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Well, a drow had other weapons than magic and steel, and not the least of them was reputation. Drow females learned certain skills along with word-weaning: how to wrap knife-bladed sarcasm in silky words, how to project malice and evil as naturally as oil lamps cast light, how to promise death without drawing a weapon.
Liriel willed a malevolent gleam into her eyes and curved her lips into a cold, cruel smile. "You seem well versed in Impiltur law," she said in a clear, ringing voice. "You don't look like much of a hunter, but the council might hire you as a clerk or scribe."
The man's smirk faded away. "I'll have you know that these boots are a trophy."
"A red dragon. Impressive," Liriel purred. "Tell me, did you kill the roc, as well? Or did one obligingly molt a few feathers in your general direction?"
By now the tavern had grown dangerously quiet, and the wary expressions on the patrons' faces indicated that their pleasantly dark fantasies concerning Liriel had given way to even darker thoughts-stories they'd heard told of the drow.
The proprietor hurried over to the table, all but wringing his hands in dismay. "I want no trouble here."
"Who does?" Thorn replied coolly. She glanced at Liriel, taking in the slim black fingers curved around the clerical emblem. She tapped Liriel's boot with her foot. The drow responded with a thin, wicked smile. Thorn sealed their unspoken agreement with a nod and turned back to the tavern keeper.
"I paid for this meal, and I intend to finish it. After, this man and I can settle our differences outside."
The fop's smirk returned, and his sword hand closed around the hilt of his weapon. "A duel is yet another kind of hunt. Your terms are quite acceptable. I await your pleasure." He gave the lythari a mocking little bow and walked back to his table.
Sharlarra's worried gaze went from Liriel to Thorn. "You're pla
The lythari ignored her. "How long do you need to work your spell, drow?"
"No more than a quarter bell." Liriel glanced toward the moon. The fat crescent had already begun its descent, and appeared to be in danger of impaling itself upon the mast of a large ship. That was good fortune-the ship would serve as a reference point and help her chart time's passage. Thorn didn't need such aids, but Liriel had yet to master the art of measuring time by the movement of the moon and stars.
By the time Thorn polished off the last crumb of her bread bowl and devoured a slab of very rare mutton, the moon was almost touching the ship's boom. Liriel figured this delay was due to design as well as hunger; by the time Thorn had finished feeding, the streets were nearly deserted.
Finally Thorn rose to leave. The garishly clad hunter almost beat her to the door in his eagerness.
They strode to the middle of the street, faced each other, and drew swords. The first clash echoed down the nearly empty street. Steel hissed as the blades slid free, then sang out again in three quick, ringing notes.
The opponents circled each other, testing with short feints, quick lunges and deft parries. They were much the same height, so neither had the advantage of reach. Thorn was faster, the human was stronger. The two appeared well matched, and certainly presented a vivid contrast. Thorn had removed her sea-blue tabard to signify that this fight was not of an official nature, so there remained little color about her. Thorn preferred to dress in unrelieved black, for that was the color of her pelt in wolf form. Long black hair framed her pale face, unbound but for the single streak of white-the mark of Eilistraee's favor-woven into a thin braid.
By now most of the patrons and quite a few of the wenches were crowded around the window, watching the battle on the street beyond. Sharlarra leaned close to Liriel. "Shouldn't we go out there?"
The drow shook her head and continued her silent prayer. She was right where she needed to be-surrounded by people who expected a drow to attack by sword or spell. They would see no gesture, hear no word.
Now, if only Mystra would hear…
The warmth of the Lady's presence stole into Liriel's heart, and she knew her prayer had been answered.
A faintly glowing red mist rose from the dirty cobbles. Similar tendrils of mist wafted from the tavern and out the open window, merging with the expanding red cloud.
The murmur of wagers and jests surrounding Liriel gave way to heavy silence. She rose and pushed her way over to the window to watch the answer to her prayer unfold.
The mist began to swirl as if in agitation. Then, almost too quickly for the eye to follow, it took on an unmistakable form. The rainbow-garbed fighter fell away from the still-misty shape of a young red dragon, and he stumbled over the rough cobbles on feet that were suddenly, inexplicably bare.
In the blink of an eye, the mist disappeared. The now-solid creature shook its horned head. A shudder passed down its massive form, making it look oddly like a dog shaking off water. Its eyes focused and took in the grim street, the sleeping harbor beyond. Then it roared, and the brothel patrons dived for cover under tables. Sharlarra sensibly followed suit, leaving Liriel standing alone at the open window.
Most of the revelers heard a dragon's roar and didn't think to inquire further, but Liriel, her mind still opened to the goddess, heard something more: a keening lament for whatever celestial world the creature had been forced to forsake.
For a moment memory burned bright, and Liriel experienced anew the peace and homecoming she'd glimpsed when she had eased Fyodor's spirit into the afterlife.
Tears filled her eyes, and shame her heart. How could she consider, even for a moment, disrupting such bliss?
The resurrected dragon readjusted to life with surprising speed. Its wings snapped open, lifting it from the ground for a short, quick strike. Fanged jaws snatched up the astonished hunter. The dragon wheeled, hopped onto the roof of the low, stone warehouse across the street, and leaped into the sky. It winged off, and for a moment the outline of a dragon and its still-living prey, bare feet kicking wildly, was silhouetted against the setting moon.
The six hunters made a sudden rush for the stables. They mounted their horses and took off in pursuit, loudly promising rescue or vengeance.
Sharlarra was the next to respond. She darted out of the tavern and down a narrow alley. Liriel and Thorn fell in behind, knowing from long experience the star elf's knack for evading pursuers.
They ran until they were certain there would be no pursuit. By then the pre-dawn bustle had begun, and the streets quickly filled with wagons carrying goods to market.
Morning in any city started much the same. Chimneys coughed smoke as hearth fires kindled. The smell of baking bread wafted from a large community oven. Tavern doors began to swing open, and street vendors trundled their carts along the cobblestone. Liriel turned resignedly to Thorn, expecting that the lythari would be ready for her morning meal.
She found her friend regarding her with somber compassion. "So you can do it."
The emphasis was pointed, holding a meaning Liriel could not quite grasp. She made a circular gesture with one hand, inviting further comment.
"Resurrection is a powerful spell, but it always seemed pointless to me. A sentient being restored to life is likely to seek justice by killing his murderer, who is avenged in turn. Death follows death, and so the cycle continues."
"If resurrected people truly wanted to seek justice," Liriel said softly, "they would leave their killers alone and slay instead the people who brought them back."
The lythari nodded. "That is not quite what I meant, but it is truth nonetheless."
Sharlarra, who had been listening to this exchange with uncharacteristic gravity, let out a soft murmur of enlightenment.