The Silver Stair

by Jean Rabe

  Three Que-Nal, two of them weaponless, danced around her as if the snowstorm was not there. One darted in and picked up the fallen knight's sword, then brought it up to parry Gair's swing. The elf was not relying on his eyesight but was listening to his father tell him where the barbarians were.

  Crouching, the elf feinted, then rose up and rammed his sword forward and felt it sink into someone in front of him. "Keep me away from Camilla!" he called to his father. "I don't want to harm her by mistake." Nor do I want her to harm me, he thought.

  Away from the pair, Iryl clutched the spear in one hand, and with the other tried to bat away the snow so she could see. She felt a rush of air and leapt to the side, feeling the brush of fur as the Que-Nal charged where she had been a heartbeat before. She felt another brush of fur, this more coarse, and heard a deep-throated growl.

  "Orvago!" She let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks be to the memory of Habbakuk!"

  "Kill them!" the old man continued to shout. "For Zebyr Jotun! Kill them!"

  "A beast!" the Que-Nal nearby Iryl cried. "Shadowwalker, they have monsters on their side!"

  Chaos continued to rain in the swirling snowstorm. The clang of Gair's and Camilla's swords rang out against the spears of their foes and the soft thuds of the blades striking the thick hides of the barbarians. A muffled cry cut through the wind, Camilla's, followed by a series of thuds and clangs as an incensed Gair retaliated.

  "Camilla's down!" Gair called out, hoping that Iryl still lived. "Father, how many left?"

  Still three, the elder Graymist answered. One is sorely injured.

  "Tell me where they are, Father!"

  More blows rained.

  Somewhere in the wicked whiteness, the old man continued to shout, "Kill them all!"

  Near Iryl, the gnoll was wildly slashing at a barbarian who was doing his best to crawl toward Shadowwalker. The gnoll's hood was thrown back, revealing his doglike face, spittle flying and freezing as he continued to claw at the man.

  Camilla was face first in the snow and struggling to push herself up. The knight was faint from cold and the loss of blood, her fingers practically frozen.

  Gair was wounded, too, from spear jabs that penetrated through his defenses and punctured his legs, but none of the wounds were serious. He stepped in front of Camilla, following his father's directions, thrusting his sword forward like a spear, driving it through one of the remaining barbarians.

  Two left! The elder Graymist's voice finally showed a hint of optimism. The monster you call your friend has finished another, and the old man is retreating!

  The gnoll's victory cry cut through the chaos, sending a shiver down Gair's spine.

  The two remaining are fleeing, too, his father continued. The monster has unnerved them! It was fortunate your beast was worried over your tardiness and came looking for you. The monster is good for something after all.

  The gnoll was snorting and growling, trying to find his way through the snow to pursue his quarry.

  "Let them go, Orvago!" Gair shouted as his father explained what the gnoll was trying to do. "Over here! I need you!" Then the elf slumped to his knees, as if the effort of shouting took the last of his strength. "I should have told Goldmoon and Iryl about the Que-Nal, Father." His voice was soft, cloaked by the sound of the wind-driven snow.

  No, his father corrected. You were right to keep the knowledge hidden. It would not have prevented this.

  "Camilla!"

  There was nothing but the persistent shushing of the snow and Orvago's growls.

  "Where is she, Father?"

  Lost to you, Son. Mortally wounded, I'm afraid. She is slipping toward my realm. I will welcome her for you.

  Gair shut out the rest of his father's words and groped furiously with his frigid hands, desperately trying to find Camilla. She was lying on her side, a layer of snow atop her, a spear lodged in her back. He felt her face, his fingers dancing down her body until they encountered the warm stickiness of her blood. Gair blocked everything else, focusing on his heart, trembling from fear of losing her, calling forth his healing spell.

  The magic was dead within him. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, too spent to nurture a mystical spark.

  "Please!" the elf whimpered as he concentrated harder, felt himself grow colder as all his energy was directed inward. His breathing became ragged, and he slumped over her still form. "Please!" He could sense his heartbeat, weakening himself further as he tried to draw energy from it. It thrummed irregularly as he gave up the last of his strength in an effort to find his mystic center. The penetrating cold, and a blackness that came up from nowhere and everywhere, swelled to surround him, and he felt himself lose his grip on consciousness and spiral downward. "No!" It was a hoarse whisper of protest. "I won't give up yet!" Just as he suspected he might fail himself, he found a last bit of energy left in his limbs, and the elf felt something stir within him, something inexplicable, a faintly mystical pulse.

  He pictured it as a flame, and he crouched over it, protecting it from the wind and blowing on it gently to give it more substance. The image became more real in his mind until he could feel the warmth of the fire he was building. It was chasing the cold from his limbs, melting the snow all around him. He continued to tend the flames, fingers scrabbling over the dry ground he was mentally painting, gathering twigs and dead leaves. These he shoved into the fire, and it grew.

  The elf pulled back from the image now, registering himself draped over Camilla. The warmth from the fire in his chest was surging down his arms and into her unmoving form. The waves were strong, as he'd felt them moving into himself when Jasper healed him on the trail in what seemed so long ago. He stoked the fire higher and was rewarded when he heard her gasp, felt her move slightly.

  Still focusing on his healing wave, he reached around to her back, where the spear was lodged. It was not too deep, and he tugged it out, pressing his fingers into the wound and coaxing his mystical warmth inside.

  She moaned softly.

  "You'll be all right." Guided by Orvago, Iryl had found her way to the knight commander's side. "Gair is healing you."

  "No!" The word was firm. She tried to push herself away from the elf's hands, but Iryl held her down, and Camilla hadn't the strength to handle the slight elvish woman. "Take me to town, please. There's an herbalist at the Sentinel. She'll see to me. No magic."

  Gair's fingers fluttered across her arm, where he felt a broken bone. He couldn't set it, though he knew Goldmoon or Jasper could handle that task. He could stop the bleeding and ease her pain. He directed the warmth to flow into the arm.

  Camilla was growing stronger, and Orvago helped keep her from squirming.

  "I don't want this!" The words were almost lost in the still-blowing snow. "None of this mysticism. None of it. Let me die… or take me to town."

  "I won't let you die, lady knight," Gair said. "And the port is days away." He turned his attention back to the spell and directed the last of the healing warmth into her. Thoroughly spent, he fell back into the soft snow, gasping and clutching his cold fingers to his chest.

  "Willum," Camilla moaned. She was feverish, ranting. "Willum, don't let them heal me. None of their mysticism. None of it."

  Iryl smoothed the knight's hair and cradled Camilla's face in her lap to protect it from the wind. "Everything will be all right, Commander Weoledge. Rest now."

  The miniature storm died several minutes later, leaving behind snow that had all but covered the bodies of the slain Que-Nal and the two knights. One of the latter lived, barely, and Gair somehow found just enough mystical strength to stop his bleeding. The elf plucked at the fastenings of the armor and tugged it off the man.

  The gnoll padded over, removed his own cloak, wrapped it around the wounded knight, and hoisted him gently over his shoulder. Orvago glanced to the west. He had followed their tracks to get here, and the storm that came from nowhere covered up all trace of them.

  Iryl brushed the snow from the slain knight, r
an her fingers across his eyelids to close them, and offered a quiet prayer to the departed Habbakuk. Finished, she joined Gair, who had removed Camilla's armor and was wrapping her in one of the blankets, then lifted her in his arms. The knight was as tall as the elf and at least as heavy, but Gair somehow managed to carry her.

  "We'll have to return for the armor and the rest of the blankets," he told Iryl. "Too heavy to deal with now."

  A blanket under each arm, she nodded and took the lead, her eyes darting to the north and south, fearful of spotting more Que-Nal. "I did not believe the Que-Nal capable of this," she said. She shook her head in disbelief. "As a whole, they are a peaceful people. I apologize."

  "For what?"

  "I was blinded to the truth of the real nemesis. If I'd had a clue that Shadowwalker was involved, I could have prevented this," Iryl declared.

  "Prevented it?" Gair sucked in his breath. "How?"

  "Shadowwalker's a renegade. The chieftain of the Que-Nal, Skydancer, is a close friend of mine. I could have said something to him. He and his people could have stopped Shadowwalker, stopped all of this. Shadowwalker's mad, my Silvanesti friend. You heard the young warriors mention Zebyr Jotun? That's one of their gods. You might know her as Zeboim, queen of the sea. Shadowwalker believes the gods are still here and thinks that his power comes from her. He's mad… and dangerous. He's probably behind the fire at the citadel, the attack on the pilgrims. All these deaths, Gair—the fire, everything—they could have been prevented if only I'd known."

  Not another word was spoken as Orvago, Gair, and Iryl forged a new path through the snow.

  It was after sundown by the time they reached the settlement. They went straight to Goldmoon's tent, where the aging healer and Jasper tended to the knights. Camilla's protests to their mystic ministrations were ignored.

  Gair padded from the settlement when he was confident Camilla would live and that she was resting comfortably. "Could have prevented this," he muttered to himself as he passed by the Silver Stair, just winking into view with the stars. "Well, I will put an end to all of this. Darkhunter will tell me where to find this Shadowwalker, and I will deal with the old man." And then I will return to Goldmoon and beg her to cleanse this darkness I feel growing stronger inside me, the elf added to himself.

  12

  The Whisperers

  The gnoll stood stoop-shouldered inside the tent, too tall to stand completely upright without tearing the tent stakes loose, something he'd done several times already. He was admiring the ornamental broadsword Gair had hung just inside the doorway. When the light hit it just right, as it was doing now, he could see his eyes reflected in the blade.

  He grinned, a trail of spittle edging over his lip. He wiped at it with a hairy paw, rubbed the paw against his pants leg, and reached up to tug the sword loose from its fastenings. He ran his clawed fingers over the carvings of pegasi and made a sound reminiscent of a cat's purr. Almost reverently he placed the sword on Gair's cot, admiring it a few more moments.

  Next the gnoll slipped out of his red cloak and bright blue tunic. He tugged his boots free and carefully placed them and the socks on the end of his bed. Naked except for his loose-fitting trousers, which he rolled up to his knees, Orvago snatched up the sword again and stepped out of the tent, nearly barreling into Goldmoon.

  "Good evening, Orvago." She smiled up at the gnoll. "Aren't you cold?"

  He shrugged, wrinkled his snout, and glanced toward the sun, which was starting to set.

  Her eyes drifted to the sword. "Isn't that Gair's?"

  The gnoll nodded sheepishly.

  "You're borrowing it to go hunting? I'm sure he won't mind, though I wish I knew where he was. I haven't seen him since last night."

  The gnoll shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  "I'm sure he's all right."

  The gnoll smiled broadly, revealing a double row of sharp teeth. His eyes glimmered with the same excitement she'd noticed when she saw him hunting the boars. He demonstrated to her how the blade reflected like a mirror.

  "Tired of eating our cooked food?"

  He nodded again.

  "Well, good hunting, my friend," she offered as she turned and headed toward the settlement's main cookfire.

  The scent of roast deer and the sound of friendly conversation drifted across the settlement. His keen ears picked up Jasper toasting the memory of Reorx the Forge, whom the dwarves considered the greatest of Krynn's gods, and he heard Camilla and Iryl discussing the renegade Que-Nal.

  The pads of his feet were cold against the snow, but he considered it a pleasant sensation as he ran toward the north, toward where the River Shard met the Lake of Swords. He had grown so used to wearing boots that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel the snow beneath his feet. The biting cold put him on edge and made him more alert, and the wind teasing the greengray hair of his chest was invigorating. The sun was halfway swallowed up by the horizon, painting the ground a pale orange and making the edge of the broad sword gleam as if it had just been pulled from the forge. He sniffed the air, searching for prey, no longer picking up the scent of roast deer. The woods loomed ahead, and he raced toward them, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the thick trees.

  He ran a little farther then dropped to his knees and traced a depression in the snow. There were other tracks nearby, under the spread of a massive willow—a large elk. Orvago followed the elk's trail, pausing occasionally to check his position and sniffing to keep track of its spoor. He dropped again, noting more tracks, tracing their outlines and sniffing. Abruptly he turned to the west now, following a different set of tracks.

  The sun had set, and the woods were growing darker. The gnoll's dull red eyes separated the shadows. He could see well in the dark, but these tracks were difficult to follow, since they'd been covered up here and there.

  The last of the light was fading, making the air even colder. Orvago traveled another hour, then another. The stars were winking into view, illuminating a trail made narrow by thickening trees and spreading ground cover. The tracks were fresher here.

  The sound of voices drifted to him from ahead, beyond a thicket of trees. The gnoll recognized one of them. He picked out six distinct voices, all whispering in low, raspy tones. He crept closer. Eyeing the trees, he noticed several had carvings on them. He selected one with a hollow trunk and hid the broadsword in it, approaching weaponless.

  Orvago drew himself up to his full height and walked forward into the clearing. His lips curled up in a smile at Gair, and he waved a hairy paw in the air in greeting.

  The elf was standing in the center of a clearing filled with snow-covered mounds, bright to the gnoll's eyes against the black of the tree trunks, and against the black of the things that seemed to be talking to Gair.

  There were six of them, manlike in shape and somehow blacker than night. They floated above the snowy mounds, speaking in voices that sounded like coarse whispers. Their hair, if it could be called stich, looked like trails of smoke waving madly away from their mouthless faces, and their eyes… these were what set a ridge of hair standing up on the gnolls back.

  Their eyes burned white, unblinking and looking hot as coals. All six pairs were focused on Orvago. His lips curled back in a snarl. What passed for their black chests did not rise and fall. He could not smell them, and they did not breathe.

  A menacing growl rose in Orvago's throat. The gnoll took a step back, and then another. A chill ran down his spine as he saw two of the black creatures separate from the group and advance toward him. They moved slowly, like clouds floating across the sky, their eyes seeming to burn white-hot. The other four remained in a semicircle around the elf.

  What manner of creature are you ? one of them asked in its coarse, whispery voice.

  "He is called a gnoll," Gair supplied.

  A gnoll, it repeated. It cackled then, a sound like glass shattering. A living thing. We hate life, it continued. We will end the gnoll's life.

  The others
cackled, too, and Orvago threw his paws over his ears and backed away faster. The laughter was physically painful.

  We will end your life, the second parroted, and we will make you one of us. You will thank us for your death.

  They shot forward with a speed that amazed the gnoll. Impossibly black arms grew claws and reached out, slashing at Orvago's chest. He waved his hairy arms in an effort to fend them off.

  The cackling continued, and two more spirit shapes floated forward. Four of the things circled the gnoll now, taunting him, darting in and scratching him with nails as sharp as any sword. The cuts were not deep, but they hurt terribly. Each swipe brought with it a freezing jolt. Their touch was colder than the snow!

  Orvago retaliated with his own claws, but to little effect. His arms passed right through the black bodies and made him feel as if he'd thrust his arms into an icy pond.

  We'll make you one of us! another tittered. The sentiment was quickly repeated until the coarse whispers drowned out his snarls. Make you dead!

  Make you dead! The words became a chant that was echoed around the clearing. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  "No!" The voice was Gair's, and it gave the creatures pause. "Leave the gnoll alone!"

  The black creatures still hovered around the gnoll, darting in and out, eyes burning. The gnoll continued to bat at them as he backed away, glancing around. The hollow tree where he'd hidden the sword wasn't much farther away.

  "Leave the gnoll alone," the elf repeated, moving forward even as Orvago continued to back away. "I want to talk to him."

  The gnoll continued to back away as he tried to look beyond the black bodies to see his friend, carefully looking him over to make sure the black creatures had not injured the elf.

  Gair understood the gnoll's concern. "I'm all right. They haven't harmed me."