Then the portal exploded in eerie silence, hurling multicolored smoke to every corner of the room. The magical gate disappeared and was replaced by the more mundane tapestry, before which stood a most peculiar warrior.
Liriel blinked, wondering for a moment if a barbarian marauder had somehow stepped off the tapestry's battle scene. The figure before her was more like some ancient illustration, brought improbably to life, than any being of flesh and bone that Liriel had yet encountered.
The drow stared up-way up-at a human female warrior. The woman was taller than the elven girl by more than a foot and was at least twice as broad. Fat braids of flame-colored hair erupted from beneath a horn-bedizened bronze helm and disappeared into the thick reddish bearskin draped over her shoulders. Apart from these garments and a pair of knee-high, shaggy-furred boots, the warrior was virtually naked. Leather thongs bound weapons to her person and held in place a few strategically placed scraps of metal-studded leather. The woman's skin was pale, her muscles taut, and her curves of the sort usually encountered only in the fantasies of untried youths and libidinous artists. In fact, the warrior's curves, costume, and theatrically grim expression suggested to Liriel that this woman was supposed to be part of someone's evening entertainment. Obviously, she'd missed a turn somewhere on magic's silver pathways.
"Nice entrance," Liriel observed dryly, "but the floor show is in the main tavern."
The barbarian's sky-colored eyes flamed with blue heat. "Do you take me for a tavern wench?" she roared. The warrior batted aside a wisp of glowing smoke and squinted in Uriel's direction. With a slow, ominous flourish, she drew an ancient broadsword from its scabbard. Tossing back her helmed head, she took a long, proud breath-dangerously taxing the strength and expansion capacity of her scant leather garments-and lifted her sword in challenge. Remnants of the luminous smoke writhed around her, adding significantly to the overall effect.
"Behold Vasha the Red, daughter of Hanigard, queen of the ice water raiders, captain of the Hrothgarian guard, and hired sword arm of the Red Bear Clan," the warrior announced in a voice that shook the windowpanes and promised doom.
Liriel got the feeling that this introduction was usually met with groveling surrender, but she was not overly impressed by her visitor's credentials. That broadsword, however, was another matter entirely.
Candlelight shimmered down the sword's rune-carved length and winked with ominous golden light along its double edge. Liriel's dagger, which was long and keen and coated with drew sleeping poison for good measure, seemed woefully inadequate beside it. The drow observed the furtive, darting path that the barbarian's eyes traced around the room, and assumed that the human had been temporarily blinded by the brilliant light of the magical portal. With a sword that size, however, precision was not vital to success in battle. The drow's wisest course would probably be to toss her fireball and settle the damages with the innkeeper later. It'd be messy, but there was something to be said for a quick resolution in such matters. So Liriel hauled back her arm for the throw and let fly.
"Runecaster!" spat the barbarian woman scornfully. Her sword flashed up and batted the glowing sphere back in Liriel's general direction. To the drow's astonishment-and infinite relief-the fireball dissipated not with the expected rending explosion, but an apologetic fizzle.
A smug little smile lifted the corners of the warrior's mouth. "Your foul magics will avail you not," she exulted. "Know this and tremble: You cannot escape the justice of the Rus, though you flee through time itself! Return with me for trial, runecaster, or die now by my hand." The muscles in the barbarian's sword arm twitched eagerly, leaving little doubt as to which option she preferred.
But Liriel did not for one moment consider surrender or fear death. This woman might be bigger than an ogre's in-laws, but any drow wizard worthy of the name had at her command a variety of ways to dispose of unwanted visitors. Yet Liriel did not strike, for something in the woman's speech caught her interest.
"The Rus? Fleeing through time?" she repeated excitedly, her mind whirling with possibilities. Magical portals could give transport to distant places, through solid objects, even into other planes. Was it possible that they could span the centuries, as well? Was this woman truly an ancient warrior, and not some low-rent courtesan with bad fashion sense? "Just who in the Nine Hells are you?"
A scowl creased the woman's white brow. Her glacial blue eyes thawed just enough to register uncertainty, and she squinted into the shadows that hid her foe. "Have I not said? Did you not hear? I am Vasha the Red, daughter of-"
"Stow it," Liriel snapped, in no mood to swap genealogies. "You said, I heard. But where did you come from? And more important, when?"
"This is the twelfth year of the reign of King Hrothgar. The last year of his reign, as well you know! In the dark of the hunter's moon, Hrothgar was slain by your fell magics!"
The drow pondered this announcement. She had been extremely busy of late, but she was fairly certain she hadn't killed anyone by that name. Upon further consideration, she recalled that the adventures of a King Hrothgar were recounted in her book of rune lore. He'd been outwitted by a renegade runecaster of dark and exceptional power. But by Liriel's best calculations, that had happened nearly "Two thousand years ago!" she said, regarding the swordwoman with new respect. "I'll say this much for you: you can hold a grudge with the best of them!"
Vasha was neither flattered nor amused. Bellowing with rage, the barbarian hauled her sword high overhead, sighted down a spot between the shadowy figure's eyes, and slashed straight down toward it. The mighty blow would have riven Liriel neatly in twain, had it only connected. But the agile elf dived to one side, rolled twice, and was back on her feet in time to witness most of the sword's descent. It swooped down to slice cleanly through Liriel's rented bed. The coverlet, mattress, ticking-even the roping and wooden slats of the frame-gave way before Vasha's wrath. The bed collapsed in upon itself like a spent puffball mushroom, spewing feathers upward into the swordwoman's face.
The barbarian reeled back, sneezing violently and repeatedly. Liriel took advantage of this development to cast a spell of holding, effectively freezing Vasha in mid-sneeze. That done, the drow stalked over to the ruined bed, plucked her book of rune lore out of the drifting feathers, and shook it before the swordwoman's contorted, immobile face.
"This is what led you here, you blazing idiot! This book describes rune magic, of a sort that no one has cast for hundreds of years. You're chasing the wrong damned wizard!"
Liriel took a long, deep breath to compose her wits and calm her temper. Then she snapped her fingers, and at once the room's dim candlelight was eclipsed by floating globes of white faerie fire. In the sudden bright light, her delicate, elven face shone like polished ebony. She tucked her abundant white hair behind the elegantly pointed ears that proclaimed her race, then propped her fists on her hips.
"Tell me," the drow purred with silky sarcasm, "do I really look like a runecaster from the Red Bear Clan?"
Vasha did not offer an opinion, but some of the blood-lust faded from her trapped eyes. Liriel took this as a good sign. Nevertheless, she pried the sword from the barbarian's hands and hurled it into a far corner before releasing the spell of holding. She had an offer for Vasha, and, in her experience, people tended to bargain much more reasonably when they were unarmed.