Windwalker Read Online Free PDF Page A

knew that, unchecked, it would suffice.
    The ritual song stopped abruptly, but the man’s fall was slow, astonished, like the death of a lightning-struck tree. Liriel caught him in her arms, staggering under his weight. With difficulty she eased him to the ground. A small cry escaped her when she noted the white flash of bone gleaming through the garish cut.
    Gorlist flipped back his cape, revealing himself and his bloodied sword. “Your turn,” he said with deep satisfaction.
    Liriel went very still. The eyes she lifted to him were utterly flat and cold, as full of icy hatred as only a drow’s could be. In them was no grief, no loss, no pain. For a moment Gorlist knew disappointment.
    “Hand to hand,” she snarled.
    He nodded, unable to contain his smirk of delight. The princess was not as unaffected as she pretended to be. If her heart had been untouched and her head clear, she would have never agreed to face a superior fighter with nothing more to aid her than steel and sinew!
    The stupid female closed the Windwalker then rose and pulled a long dagger from her belt.
    They crossed blades. The strength of Liriel’s first blow surprised Gorlist—and unleashed a wellspring of fury.
    He slashed and pounded at her, raining potential death blows in rapid, ringing succession. Gone was his yearning for a slow death, a lingering vengeance.
    But the princess had learned something of the warrior’s art since their last meeting. Liriel was as fast as he, and though she could never best him, she was skilled enough to turn aside each killing stroke. Her strength, though, was no match for his, and Gorlist drove her steadily, inexorably, toward the cavern wall. He would pin her to it and leave her there to rot.
    Through the haze of his battle rage, Gorlist noted the tall, preternaturally beautiful drow female running lightly along the far edge of the cavern. Qilué of Eilistraee had arrived, and fast behind her came a band of armed priestesses! His victory must come quickly or not at all.
    The newcomers paid little heed to the furious duel. Lofting a silvery chorus of singing swords, they rushed to meet the mercenaries that yet another band of females herded into the open cavern.
    Liriel had also noted her allies’ arrival. She made a quick, impulsive rush toward them, in her relief forgetting the uneven floor. She tripped over a jeweled cup and stumbled to one knee. Gorlist lunged, his sword diving for her heart.
    The drow princess was faster still. She rose swiftly into the air, and the warrior, deprived of his target, found himself momentarily off balance. Before he could adjust, she spun like a dervish and lashed out with one booted foot.
    To his astonishment, Gorlist felt himself falling. The floor of the hoard room seemed to drop away, throwing him into a maelstrom of faint, whirling lights and magical winds.
    Before his heart could pick up the beat stolen by shock, he was flung out into cold, dark water. He fought off the urge to take a startled breath and began to swim for the surface.
    It was all too clear what had happened. Somehow Eilistraee’s priestesses had learned of the magical gate hidden beneath the dark waters of Skullport harbor. They must have waylaid some of the Dragons’ Hoard mercenaries and stolen the medallions that granted passage through this portal. Liriel knew this, and she knew just where to find the hidden magical door. Her “retreat” from his assault had been calculated, every step and stumble of it! This knowledge pained Gorlist nearly as much as the burning of his air-starved lungs.
    Gorlist burst free of the water and dragged in several long, ragged gulps of air. He dashed the back of one hand across his eyes then squinted toward the bright light of a battle.
    The situation was grim. A small crowd of drow children—valuable slaves bound for a dark elven city far to the south—huddled together on the dock. Their wary, watchful red eyes reflected the light of the burning slave