Dark Vengeance by Ed Greenwood Read Free Book Online

after him as far as he dared, to where the leaping light of the burning homes faded into deeper night-gloom, and stood staring. Something moved, and he drew back in fear . . . only to swallow, whisper “But the Firefist ran after them all,” and dare to go forward far enough to see that a blood-drenched nightskin was trying to feebly crawl away from Orlkettle. Grammoth swallowed again, raised his dagger in hands he knew were trembling—and then rushed forward, snarling in silent distaste, and plunged it into a nightskin neck, leaping away again wildly when the stricken dark elf jerked around to face him, blood bursting forth from its mouth in a horrible, helpless choking flood. Then it fell forward into its own spew, clawing the ground feebly, and died.
    Grammoth backed away, suddenly cold and afraid, and found himself peering fearfully into the night with every swift step back toward the leaping flames.
    â€œThere’s one!” old Mrickon snapped as Grammoth came up into the baker’s garden. Men of Orlkettle trotted forward, hefting clubs and axes, and seemed almost disappointed when Grammoth blurted out his name and insisted loudly that he was no nightskin.
    â€œMore than that,” the deep voice of Orivon Firefist came out of the night behind him, seeming to hold a grim smile in its tones. “Grammoth Gheskryn is a slayer-of-nightskins. I saw him kill one, and he helped me down another. Fine knife-work.”
    Grammoth flushed and stood taller as he saw Orl-folk peering at him, as they came hurrying with lanterns and torches in their hands.
    He wasn’t as tall as Firefist, though; the forge-giant strode past just then, a head above everyone else in Orlkettle. Orivon Firefistwas dark and sticky with blood that was not his own, but smiled fiercely as he came out into the full firelight—and the people of Orlkettle raised a ragged cheer.
    â€œGood folk!” he called as he came. “How many of us died, this night?”
    â€œOne, at least,” someone called. “Harglin.”
    â€œI saw Toskur the Elder,” someone else said. “He’s lying in the street back there. There’s not much left of his head.”
    â€œDorl, and his brother Thammon, too,” another man put in.
    â€œAnd Kellurt Bane-of-Husbands!” Mrickon added gleefully, news that raised some chuckles.
    â€œTwo–three more are hurt bad,” a younger man offered.
    â€œAnd how many children are taken?” Firefist asked.
    Silence fell as if he’d slain all noise with his sword, and in its heart could be heard a faint, distant weeping.
    â€œLarane the dyer’s little ones,” old Bryard said grimly, waving his hand toward the sounds of grief. “Brith and his sister Reldaera. She was the prettiest we had.”
    The forge-giant’s smile went away as he strode toward the weeping.
    In the village square, a little knot of women were hugging the sobbing Larane to themselves, their backs forming a wall around her to keep the world at bay.
    In silence Orivon Firefist bore down on them. All Orlkettle seemed to be following him, or have gathered in the square already. They gazed in silence as the forge-giant stopped at the nearest dark elf corpse, and rolled it over with his foot.
    â€œWe never killed a nightskin before, though,” a man said triumphantly in the crowd. “And there’s seven or more, just here!”
    â€œAnd a lot more, where
he
went after them,” another man added, nodding at the forge-giant.
    Who looked around at them all, gathering their attention to him, and then pointed down at a badge on the throat-armor of the dead dark elf.
    â€œTowers rising from darkwings,” Orivon said. “Mark it well.”
    Some of the men—and Grammoth, too—dared to come close enough to peer.
    â€œThese Niflghar came from the city of Talonnorn.”
    Firefist’s pointing finger moved to indicate a smaller symbol graven