DragonLance
Wanderlust
The Meetings Sextet - 02
Mary Kirchoff and Steve Winter
Prologue
A still, dense mist prevailed in Wayreth Forest on a cool autumn day. The light that filtered through the thick canopy was gray and dull, so that the forest, too, looked flat and pallid. Occasionally a leaf bounced and shook as if brushed by unseen hands when collected moisture dripped off.
Two dwarves moved through the obscuring vapor, struggling with the weight of a lifeless body sagging between them. They were dressed plainly in woolen shirts, wide belts, and trousers tucked into heavy boots. They carried their burden to a clump of young birches and dumped it among the damp grasses, then leaned on the shovels they carried along.
"We should dig a grave," said the first, scraping thoughtlessly at his bare chin. He was still young and wore his long hair, cropped short at the bangs, like an apprentice.
The second dwarf shook his long beard. "There's hardly enough left of him to bother. His kin didn't care enough to claim him. I'm not going to break my back over his carcass.
"Give the ravens a treat—he'll be naught but bones by morning, and no one will miss him." After wiping bloodstained hands on his trousers, the bearded dwarf rooted through a baggy pocket and withdrew a pipe and a plum-sized stone. Deft fingers snapped the stone open along a concealed hinge. A few quick puffs of breath brought a smoldering ember inside to rosy life and with it he lit his pipe. Moments later, rings of smoke wafted through the heavy air and blended into the mist.
"This is the third this week," observed the younger dwarf. "What do you suppose brings them here, knowing the price of failure?"
The older dwarf considered the body through curls of smoke. Its chest had burst open, and sharp edges of snapped ribs poked through the blood-soaked robe. The right eye and much of that side of the face was clawed away. The right arm curled unnaturally, obviously broken in several places, and the thumb was gone from the right hand.
"Do they really know?" he wondered aloud. "If we propped this fellow up by the entrance instead of hiding him out here, then they might know the real price of failure.
"Most of them that come here to the Tower of High Sorcery are apprentice wizards, young and full of themselves. They've got a hard choice. They can remain apprentices for the rest of their lives, running, fetching, and practicing minor spells, or they can come here, face death, and earn the right to wear the robes of a full wizard.
"It's a hard system, lad, but the Conclave of Wizards knows its business. Magic is the mightiest force in the world. The conclave can't control magic, so instead it controls who uses it. Every wizard on Ansalon who wishes to perform more than minor spells must come to the tower and face the test, else he'll be branded a renegade and hunted by his brethren. If he's capable—and lucky—he passes. If not. . ." With a nod the dwarf indicated the ruined body lying in the weeds. He then snatched up his shovel and led the way back through the mist toward Wayreth and the Tower of High Sorcery.
As day faded into twilight in Wayreth Forest, a cold breeze whipped the parched autumn leaves into a small whirlpool. On the ground beneath the whirlpool rested the dead wizard's pale remains. As if created from the leaves themselves, a large golden coin appeared. It spun in the air, so fast it looked almost like a golden ball. Neither rising nor falling, nor moving from side to side, it twirled in the heart of the small maelstrom.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the wind vanished, leaves tumbled to the earth, and the coin dropped into the cold, thumbless hand of the dead mage. An eerie, whispering wind settled over the misty land as darkness descended.
Under the light of the waning moon, bloody fingers twitched, flexed, and closed over the coin. New life pulsed through collapsed veins, spasmodically at first, then steadily. The ravaged body writhed among the leaves in torment as its gaping wounds spurted fresh blood. Jagged edges of flesh on the man's chest closed together. A hoarse moan parted his lips, rising to an anguished wail that rent the damp evening air. The body lay tense and waiting, breathing raggedly.
"What price for your life, mage?"
The wizard's only good eye flew open at the sound of the croaking voice coming from his palm. Although it was a torment, he forced himself into a sitting position and regarded the coin in his hand. On one side it bore a smiling, heavy-jowled face; on the other side, the same face, but leering and angry. Its mouth was a hole that pierced the metal. He raised the coin to look through the hole, but recoiled in horror. Leering, shredded faces atop rotted bodies danced among licking tongues of flame.
"First you experienced death and now you have seen Hell, all in a single day," the smiling face said. "Perhaps you are willing to discuss the terms of your rebirth."
Bewildered and in pain, the young mage tried to speak. "Who are you?" he rasped. "How have you done this to me?"
"Do you not recognize the countenance of your god Hiddukel, master of contracts, broker of souls?"
The young mage shivered and pulled the tattered remnants of his robe closer at the name of the ancient, evil god. "But I follow the neutral god, Sirrion."
The coin flipped in his hand, revealing the frowning face. "Where is he now?" it cried. "I have restored your life. How will you serve me?"
"I did not ask for your help," the young man said softly.
"So be it!" Hiddukel's angry face roared.
Suddenly the young mage felt his ribs crack anew. A scream of pain, mingled with blood, escaped his lips. "What is it you want?"
"I want only what you want," soothed the coin's smiling face. "Vengeance for your treatment in the tower . . . power and prestige for my follower. These things I can grant you. In exchange, I ask only for souls."
Still gasping, the mage shot back, "What good is my life if my soul is yours?"
The coin laughed darkly. "'Tis not your black-stained spirit I want. Any will do. Each one you send me will increase your power and decrease your debt to me. I will grant your desires, further your schemes, in exchange for something you do not value. Is it not a fair bargain?"
The young mage lay very still, propped against a tree, strange thoughts crowding his mind. He had felt death, and the cold horror of it was still vivid in his mind. The golden coin's evil offer promised new life. Even better, it promised power that the Conclave of Wizards had denied him. The offer drew him, enfolded him, and finally embraced him. He closed his eye, and through cracked lips whispered, "I accept."
"Splendid!" said the smiling, pudgy face. "Shall we begin our work?"
The wizard tried to stand but collapsed against the tree, his head still spinning. "I must have rest. And what about my eye and thumb? I'm still injured."
The coin squinted at the bedraggled youth. "Our bargain was to restore your life, not to make you whole again. But if that is what you wish, I'm sure we could revise our agreement. Shall I replace your eye and thumb?"
The mage declined with a weary shake of his head. Staring at the leering, moonlit coin in his blood-splashed palm, he knew that one pact with the god of bargains was enough.
PART I
Chapter 1
A Thing of Beauty
Ten years later. . .
The hillside was slippery with early spring mud. Tasslehoff Burrfoot carefully picked his way along the driest spots, using his forked kender hoopak staff for balance. At times he paused and probed ahead with the pole to test the depth of the sludge puddles. He knew from experience that mud could be deceptive as well as uncomfortable.
Two days earlier he had given up the idea of catching a ride on a farmer's or merchant's wagon. No vehicles could move on the roads in their pr
esent condition. Still, in another day or two the roads would solidify nicely, and traffic would again start rumbling and jolting along them. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but walk.
Tasslehoff was sure this trip would be worthwhile, in spite of the wet feet, spattered clothes, and sputtering evening fires at damp campsites. The treetop village of Solace lay just ahead, and by all accounts it was a sight to see. Centuries earlier, following the great Cataclysm, the citizens of Solace had sought protection from marauders and prowling monsters by moving into the giant vallenwood trees. Now, fanciful descriptions of their lofty homes and graceful rope bridges, perched high above the valley floor, were spoken of throughout Krynn.
Pausing on a ridge overlooking the fabled village, the kender could not suppress an indrawn breath of wonder. Quaint thatched roofs poked through the tip-tops of budding trees, looking both magical and homey all at once. Wisps of smoke from cook-fires trailed off into the blue afternoon sky.
A fluttering of excitement filled his lungs, like one hundred pairs of butterfly wings tickling him from the inside. He couldn't decide whether to skip, hop, or run down that muddy road, so he did all three in an overlapping sort of way and in no time at all reached the edge of Solace.
Tas paused at the edge of town to gaze up at the homes overhead. From his height of less than four feet, they seemed to tower extraordinarily high. Wide-eyed gazes darted from one tree to the next, taking in every detail: how the structures were anchored in the trees, how many doors and windows each had, the trim and paint, locations of ladders and stairways. He also noticed, however, that not all the houses were in the trees. Several homes and the village stable sat very mundanely on the ground.
Tas was both disappointed and delighted at that. No one had ever mentioned it before. On the one hand, the town seemed somehow less wonderful if the horses had to stay on the ground.
But it was also a new piece of information, certainly important enough to merit recording. He fished through the pouch slung from his shoulder and drew out a tightly rolled parchment, a small jar of ink, and a battered quill. The parchment was covered with notes, diagrams, and partial, half, and nearly completed maps of every size and orientation. Quickly locating an unused corner, Tas jotted down a few important observations and sketched out a small diagram of the area. Replacing the items in his pouch, he marched into town.
The quiet was most seductive. The vallenwoods' new spring leaves rustled in the breeze as small insects buzzed and chirped. There were no braying donkeys or shrieking children or crashing wagons. There seemed, in fact, to be no people at all.
Tas's eyes suddenly narrowed and darted suspiciously from side to side. He had not seen a single person since his arrival. Surely something was amiss. His mind careened wildly through the possibilities. The people could have been captured by slavers, or eaten by scaly monsters who crept into town during the night. Perhaps everyone just moved away, or perhaps they were carried off by giant goatsucker birds. That notion sent a shiver up his spine as he cast a nervous glance across his shoulder.
Determined to find an answer, Tas singled out a nearby tree and scampered up the steep walkway circling the trunk. The tree held a cozy-looking cottage and a small shed, connected by suspended walkways. He peered through the smoky window of the house, but couldn't make out much detail in the darkened interior. A knock on the front door brought no response, so he tried the latch—it was locked. From one of his many pockets Tas produced an oilcloth wrapped around an astounding collection of bent and shaped wires, files, and keys of every description. With his nose almost touching the door, he peered into the keyhole for several thoughtful moments, then selected one of the picks. He was about to apply it to the lock when he heard a noise from below.
Tas looked down in time to see a group of several people carrying baskets and talking and laughing as they walked along the main road through town. Moments later they turned off onto a smaller road and disappeared from view.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the oilcloth bundle disappeared again, and Tasslehoff scurried to the ground.
"Hey, wait for me!" he called, but they were too far away to hear. The kender's short legs pumped furiously as he raced down the road in pursuit of the basket carriers. Around the bend he flew and over a low rise, before skidding to a halt.
Below the small knob where Tasslehoff stood lay a fair! The area was choked with sellers' stalls, tents, booths, performers, beggars, and people in general. Lots of people—certainly all of Solace and probably quite a few more, Tasslehoff concluded.
He rushed down the slope into the throng. On every side he heard the cries of merchants hawking their wares and services. Wide-eyed, the kender looked this way and that, and then back again. He dodged around a donkey when two men carrying a rolled tapestry on their shoulders appeared from nowhere. Tas slipped between them and found himself in a tiny open space, a stationary island in a roiling sea. Twisting right and left, forward and back, he peered from here to there, trying vainly to see everything at once. In fact, he could see very little of anything except arms and torsos flowing past, pushing, touching, gesturing, carrying, buying and selling.
A frantic warning shout from behind came just in time for Tas to sidestep an enormous barrel before it thundered past. The juggernaut gouged a trough through the mud and doused the lower half of Tasslehoff's body with a sheet of brown water. Two men, both looking frightfully concerned, splashed and galloped after it, one shouting warnings as the other screamed curses and epithets. Tas giggled as he watched the barrel's progress, people leaping and scrambling out of the way along its route. The show ended when the runaway barrel crashed into a furniture maker's stall, bringing a colorful canopy flapping down across the debris.
The crowd quickly returned to its business. As Tas turned back to the festival, a stabbing pain shot up through his leg. He swallowed a yelp and then landed a quick punch against the hip of a burly man in a long canvas coat who was standing on Tas's foot. Whether the punch actually hurt the man is hard to say, but it drew his attention. His head snapped to one side and he scanned the crowd darkly, but it was several moments before he noticed the diminutive kender at his waist. A growl welled up from somewhere deep inside the man's cavernous chest. He placed one hand on Tas's left shoulder, lifted his foot, and gave a mighty shove that sent the hapless kender crashing through the crowd.
Hopping backward and windmilling furiously to regain his balance, Tasslehoff tumbled into a pile of rugs. He scrambled to safety at the top and sat, looking over the crowd and rubbing his throbbing foot.
Rough hands grabbed him from behind. "Get your muddy feet off my merchandise, you little urchin!" Tasslehoff was spun around and found himself face to angry face with a slim, bearded man wearing a large satin hat.
Tas glanced down at his mud-soaked leggings and the trail of dirty, wet footprints leading across the carpets to where he now stood. He giggled, which was certainly a mistake. The words "I'm sorry," were barely formed on his lips when the merchant realized his mistake, too.
"A kender! And I mistook you for an innocent child. Away!" he roared.
"But I was pushed," protested Tasslehoff. "It wasn't my fault—"
"Away!" The rug merchant's face turned purple with anger. His hands flew across Tas's upper body, probing and poking the kender's woolen vest and pockets, which only made Tasslehoff giggle again. When the merchant was satisfied that nothing of his was secreted on Tas's body, he whirled the little fellow around and pushed him away, back into the milling crowd.
It would be natural to think Tasslehoff was discouraged by all the manhandling he'd been subjected to, but kender are not so easily put off. It was all part and parcel of the fair, and Tas had a taste for excitement. He was also partial to the crispy-fried spiral cakes sprinkled with sugar, which he purchased from a toothless but jolly, red-cheeked old woman. Absently sucking the sugar from his fingers, he set off to explore the grounds.
Strains of exotic music drifted across the festival gr
ounds, sounds of long-stringed instruments and tiny cymbals, which wrapped Tasslehoff up in their pulsing rhythm. Like a dog on a scent, the kender threaded through the seething crowd and found his way to the stage. On it, a dark-skinned woman shivered and whirled, her silk veils floating like gossamer petals. Steel coins jangled on her wrists, ankles, and hips. The music, strange and wonderful, seemed filled with color and faraway scents.
But even that wasn't enough to hold Tas's attention when the magic show started up in the next stall.
Foul-smelling smoke drifted across the stage. With a whoosh, a man appeared in the smoke, grimacing. The crowd swayed in awe, though Tas was quite certain he saw the curtain move just before the man "materialized."
The fellow was dressed in a floor-length forest green tunic, so dark it almost appeared black. A fur-trimmed robe of the same color reached just below his waist. Both items were decorated with cabalistic symbols of every size and color.
"I am the great and potent Fozgoz Mithrohir," announced the wizard, "grandson and only surviving heir of the equally great and potent Fozgond Mithrohir, the Eternal High Light and Grand Mustard of the Imperial Order of Green Wizards! Stand back!"
With that, he produced a wand from his left sleeve and flourished it menacingly toward the crowd, which stepped back respectfully.
"I shall now summon here, to this spot, before you, with great authority and power, a creature of the nether planes, a dread beast from whence you cannot imagine, for only I, Fozgoz, have ever ventured there to return again. Do not be alarmed, for it is completely within my power and under my control. I am master of this dire creature, having established my authority in wizardly combat against the nemesis in its own magical world! Now, silence, and stand back!"
Tasslehoff, like everyone else, stared unblinking and dry-eyed as Fozgoz waved his wand in complex and mystic convolutions through the air. Sparks sputtered from its tip as it traced its sulfurous pattern. Then, with a bang, another cloud of acrid smoke burst across the crowd. Tasslehoff and other spectators who stood in the front rows staggered back, blinking their stinging eyes and coughing. The first to rush forward afterward was Tas, who stared intently into the swirling cloud. Emerging from it, looking somewhat dazed and hardly ferocious, was . . . Tas could see it was about the size and shape of a goat, but hairless and apparently covered with orange scales. It had only one horn. As the crowd gasped and gaped in astonishment, the creature stood placidly chewing. Just as Tas reached out to touch it, an assistant rushed forward and led the incredible monster away behind the curtain.
[Meetings 02] - Wanderlust Page 1