5

Some days later, he just couldn't wait any longer. Didn't dare. There was a saying: Like wind through the ruins of Ahn. Meant that something evil or dangerous, just barely sensed, had risen to trouble one's mind.

Less of a wind in Lerendar's case than a shrieking gale. Very dangerous. Very near and coming closer, fixated firmly on him.

"I have to go, now," he said to the goblin girl, whose name turned out to be 'Pretty One'. (Yes, they had names, and he hadn't entirely avoided learning them.)

The reddish-brown hair of her arms rippled flat, which was a sign of distress.

"You ain't in no shape ter be runnin' about on yer own, Yer Lordship," squeaked the goblin, looking up from the pot she'd been stirring. The bubbling stuff inside smelled… Well, it smelled. "Another sleep or two, at least," she advised him.

But Lerendar didn't listen, driven by a sense of such urgent haste that he had real trouble breathing. Tried to explain, though. Owed them that much.

"It has come after me, and you will not be able to stop it," said Lerendar, as the shades filtered in to help him arise. He bumped his head on the low stone ceiling, muttered a curse and then got himself sorted. Nor was he the only one up.

"Tis follerin' both of us, Yer Lordship," said the old goblin-mage, Grey Fang. "B'lieve I'll be taggin' along on yer outing, meself."

Even money, who was in worse condition, the scarred wizard or the crippled elf-lord, but… maybe they'd manage, together?

"On the bright side, I'm not that hard to keep up with, these days," grunted Lerendar. "And I suppose that some sort of magic wouldn't hurt. We can at least try to lead the hunter away from here," he continued, reflexively checking his faerie pockets for so much gear and equipment that just wasn't there, because he'd always had servants for that.

"Move, if you're coming, old man," ordered Lerendar. Then, his voice dropping to a mutter, "I'd suggest that everyone else leaves, too. And… anyhow… good luck. I thank you for helping me."

The goblin kitts… Pretty One, Dogbait, Twitchy, Snaggle, Squinty and Black Gut… stared at the high-elf in genuine shock. It was very hard for him to separate them from the tide of squeaking bodies that had overwhelmed him in battle that day, just as it was difficult for the kitts not to see him as simply a towering, murderous demon.

…but they'd made a start, all of them. Accepting a final packet of food and wine, Lerendar stooped through the digging's low doorway and limped off, Grey Fang stumping along behind him.

The mage cast a spell of concealment, the best he had, over the goblin kitts. After that, at a safe distance, he joined Lerendar in leaving the broadest possible trail; all but venting their stream and scrawling "come find me" in the dirt.

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At that point, the hunter was less than two candle-marks away.

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Earlier, many slow-winding tunnels to the west, what passed for a council had come to a boil. The freshly healed albino drow was just a bystander, watching silently as Thartaar Gash met with two other high-ranking gnolls, those who had "taken the blood". They'd met in a formerly wandering prison cell, now pinned in place by a mighty stone pillar. Their assembly wasn't a peaceful one, by any means, making a council of drow… which normally ended in bloodshed… seem like a high-elf cotillion.

Whinn Sniffyip was a priestess of the Mother, veiled in reeking, flayed elf-hide and long strings of rattling bone. Slagerd Dreg was a hulking and brutish warrior, always just this side of completely berserk; his armor a patchwork of mismatched trophies, mostly too small for the eight-foot lummox, who threatened to burst its thongs with each rasping, foul breath.

A meeting, Thartaar had called it, but the gnolls did more snapping and growling than talk. Had maybe a third of a brain between them, if that, Kaazin figured.

He stood in full, dusky armor, crossed swords at his back, letting none of the scorn and disgust he felt show on his face… though the Mother sensed it.

'They are tools, pale one,' she assured him, combing long, icy claws through the drow's mind. 'They shall be broken and cast aside once their usefulness has ended.'

No doubt the same thing she was telling them about Kaazin, who wasn't a fool. He was new here, torn from his own plane and healed up after a disastrous fight with an elven warlock… but he hadn't dropped with the last rain, either.

"Prepare the rituals," growled Thartaar, cuffing the snarling, crouched priestess. "Our Mistress must be embodied, or her presence among us will fade!"

Whinn ducked most of his swipe, slashing back with poisoned talons.

"The ritual place and tools are ready, Thartaar. Where is the promised host? Will it come from your crusted rump, like all your best thoughts?"

The gnoll mage aimed another attack at Whinn, using his staff as a club. Only left off because the new high-elf head that he wore atop his own… a replacement for that of the day-walker's sire… started to slip.

"No fight!" roared Slagerd, nearing peak frenzy, again. "Foe blood, not clan blood!"

Which, for a gnoll berserker, was fairly sensible. Kazin was unaccustomed to dealing with such squalid, chaotic trash, and the sensation was very disquieting. Every bit as enjoyable as wading hip-deep through a sewer to get past the city gates. The Mother's drug-like soothment went only so far.

To the towering Slagerd, Thartaar yapped,

"Raise up an army of ratlings and lesser gnolls. Attack the elf stronghold! Destroy it!"

Slagerd grinned, showing a crocodile's mouthful of fangs.

"Good! That is good fight! They will die, and Slagerd will feast!"

The mage had orders for Kaazin, as well. Pulling a sort of magical slave collar and key from his robes, Thartaar thrust them at the waiting dark-elf.

"The younger one comes," snapped the gnoll. "The Mother has shown me. You will find and capture him, bringing him unmarked and unharmed to the dark cavern, drow."

At which they fell to squabbling, once again. Kaazin took both items and spelled them safely away, backing slowly out of the pinioned cell.

The Mother laughed in his thoughts, teasing the drow with visions of himself being eaten alive by her moronic pets. They usually started with the belly, first, slurping innards long before killing their meal. Nice. Not that he hadn't done the same thing, himself… just sensed that the neighborhood was becoming unhealthy. That it was time for a smart lad with no conscience at all to seek lodging, elsewhere.

Well, there was always a bolt-hole, in Kazin's experience. Always another way out. He just had to find and convince it, while keeping Lady Death out of his deepest thoughts. And he'd always enjoyed a challenge.

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