The white-haired drow who’d shot Torrin walked a pace or two behind, just at the edge of Torrin’s vision. His black skin gave him a natural camouflage against the dark stone of the tunnel they were passing through, yet he was close enough that Torrin could make out details of his face. He looked old; his face was deeply lined.
The drow turned his head, shielded his eyes from the light with one hand, and stared at Torrin. Then he said something in the same language Torrin had just heard.
Torrin fought to marshal his thoughts. They came sluggishly, as though he were still only half awake. That was the drow sleep poison, he knew, from the wristbow bolt. But the drow hadn’t let Torrin die, after all. He’d been pulled from the water. Why?
Torrin’s leg ached. He moved a hand to touch the wound, to feel whether the bolt was still in his leg. His hand fumbled on his goggles, lying on the driftdisc beside him. They reminded him of another mystery. Why would drow be using torches to light their way? The black-skinned elves could see as well in the dark as any dwarf.
Torrin at last touched his wounded thigh, He winced. No bolt protruded from it. Instead, his leg was bandaged. He was naked, he realized. A blanket had been wrapped around his body, covering all but his head. Though his body was dry, his hair and beard were still damp. It had been some time, then, since he’d fallen into the water.
Slowly, by degrees, Torrin eased onto his back and turned his head the other way. He saw two elves, a man and a woman. Their dark skin at first made him think they were drow, but then he realized their skin was deep brown, rather than true black. And their hair was black, rather than white. They had deeply lined faces, too, and the man’s hair was thinning. Torrin would have guessed their age at about sixty, had they been human. The two were likely in their second century of life, possibly older. Both wore black trousers and shirts, and high-collared cloaks of the same mottled fabric as the drow’s. The man was armed with a wristbow and had a sword sheathed at his hip; the woman also had a sword at her hip. Carrying a torch in one hand, she led the group.
Between them, a second driftdisc floated along. A dwarf with braided blonde hair lay on her side atop it, her back to Torrin. She was also covered by a blanket, and a backpack lay next to her. Torrin could just see the top of a rune: an elaborate D. A delver’s pack!
“Eralynn?” Torrin said weakly.
The blonde head turned. Slowly. “Torrin,” she said. She closed her eyes and sighed. In a weak voice, she added, “You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“What…” Torrin coughed, clearing his throat. He glanced again at the strange, dark-skinned elves. “What’s happening?”
Eralynn rolled over to face him. One hand emerged from beneath the blanket. The fingers were curled tight, the skin gray. It looked more like a rock than a hand. The only way Torrin would have recognized it as Eralynn’s was by the veins of blue spellfire that crackled across it.
Torrin felt as though a cold fist had just squeezed his heart. “You’ve got the stoneplague,” he said.
“Yes,” Eralynn replied, letting her hand fall. It thudded down onto the driftdisc.
“And these… drow?” Torrin asked. “Who are they?”
“Friends,” Eralynn said. She rolled onto her back, grunting, obviously in pain. “They’re helping me get to Sundasz.”
Torrin felt less woozy. He rose slightly, propping himself up on one elbow on the driftdisc. He saw his own pack near his feet, together with his wet clothes and boots. “Helping you how?” he asked, still not quite believing what was happening.
The drow were their sworn enemies, a brutal race who worshipped evil gods and were perpetually at war with the dwarves. They’d swarmed into what remained of Underhome like cockroaches after the collapse of the Great Rift, slaughtering women and babes. They were foul and cruel and could be trusted even less than demons.
And yet the drow who’d shot Torrin hadn’t let him drown, nor had he and his two companions slit his throat. Instead they had bound his wound and wrapped him in a warm blanket. And they were carrying him somewhere.
“They’re going to cure me,” Eralynn said, at last mustering the strength to answer Torrin’s question. Her eyes were closed, her expression strained. Torrin could see that speaking was difficult for her. She struggled to draw breath.
“But they’re drow!” Torrin protested. He spotted his mace, down by his boots. Before he could even think of how he’d reach for it without being noticed, a hand roughly shoved him flat.
“No lift up, you,” the dark-skinned elf with the sword said in heavily accented Dwarvish. He was walking beside the driftdisc, his wristbow pointed at Torrin. Still keeping a watchful eye on Torrin, he spoke in his own language to the woman. She answered him with a flick of her hand, the silent speech used by the drow. The man’s nostrils flared. He lowered his wristbow and fell back into place behind the driftdisc.
“We were once drow, it’s true,” the woman said.
Torrin blinked in surprise. Her Dwarvish was flawless.
“For us, the Descent was undone,” she continued. “A few hundred of us-those without taint-returned to our original forms a century ago. We are Miyeritari once more.”
Torrin had no idea what she was talking about. “Who are you?” he asked. “Your name, I mean.”
“Val’tissa, priestess of Corellon,” the woman replied. She lifted a pendant that hung against her chest, showing him. It was an eight-pointed silver star-the holy symbol of the elf god. A second pendant also hung against her chest-a miniature silver sword, tarnished black. Torrin had no idea what it signified.
“Where are you taking us?” he asked.
The woman paused, as if considering whether to answer. “To the temple in Sundasz,” she said. “Your friend needs healing.”
Torrin felt a stab of jealousy. When Eralynn had fallen ill with the stoneplague, why hadn’t she come to him for help? Instead she’d done what she always did and stubbornly gone off on her own. To drow, of all people. Or rather, to dark-skinned elves who had once been drow, if Val’tissa was to be believed.
“Corellon’s clerics already tried their healing rituals,” Torrin told her. “They didn’t work.”
“Ours are different,” Val’tissa replied.
“How?”
“Some of us still remember the old ways. The songdance will succeed where other rituals have failed.”
“What’s a songdance? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is ancient,” Val’tissa said. “Not commonly practiced, anymore.”
Torrin touched the cloth bandage on his leg. The bolt wound still ached, but when he worked a finger under the bandage, he felt puckered skin, rather than a fresh wound. “Did you heal me?” he asked.
Val’tissa nodded. “Eralynn insisted on it.”
The drow walking beside Torrin’s driftdisc said something in his own language, a growl of anger in his voice.
“Tzoth wanted to kill you,” Val’tissa said. “Especially after you barged in on us like that, and tried to kill him.”
“He shot at me!” Torrin protested.
“He aimed for the arm, then for the leg,” she said. “Non-vital spots. We were going to render you senseless and leave you where you were, but out of the water, so you wouldn’t drown. But Eralynn recognized you, and said you were her friend. She urged us to bring you along.” Val’tissa shrugged. “It’s her decision. If she wants us to drag you along, that’s up to her.”
They were climbing a slope. At the top, the drow said something to the two dark elves. Coin changed hands. The drow departed the way they’d just come, slipping off into the darkness.
“Imyr,” Val’tissa said, catching the other dark elf’s eye. Torrin guessed that to be his name. Val’tissa spoke quietly, and her companion moved to the side of Eralynn’s driftdisc. Then he pulled the blanket up over Eralynn’s head.
Torrin sat bolt upright, causing his driftdisc to bob up and down. “What are you doing?” he cried. “Is she…”