Free Daughter of the Drow by Elaine Cunningham Page A

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,