Dawn touched the snow-tipped pines, and in the faint light the mist over Lake Ashane glowed a sunrise pink. On the eastern side of the lake rose a stark, steep hill, its crest hidden in dense clouds. At the base of this hill a young man reined his sturdy little horse to a halt. His mountain pony—a shaggy, barrel-shaped beast as ill-tempered as she was strong—stomped the frozen ground and nickered irritably.
Take ease, Sasha,” crooned her rider in a remarkably deep, rich bass voice. “We have ridden through the night, you and I, but at last we have found the place.”
The young man took a long, deep breath of the cold morning air. “Can you not feel it?” he murmured. “Here a mighty battle was waged and lost. Here we begin.”
With that, Fyodor of Rashemen swung down from his saddle. He considered the hill before him and decided he would have to walk. Sasha might look a bit like a mountain goat—except in battle, when she resembled nothing so much as a fierce, four-legged dwarf—but the slope was too steep even for her. So he left the horse untethered and began his trek up the mountain.
Winter was harsh this year, and spring late to come. The air was brittle with cold, and the snow crunched and squeaked under his boots as he climbed. But Fyodor was at home with the harsh climate. This was his land, and he had spent all of his nineteen winters within its borders. Rashemen was written in the broad, chiseled planes of his face, the straight dark hair the color of bare-limbed trees, and his winter-pale skin. Fyodor was a strong man, stocky and just a bit short of six feet. He was also a simple man; he traveled clad in layers of warm, sturdy peasant clothes and a practical cloak of dark wool. His only weapons were a blunt, roughly hammered sword of some dark metal and a three-foot cudgel fashioned from light, rock-hard driftwood. He used the driftwood club now as a staff, plunging it into the snow again and again as he hauled himself up the hill.
At last Fyodor reached the summit. He stood for a long moment, looking out over his land. Lake Ashane and the surrounding countryside lay before him, clearly visible despite the clouds that huddled over the mountaintop. To his north stretched the deep, ancient Ashenwood. Huge swaths of land lay barren, for in recent months hundreds of trees had fallen to the axes of the Tuigan barbarians. The invaders had razed large tracts of the forest to build ships for their ill-fated crossing. Fyodor shook his head in mute grief at the sight of yet another scar upon the land.
The Tuigan barbarians had swept through his beloved Rashemen, leaving pain and destruction everywhere. He had fought them, and he would be fighting still but for the command of the Witches who ruled the land. Fyodor had proven his valor in battle and had been sent away with honor. Even so, he had been sent away.
Fyodor accepted his fate without rancor, for none knew better than he the danger he posed to those around him. He would no doubt fight for Rashemen again, but he dared not do so until he had mastered the enemy within. Just the sight of the long-cold battlefield below him sent a familiar, dangerous heat through Fyodor”s veins.
So the young man turned away from the blighted landscape and faced the task ahead. A stone tower crowned the hill; he gave it a quick glance and slogged off through the snow in search of an ancient well. Behind the tower he found a simple, circular stone wall and knew at once he had found the source of this place’s unique power.
He dropped to one knee to honor the ancient, mysterious spirit who dwelt on this distant hillside. The tower had been built on this place of power several hundred years before. The Witches’ magic was more potent here, and a small circle of them could protect the western boundaries of their land- From here the dreaded Witch boats were launched against any who ventured onto Lake Ashane. Unmanned and armed with powerful magic, the Witch boats attacked all who dared set sail upon the lake. With the help of the place-spirit, the Witches could even summon water wraiths: creatures of steam who had a scalding touch, and whose breath was hot enough to melt elvish steel. Fyodor had heard these stories from birth, and now he was about to see such wonders for himself.
Fyodor knelt by the well and brushed away some of the snow. He scraped together a handful of ice-encrusted soil and held it tightly in his hand. As he had hoped—and as he had feared—the memory of what had happened came to him.
He saw a circle of women, black-robed and masked, their fingertips touching lightly as they chanted, melding their magic into one powerful spell. He watched in awe as the Witches summoned their legendary defenses against the Tuigan invaders.
Unlike the powerful women who ruled Rashemen, or the Old Ones who taught gifted men to craft wondrous magical items, Fyodor knew no magic except for that which burned in his veins and sped his sword in battle. But he did have a trace of the Sight, as did many of his people. It was an unreliable gift, as hard to command as a dream, and it often seemed to Fyodor that insights came to him just often enough to be annoying. Yet in places like this, places of power, events both wondrous and terrible left echoes for those who could hear.
Through the power of the Sight, Fyodor watched as the sorcerous Witch boats attacked the hastily built Tuigan crafts. He heard the Witches summon poisonous mists to enshroud the lakes, and call upon the giant dragon turtles that lurked beneath the waters. By the scores, by the thousands, the Tuigan died.
All this Fyodor saw, and felt a grim satisfaction at the justice the Witches meted out. Then, suddenly, the vision faded. Still attuned to the echoes of battle, Fyodor felt the remembered presence of a new power, a malevolent magic that seared and corrupted all that it touched. Yet what he saw was only the shadow of a memory; there was no image to accompany the sense of lingering evil, nothing that could tell him of the battle’s end.
Fyodor cast away the handful of soil and rose to his feet. The answers he sought could be found only in the tower. Although he dreaded what he might find, he circled around to the lone door and kicked his way in.
He quickly searched the lower levels. There was no sign of the mystic circle he had glimpsed. The women’s dying agonies lingered in the air of the enchanted tower, but the Witches had simply disappeared. Fyodor was not surprised; even in death, the dark sisterhood cared for its own. No doubt the women’s bodies had been magically whisked away for honorable burial in the Witches’ stronghold city far to the east. Yet a mystery remained: one of those women had possessed an ancient magical treasure, and that treasure had not returned to the hands of the sisterhood. It had become Fyodor’s task to find it.
Fyodor continued his search until he reached the very top of the tower. The uppermost chamber of any keep was usually the most secure room, the place where treasures would be kept.
The door was open a crack, its magical defenses apparently spent. Fyodor nudged the door with his cudgel and it swung inward, creaking softly.
Immediately he was assaulted by a horrid stench: the sickly sweet, unmistakable smell of human carrion. Fyodor flung his arm across his nose to ward off the worst of the odor and pushed into the room. Sprawled about, in various stages of decomposition, were several red-robed figures. Some looked newly dead, others lay in steaming, rotting piles, and a few were little more than dust.
“Red Wizards,” he muttered, and he began to understand what had happened here. Despite his youth, Fyodor had spent years fighting the powerful enemies that surrounded his land. Until the coming of the Tuigan hoard, Rashemen’s deadliest foe had been Thay, an ancient land ruled by the powerful Red Wizards. Many of these wizards used magic to sustain their wretched lives far past the natural span; this would explain the many stages of decay.
But the deaths themselves? The answer to this seeming riddle was plain enough to one who had been raised in the shadow of Thay. The Red Wizards had formed a nominal alliance with the Tuigan invaders, but they were ever alert for opportunities to extend their own power. Any one of them would happily slay his fellows for personal gain. During the recent battle, these wizards had probably banded together to attack the Witches while the women were deep in their spell meld. Once they’d overcome the Witches in spell battle, the wizards had breached the tower and stripped it of its treasures. Then a single wizard had turned on the others and claimed all the treasures of the Witches’ tower for himself.
A quick search of the chamber confirmed Fyodor’s suspicions. There was nothing of value: no spellbooks, none of the famed Rashemi rings and wands, not a single pot of anything that resembled a spell component. The bodies of the Red Wizards had also been stripped of all magic-bearing items. The surviving wizard had taken the magical treasures of both his enemies and his allies.
No doubt this wizard had fled to a secret place, to study in private his stolen treasure until the time he had mastered enough power to return to Thay and increase his domain. Long before that day came, Fyodor would find him.
But first, he had a task to complete.
The young man dragged the dead wizards from the tower. He found a convenient, steep cliff on the south side of the hill and tossed the bodies into the ravine far below. There he left them for carrion. Fyodor did not consider giving the wizards the dignity of burial; in his land, honor must be earned. After all the bodies had been cast out of the tower, Fyodor drew water from the ancient well and sprinkled it around the defiled tower, and in each room.
When the sacred site had been cleansed, Fyodor half-ran, half-slid down the hillside. He had far to go this day, with only the promise of battle at day’s end to coax weary little Sasha onward. It was well for him, Fyodor mused, that the pony loved nothing better than a fight.
Fyodor and Sasha spent the day searching for the renegade wizard. Although the Rashemi was a fine tracker who had hunted everything from wild rothe to the elusive snow-cat, he did not really expect to find the wizard’s trail. The battle was many days past, and thousands of footsteps lay buried under the fresh snow. Yet he remembered an old story, and thought he knew where a wizard alone in this forest might go.
The afternoon shadows were long when Fyodor found the first tracks. Huge, three-toed footprints, like those of a giant chicken, skittered through the forest. He followed the tracks deep into the Ashenwood. The forest was different here, quiet and watchful. The shadows were unnaturally deep, and the tall, snow-shrouded pines seemed to whisper secrets. Fyodor could sense the dark enchantment of the place, and Sasha whuffled uneasily as she slogged through the snow.
Night was falling when Fyodor found what he sought. From atop a heavily wooded hill, he glimpsed a small clearing in a valley below. In it stood a trim wooden hut. In most regai’ds the hut was a fairly common Rashemi dwelling—tight and snug, with a thick thatched roof and brightly painted shutters. Unlike most huts, however, this one stood high off the ground on giant chicken legs. The hut strutted about the clearing as if it were a bantam rooster surveying its domain.
Fyodor slipped from Sasha’s back and edged closer to the clearing. He had come this far without any real plan for defeating the wizard, but usually a solution came to him, if he pondered a matter long enough. He crouched down to watch and to wait.
He remembered the old stories, tales of a crone who had once lived in a magical hut. In the stories, the hut whirled and danced when the mistress—or now the master, Fyodor supposed—was sleeping safely within. At the moment, the hut looked as if it were patrolling the clearing. It seemed likely to Fyodor that the occupant was not home. He left Sasha on the hillside and made his way down toward the hut. It was risky, perhaps, but certainly safer than facing a red wizard’s magic, or the lingering curses of the legendary crone.
At the edge of the clearing Fyodor paused and began to sing the words to a childhood verse:
“While the mistress is asleep, Chicken-legs a watch will keep. When the mistress wanders off, Chicken-legs will stand aloft. When the mistress comes again, Chicken-legs will let her in. Stara Baba casts this spell, Listen, hut, and hearken well.”
At the first note of the little song, the hut paused as if to listen. When Pyodor was finished singing, the hut ambled to the center of the clearing, folded its legs, and settled down much as a brooding hen would. The heavy front door swung open.
Fyodor silently blessed the village storyteller. Many times he had stolen away to the old man’s hut to hear stories of far places and homely magic, to learn songs and to dream dreams. Some people thought the old tales and songs were meant only to entertain children, or to while away the long winter nights. Those who had learned to dream knew better.
The warrior drew his sword and walked cautiously toward the hut. Inside he found a jumble of various magics. Dusty vials cluttered the shelves, and long-dry herbs lay about on a table next to the ancient mortar and pestle once used to grind plants into potions. On the vast stone fireplace, an iron caldron bubbled and steamed despite the lack of fuel or fire, making the cottage pleasantly warm. But there was no sign of the treasure.
“Time now to think, not to dream,” Fyodor admonished himself, settling down into the room’s only chair. “The wiz- ard did not carry away all the treasures of a Witches’ tower in a sack.”
He scanned the room, looking for something that was out of place with the simple furnishings. Finally his eyes fell upon the small, elaborately carved wooden box on the table beside him. He picked it up and raised the lid. The box was empty, but for a few bits of junk and jewelry.
Fyodor’s eyes lit up. He selected a tiny golden circlet and carefully picked it up. As soon as it had cleared the edge of the box, the ring began to enlarge. It swiftly grew into a thick bracer engraved with magical symbols, large enough to fit a brawny man’s forearm. The Rashemi dropped the treasure to the floor and took out a pale sliver of wood. This grew to become a wand carved from ash and painted with brightly colored symbols. On and on Fyodor went, and with each item he removed, another appeared to take its place. The pile of treasure was nearly knee-high before Fyodor found what he sought.
It was a simple trinket, a tiny golden dagger, not more than three inches long, hanging from a thin chain. The dagger’s sheath was carved with runes from some long-dead language, and the metal was worn and darkened with age. Fyodor quickly hung the chain about his neck and tucked the precious thing out of sight. The Witches had made no promises, but they had suggested this ancient amulet might be the key to Fyodor’s release.
Leaving the rest of the treasure heaped on the floor, the young Rashemi slipped out into the night. Immediately the hut rose and resumed its pacing.
Fyodor scrambled up the hill with all possible speed, for he wanted to be far from the clearing when the Red Wizard returned. He patted Sasha and swung up into the saddle. As he reined the pony away, he cast one last, triumphant glance back toward the wizard’s borrowed retreat.
At that moment the shadows on the far side of the clearing seemed to stir. A single, ghostly figure emerged from the trees. And then another. Soon there were six of them, man-shaped, but so lithe of form and graceful of movement that they seemed unreal, insubstantial. Slowly, stealthily, the shadows eased away from the sheltering darkness and crept into the clearing on silent feet.
Fyodor recoiled and sucked in a silent, startled breath. Dark elves! He had heard many fearful stories about the drow, and from time to time his people encountered them in the mines deep under the rocky hills of Rashemen. He himself had never seen one. They were beautiful, with their glowing red eyes and skin so dark it seemed to swallow the moonlight. They were also hunting, and no living predator was as deadly.
Without making a sound, Fyodor slid to the ground. Although he was far from the drow band, he did not want to take any chances. To their eyes, the heat given off by a man and his horse would shine as brightly as a beacon. He led Sasha behind some snow-covered brambles and crouched to watch.
The dark elves stalked the pacing hut, their drawn weapons gleaming in the faint moonlight. One of the drow—a thin, fox-faced male with a thick mane of coppery hair—came forward. His hands traced strange symbols in the air as he chanted in a harsh, sibilant language.
“The forest is thick with wizards tonight,” Fyodor murmured uneasily. He watched as the drow’s feet left the ground and the figure began to float upward toward tbe door of the hut. As he hung suspended in the thin, cold air, the wizard cast another spell, then reached for the latch on the heavy wooden door. ,
“Oh, but he’s going to wish he hadn’t,” the Rashemi observed with a wry smile. The hut had its own magical defenses, but surely the absent wizard had placed additional wards around his stolen hoard.
Disaster came quickly in the shadow of that thought. A burst of crimson light flashed from the door, sending the drow wizard hurtling backward through the air. He crashed into a pine and plummeted to the ground. Snow tumbled from the tree’s branches and covered him like a thick, rounded shroud. None of the other drow came to the wizard’s aid, for every eye was fixed upon the large wooden door that had suddenly appeared in the center of the clearing. Every weapon was raised for battle.
The door burst open, and from some invisible place beyond rushed tall, dog-headed warriors clad only in their own furry hides. Gnolls, for such they were, were natural enemies of elves, and they fell upon the dark-elven thieves with fierce howls and slashing swords. On and on came the gnolls, pouring through the magical portal as if they were angry bees erupting from a hive. Fyodor counted twenty before the crush and turmoil of battle made further reckoning impossible.
Fyodor’s heart hammered as he watched the battle, and despite everything he had heard told of the drow he found himself hoping the elves might prevail. There were but six drow against creatures twice their size and four times their number, but how they fought! Fyodor was a warrior from a nation of renowned fighters, and never had he seen such swordcraft. He watched in awe as elven steel twirled and slashed, as the drow danced and thrust. He studied the dark elves, how they fought, how they moved. How they killed.
The gnolls fell quickly, and for a moment it seemed the drow would win the day. Then Fyodor heard a familiar, dreaded sound: the dry, thumping whoosh of giant wings and an eerie, wavering cry too harsh to have come from a living throat. The drow heard it, too, and they looked up into the sky. Their red eyes widened at the sight of the horror hurtling toward them.
There were simply no words to describe darkenbeasts. The monsters flew, but they were not like birds. They had been living creatures once, but transformed by a Red Wizard’s magic they became twisted, deformed abominations. Fyodor had no idea what sort of animal this darken-beast had been, but it must have been large. As the creature swept down like a swooping hawk, its outstretched wings blotted out the moon.
The darkenbeast swooped toward the tallest drow, a male who fought with two slender swords. At the moment this elf’sflashing blades held off three gnolls, and as he fought he danced on a pile of gnoll bodies, whether to intimidate his enemies or to face the much taller gnolls eye-to-eye, Fyodor could not say.
Enormous talons flexed wide as the darkenbeast closed in. At the last moment, the drow dove aside with incredible agility, and the monstrous claws closed around the three gnolls. The darkenbeast lumbered into the sky with its burden. An angry cry rang out when it realized it had been cheated, and it simply dropped the gnolls. Flailing and howling, the dog-men fell to the ground. They hit hard and lay silent and broken. Huge wings beat wildly, filling the air with their thumping rhythm as the darkenbeast climbed for another attacking stoop.
Nor was the darkenbeast the drow’s only problem. A vortex of tiny, sparkling crystals rose from the snow, spinning wildly and gaining mass and power by the moment. With a sharp crack, the whirling ceased and a manlike creature, eight feet tall and stocky as a dwarf, waded toward the dark elves. Fyodor muttered an oath. Skilled though the drow might be, they could do little against an ice golem.
Sure enough, the dark elves’ swords glanced ineffectually off the solid ice of their newest foe. A huge white fist closed around one warrior, and the ice golem raised the drow high. The golem regarded its captive stolidly, not flinching from the blows the drow struck again and again. The dark elf’sarm slowed and the blows came with less force as the unnatural cold of the golem’s grip stole the drow’s life-force. With a casual toss, the ice creature flung the dead drow aside and looked about for another victim.
Fyodor felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and a prickle ran down his arms. He glanced down. The snow beneath his feet had melted to slush.
“No,” Fyodor whispered. “Not again, not now.”i
He struggled against the rising tide of heat and fury, but it was too late and he knew it. His last conscious thought was regret for Sasha. The fierce pony would certainly rush into battle beside him. He had little hope for her life against such foes.
Then the battle rage took him.
Nisstyre stirred and struggled beneath his snowy blanket. Every bone and sinew ached from the fall. He had not expected this attack—his spell should have disarmed any traps on the hut’s door—but then, he had never encountered the humans known as Red Wizards. He would be better prepared next time, provided he survived this attempt.
Finally he clawed his way out of the snowbank and drew in air with a deep, ragged breath. Then he saw the apparition storming down the hill, and he almost forgot to exhale.
A human man—or so Nisstyre assumed—rushed toward the clearing. Dark hair stood up about his head like the bristles of an enraged hedgehog, and his face was suffused with intense heat. The warrior’s countenance glowed an angry red in both the light- and heat-spectrums, yet a faint, unnerving smile curved his lips. As he thundered toward the battle he thrashed the air with a long, broad-bladed sword. At first glance, the warrior appeared to be about seven feet tall, but Nisstyre was accustomed to magical illusions and he saw beyond this one. The man was in reality less than six feet tall, and although he was powerfully mus-eled he should not have been able to swing that enormous black sword as he did. The weapon was broad, and its edge appeared to be thick and dull, yet each wild pass cut the air with a strongly audible swish. By some magic that Nisstyre did not understand, this warrior was much more than he should have been.
The drow wizard struggled painfully to his feet. Although he felt and resented the strange power of this human, his first thought—and his first spell—had to address the most immediate threats. A strange, ugly dragon-thing was plummeting, with gaping jaws and outstretched talons, toward his band of thieves.
Nisstyre flung a hand skyward. An enormous fireball hurtled toward the flying monster, and the two deadly forces collided in an explosion that shook snow from the trees and knocked the ice golem to its knees. The dragon-thing spiraled to the ground and crashed with a burst of oily flame. With a final, almost grateful cry, the creature gave up its unnatural life.
Meanwhile three drow fighters leaped upon the golem, chipping and hacking at its icy flesh. The golem flung them off as easily as a dog might shake water from its coat. It rose to its feet, and its ice-colored eyes settled on Nisstyre. The golem began its advance.
Before the wizard could summon a defensive spell, the human leaped the last few feet of his descent and sprinted through the clearing. Ignoring the drow around him, he barrelled straight toward the ice golem. He ducked a swing of the golem’s clublike fist and, grasping the hilt of his sword with both hands, he hauled it back for a mighty blow.
The thick black blade whistled in and struck the golem’s hip with a tremendous, booming crack. For a moment it seemed as if the hit had been no more effective than those of the drow. Then wavering lines rippled through the golem’s body and down its leg. The massive limb crumbled into shards of ice, and the golem toppled.
The human leaped onto the fallen creature, and his black sword rose and fell again and again until the golem was reduced to a sparkling pile. That accomplished, the battle-mad human threw himself at the nearest gnoll. With one mighty swing, he struck the head from the powerful creature.
“But the sword has no edge,” Nisstyre muttered, and his coppery brows knit with consternation as he scrutinized his unexpected ally.
The human had already flung himself upon a pair of sword-wielding gnolls. One of the dog-men got through the human’s guard and slashed a dark red line across his thigh. The fighter did not falter, did not so much as flinch. Sweat poured from the man’s red face and hung in tiny icicles from his jaw—vastly increasing his fearsome appearance—yet each swing was as powerful as the last. He did not tire; he did not concede to pain. The human would be a considerable adversary, and prudence dictated Nisstyre deal with him at once. But, since the man vented his battle lust only upon the gnolls, the drow wizard bided his time. No sense wasting the lives of his own warriors, when this human seemed so determined to die fighting.
Soon only two of the dog-men remained, easily outclassed by the five surviving drow. The fight would soon be over, the human’s usefulness ended. Nisstyre began to mentally browse through his repertoire of human-killing spells.
Then, as if it sensed its defenders would soon be overcome, the hut itself entered the battle.
Running wildly about the clearing, the magical hut began to stalk the drow. The dark elves were fast and agile, and could easily have escaped into the forest. Yet Nisstyre warned them back. His outstretched hands crackled with lethal magic as he shouted at his drow band to stand and fight, on pain of death.
Like a crazed chicken, the hut chased the dark elves around the clearing, kicking and scratching. Finally it trapped one beneath a huge foot. Its claws raked at the fallen drow again and again, leaving long bloody furrows with each pass.
The human charged in. Before Nisstyre could react, the crazed warrior began to hack at the hut’s birdlike leg as if he were a woodsman felling a tree. Two blows, and the hut began to stagger. Three, and the leg gave way. The hut wobbled, then toppled to the ground. It rolled several times and came to rest on its thatched roof, lying feet-upward and looking very much like a dead, one-legged bird. Then, to Nisstyre’s horror, the hut simply faded away.
Hissing his rage, the drow wizard stooped and picked up a fragment of the ice golem. He spat the words of a spell and flung the shard at the human warrior. Instantly the man was encased from neck down in a thick, immobilizing crust of ice.
Nisstyre stalked over to face his unwanted ally. “Whoever you are, whatever you are, you cost me a fortune in spellbooks and treasure,” he snarled. “Do you know how long IVe been stalking that thrice-damned Red Wizard?”
Although he spoke in perfect Common, the widely used trade language of these lands, there was no spark of understanding in the trapped man’s face. The human’s faint smile never faltered, and his blue eyes promised death. Nisstyre realized that the magical attack had added his name to this strange warrior’s list of enemies.
“How do you fight like that?” the drow demanded. “What magic.do you possess?” The human did not speak, but Nisstyre did not really expect or need an answer. He would get his own.
The wizard tossed a pinch of yellow powder at the human. Immediately a faint, blue glow emanated from a point just below the man’s collarbone. The other drow had crowded around to watch, and in a corner of his mind Nisstyre noted that the magic-finding spell caused all of them to glow in a dozen places as magical weapons concealed until now were revealed. He noted the measuring, wary glances they exchanged as the balance of power
Elaine Cunüingham among them shifted swiftly and subtly. Later, he would address such matters himself.
Nisstyre pointed to the glowing dagger tucked in the belt of his strongest fighter. “Use that, and cut through the ice. I want that amulet unharmed, but break the chain if you must.”
The tall drow drew his enspelled dagger and began to chip through the ice that covered the human’s chest. Once the blade slipped and drew blood; the man’s faint smile never faltered. Finally the drow freed the dagger pendant and broke the chain with a yank. He handed the device to Nisstyre, but the wizard shook his head.
“No. You take it and return to the Underdark. We’ll study it later. I’ll follow you in a day or so; at the moment I want to see if I can ascertain just where in the Nine Hells that hut went.”
“And the human?”
“Leave him,” Nisstyre snarled. “Let him suffer from the cold and exposure. He will die far too soon to suit me.”
The wizard cast yet one more spell, and a glittering oval appeared in the clearing. He gave a few more instructions to his captain, and then disappeared alone into the forest. One by one, the drow thieves slipped through the gate on their way to distant, even more dangerous, lands.
When the last drow disappeared and there was no one left to fight, the battle rage that had gripped Fyodor faded away. He slumped in his icy prison, utterly exhausted. He never felt the pain, or the cold, or the tired muscles for as long as the battle lasted. That always came later. He had seen other berserkers die of exhaustion, or from the cumulative effect of countless, unnoticed wounds. And these were men who, unlike him, could control their battle rages and bring them on at will. Fyodor considered himself very lucky to have lived out nineteen winters.
Sasha, he noted with deep sorrow, had not been so fortunate. The fierce pony lay tangled with the body of the gnoll she had battled with teeth and hooves, but the numerous thin slashes that scored her shaggy coat did not come from a dog-man’s sword. Drow steel had slain Sasha while she fought the gnoll, and for no apparent reason other than the joy dark elves took in wanton killing. A cold, lingering anger kindled in Fyodor*s heart—not a remnant of the berserker rage, but the natural wrath of a man who abhorred cruelty, and who had suffered the senseless lose of a friend.
For a long moment, Fyodor was aware of nothing but hie anger and his grief. Then he realized his icy prison had thinned. The terrible heat of his berserker rage had melted much of the ice and he could move a bit. The battle fury had left him, but he still had his natural strength, honed by his seven-year apprenticeship to the village swordsmith. So he bunched his muscles and pushed against the icy shell.
Moments passed, and nothing happened. Fyodor tried rocking back and forth, throwing his weight from one side to the other. Finally the ice around hie feet gave way. He toppled like a felled tree, and his prison shattered when he hit the ground. He was wet to the skin and cut by the ice shards in a dozen places, but at least he was free.
Exhausted but determined, Fyodor hauled himself to his feet and collected his fallen weapons. He might not have been able to answer the drow wizard while in the grip of his battle fury, but he had understood every word. The amulet he needed was on its way to the dreaded Underdark.
Fyodor staggered toward the rapidly fading light that marked the magical doorway. Without hesitation, he stepped through the gate.