other kept an eye on Remmie.
They had been hoping that Remmie would fall asleep, but the boy was, as usual, basking in the attention the inn's patrons were giving him. Sorrell had made a tiny lute for his son, and Remmie had been 'playing' it furiously that night, strumming away-still with no idea of how to finger a chord-and making up a song of his own, to the delight of the patrons.
'Daddy is happy; Daddy play his loo,' he cooed. 'Mama is sing; Mama play duller.' The patrons roared their laughter as Remmie took a bow, beaming. 'Clap!' he told them. 'Clap-clap!'
There had been ale that night, and laughter, and more song. Sorrell had thought that Dalmara had ushered Remmie up to bed in their room; Dalamara thought Sorrell had taken him. Sorrell still remembered the horrified look on his wife's face, and the hollow that opened at the pit of his stomach when they realized their son had wandered off on his own.
'He can't have gone far,' Sorrell reassured her, praying that it was true.
'We'll find him,' she said, her own eyes worried.
Sorrell set his lute aside, stood. 'Has anyone seen our son?'
Shoulders were shrugged, heads shook.
That was when the scream had come from the inn's cellar, followed by a shout and the clash of steel on steel.
Sorrell had to fight his way through the crush of people who blocked his way to the cellar door. He could only vaguely remember the white-faced barmaid who passed him on her way up the stairs, and the ranger who stood, sword in hand, staring at the crossbow bolt lodged in his leg. He could no longer remember exactly what the ranger looked like-tall or short, fair-haired or dark, human or elf. His eyes would take in nothing that night but the dagger that lay on the floor-and the body of his son lying next to it.
He remembered scooping his son's body up in his arms, howling, 'No, no, no, no…' as the tiny head fell back
