Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  Yelling an Imperial battlecry, he reversed his blade’s arc, slicing high, then spinning low at the last moment. The feint worked: the shadow moved to block where it thought the sword would come and screamed when steel sliced through its midsection. The blade went right through without even slowing—it was like dueling the wind. A streamer of shadowstuff trailed in the sword’s wake, then the whole wretched creature unraveled before Forlo’s eyes, blowing away like so much black smoke.

  The rain worsened. The sky grew darker still. The remaining three shadows from the first wave fell back, letting their fellows step up. Then they came on all at once, swarming around Hult, Shedara, and Forlo. Shadow-knives danced, met blades of steel, and glanced away. Hult’s shuk found one fiend, tearing it apart. Forlo grazed another, and darkness leaked from it like blood, though it didn’t die. The shadows ringed them round, darted in then back again, like striking serpents. They came from two directions at once, or from three. A sickle caught Shedara across her left wrist, and she gasped, her dagger dropping from a hand gone white and nerveless. Her flesh parted like a pair of lips, black at the edges. It looked, to Forlo’s eyes, like frostbite. The wound didn’t bleed.

  “Help me!” she cried, her voice cracking with the pain.

  Forlo and Hult both moved at the same time, their swords leaping toward the shadows before the elf. Forlo’s found its mark, jabbing right through one of the fiends’ faces. It shrieked—the sound was like the cry of an injured child, trapped at the bottom of a deep tunnel—and collapsed into inky shreds. Hult missed, his target shrinking away. His move bought Shedara time, though, and she dropped her second knife and drew a shortsword from her belt. She brought it around in a looping arc that clove through the neck of another shadow. The head came free, turning to smoke as it toppled off its shoulders. The creature’s body did the same.

  Six left. It was too many, and Forlo knew it: the three of them were tiring, and the fiends were not. The shadow-creatures blocked killing blows with ease. They coordinated their attacks, moving as if one mind controlled them. If anything, they were getting faster. Hult grunted in pain as a sickle scored his side, ripping through his leather vest to open a gash across his ribs. The edges of the wound shriveled, turning black. It was bad, Forlo could see, but it could have been worse: it had just missed his vitals. Another inch deeper, and he might be dead.

  Forlo cut down another shadow. Shedara did too. Hult barely held his own, weakening with every breath. His blade moved sluggishly. Forlo wondered if the wound had been deep enough, after all. Was the barbarian slowly dying? If he went down, they would have to leave him and fight on alone. If he or Shedara fell as well, it would be all over in an instant.

  Hot pain creased his thigh, then turned chill … then colder still, until it seemed to burn again. He felt his knee buckle, willed his leg not to give way, and barely kept from stumbling. Furiously he flailed with his sword, driving off the shadow that had cut him while he got his balance back. Shedara saw his trouble and helped him force the fiend back. The pain was incredible … and now they were all hurt, with four shadows left.

  Too many.

  He didn’t glance at his wound, didn’t want to see his own flesh puckered and dark and bloodless. He made a low, animal sound—the closest he could come to speech, with agony lancing straight up his leg, right into his spine. He stumbled, nearly fell, and righted himself—just in time to dodge a blur-quick sickle that sought to tear open his throat.

  And six more shadows appeared out of the gloom.

  The sky was as dark as a moonless night. The rain pounded. Their enemies faded in the murk, hard to see. The ground turned to sludge, stuck to their boots, weighed them down. The shadows surrounded them, fighting on, quicker every moment. The shadows would never tire—but Hult was breathing hard now, and Shedara moaned from the pain in her wrist. Forlo’s sword seemed like it was made of lead; he couldn’t feel anything below his knee. A shadow dived at him from the side; he turned to catch the blow with his shield, and missed. One of its sickles ripped through his stomach, cutting deep. A blossom of pain unfurled in his gut. With a bellow of defeat, he crashed down into the muck.

  “No!” Shedara cried.

  She tried to turn toward him, but a shadow stepped between them. A second slid in to block Hult. The barbarian raised his shuk high, brought it down, clove the fiend in two. Another took its place. Cursing, Hult fell back, pressing his back against Shedara. They left Forlo lying there, at the shadows’ mercy. They had little choice.

  A shadow loomed over Forlo. He could see its face now, hidden beneath its hood: a death mask of gray, shriveled flesh stretched taut over bone. It leered at him, its eyes pools of black, as he raised his sword abjectly, to defend himself. He couldn’t get back up. The pain and nausea of his wound were too great. The shadow held its sickles poised, like a scorpion’s stingers.

  No, damn it! he thought. Not like this. Not like this!

  The sickles came down, lightning quick, one-two. He got his sword in the way, somehow. The force of the blows made his whole arm ache. The blade got even heavier. It fell from his hand, landed awkwardly on his chest, and rolled into the mud. The shadow’s grin widened. He spat at the thing, swallowing the urge to look away, to close his eyes. Barreth Forlo had sworn, long ago, to meet death face-to-face.

  He glimpsed the arrow, in the corner of his vision, without realizing what it was at first. It was diving down, darting through the rain without a sound. The shadow never knew: one moment it was drawing back its knives to finish him, and the next it was screaming and ripping apart, the shaft plunging into the back of its neck. The arrow tore right through it, struck the ground a hand’s breadth from Forlo, and stuck there in the mud, quivering. It was fletched with black feathers, its nock carved into the image of a snarling dragon.

  “Where did that come from?” he murmured.

  He heard Hult and Shedara, still fighting, off to his right. He reached for his sword, managed to pick it up, and started to rise—then collapsed, the agony too great to endure any more. With one last, vile oath, he slipped into darkness.

  Chapter

  2

  COLDHOPE, THE IMPERIAL LEAGUE

  Hult saw Forlo fall and didn’t know what to do. One moment, the man’s shoulder was pressed to his; the next he was gone, sprawled in the mud, torn by the shadows’ knives. His armor did nothing to stop the black blades—it split like cloth. He did not bleed, but the wound ran deep. Hult risked a glance toward Forlo, saw him still fighting on his back, holding off the creature that stooped over him for the killing blow.

  Had it been Chovuk, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Years and training had honed his instincts when it came to his old master. He would have leaped to the man’s defense, even if it meant his own death. He would have thrown himself on his enemies’ weapons, if it meant winning his master a chance to survive. He had been a tenach, a protector: that was his role. His life for Chovuk Boyla’s.

  But Chovuk was gone now, slain at the disastrous battle of the Tiderun. Forlo had killed him in fair combat. Hult had been duty-bound to avenge his master, had had the opportunity to kill the man easily … but he hadn’t. He was still working out why. Perhaps it was because Chovuk was no longer Chovuk when he died. He had given himself over to evil and sorcery, in exchange for power. The Boyla would have spent anything—even his own people—to earn glory. That was not the way a prince should behave, and now that Chovuk was dead, Hult could admit to himself that he had no longer loved his master, at the end.

  Forlo was a different matter: Hult had sworn no oaths to him. He still, in his darkest thoughts, entertained the notion of killing him, eventually. But he felt ill to see him go down, and licked his lips as the shadows closed in.

  Shedara snapped something at him, over her shoulder. He didn’t know her language, but he understood her tone. Don’t you dare go after him. If the two of us part now, we’re dead.

  Even so, he nearly left her anyway. Just as he was tensing to leap, though,
the shadows took the choice away from him. One appeared between him and Forlo, and he killed it with a furious blow of his saber. Then a second took its place, and it was all he could do to block the flicking blows of its sickle. His side was numb where another creature’s blade had gotten through. He forgot about Forlo, his back pressed hard against the elf’s. They both fought for their lives. His shuk moved sluggishly, clumsily: weariness and pain were slowing him down. The shadows, meanwhile, were speeding up. It was only a matter of time.

  He prayed to his people’s god. Jijin, Horse-father, give me some luck. Get me out of this, and I will slaughter goats in your honor. I will spill their blood and burn their fat on an altar for you.…

  He heard the sound of the arrows a heartbeat before he saw them. He’d heard those same shafts fly before; he’d watched them kill men. He’d even been shot by them once, himself, in what seemed like another man’s life now. They dropped out of the mist like Jijin’s own lightning bolts … one, two, three. Each had its own target, and each found it, slicing through shadow-stuff and tearing fiends to ribbons that vanished into the gloom. They slammed into the ground and stuck: three arrows, black-fletched and dragon-carved, each a killing shot.

  He fought on, killing two more shadows, then exhaustion caught up with him. The pain in his side was growing too great. All the strength went out of his legs, and he sat down hard. The taste of bile bit at the back of his throat. I may die here, he thought helplessly. And there is nothing I can do to stop my death.

  Forlo wasn’t moving anymore. He had either passed out or died. Hult couldn’t tell which. Shedara stayed on her feet, swaying a little, her wounded wrist pressed beneath her other arm. Her face was dead white as she cut down another fiend; then another volley descended and destroyed the last remaining pair. She looked at the arrows quivering in the muck, then sheathed her sword and drew a throwing dagger. Hult wanted to tell her that he recognized the archer, their unseen savior, but even if they’d known each other’s tongues, he no longer had the breath to do more than grunt. He slowed his breathing, focused, tried to get his wind back. He would need it soon, if things went wrong. He had no idea what the next few moments would bring.

  The rain suddenly slacked off. The sky brightened, from charcoal black to a dull, unhappy gray. As the darkness lifted, Hult beheld a figure at the edge of the woods, nearly two hundred paces from Coldhope. The figure was tall and slender, all bones and corded muscle. It had long, braided hair that Hult knew was dyed fire-red, and though it was too far to see, Hult knew his face was also painted with crimson stripes. The newcomer wore buckskin leggings and boots, leather armbands, and a breastplate made of a giant insect’s shell. In his hand was a bow of layered horn and wood, which was even taller than he was. It had been said that no one north of the Tiderun was better with such a weapon, and Hult believed it. He’d seen this one shoot.

  “Eldako,” he wheezed.

  Shedara shot him an incredulous look—you know him?—then turned back to face the distant figure. The archer started walking forward, his long strides devouring the rain-sodden turf. He moved easily, but Shedara was tense, shifting the knife to hold it by the blade. Her brow furrowed as she studied the archer—then, when he had come halfway to her, her eyebrows shot up. She knew what he was now, despite his appearance. Eldako’s tribe called themselves hosk’i imou merkitsa, the people of the ancient land, but most knew them as wild elves.

  Hult got some strength back and heaved himself back to his feet. He raised his shuk to Eldako, who lifted his bow in reply. Neither smiled. Eldako never smiled, not that Hult had seen, and Hult … well, in truth he feared Eldako. The merkitsa elves had tried to kill him and Chovuk once, before the Boyla convinced them to aid him in his war against the southlands instead. The aid they provided had consisted of Eldako, and nothing else. That was measure enough of how deadly this elf was.

  Somehow, Hult managed to find his voice. Someone had to say something before the merkitsa got in range of Shedara’s knives, and Eldako spoke only a little more often than he smiled.

  “Hail, son of Tho-ket,” he called. “We thank you for your aid.”

  “It is freely given, son of Holar,” answered Eldako. “Tell your friend to drop her blade, or I will feather the hand that holds it.”

  Hult shook his head. “We do not understand each other’s words.”

  “Ah.”

  Eldako stopped, then nodded to Shedara and spoke something in his own language. It was a strange tongue, the sounds like birdsong and flowing water. Hult shuddered: the last time he’d heard it had been in the Dreaming Green, when he’d been a prisoner of the merkitsa.

  Shedara blinked, her mouth opening. Eldako regarded her coolly. After a moment, she regained enough of her wits to reply. What she spoke was not the same dialect—the sounds were softer, almost slurred—but even Hult could tell it was close enough for them to understand each other. Eldako cocked his head, concentrating on pulling meaning from the words, then replied. He pointed to Hult, then to himself, then to the north. When he was done, Shedara looked at Hult for a moment, then shrugged and put her dagger away.

  Eldako started walking again.

  “What did you tell her?” Hult called.

  “The truth,” the wild elf replied. “That I was part of your master’s horde. That I went to war with him. That I escaped the flood that killed the Uigan and have been tracking survivors since.”

  Hult stiffened. “Survivors? Of my people? How many have you found?”

  “One, now.”

  Hope, quickly kindled, snuffed out just as fast. Hult slumped, then looked to his left and gasped. In the strangeness of the past few moments, he’d forgotten about Forlo. Now he turned and hurried to where the man lay. Shedara followed. The wound across Forlo’s belly was terrible, the flesh split open without so much as a drop of red showing, but when Hult touched his throat, the life-beat felt strong. Forlo was breathing. Hult nodded to Shedara, trying to look encouraging.

  Eldako joined them. He touched Hult’s shoulder. “Let me see his wounds.”

  “We are all hurt,” Hult replied. “Look at mine instead.”

  He took off his vest and lifted his arm, cringing. The gash in his side blazed white-hot. Eldako knelt, rubbed his chin as he studied the cut, then quickly reached out and pressed its edge. What felt like cold flames erupted in Hult’s body. He jerked back, hissing, and shot a glare at the wild elf.

  “I apologize,” said Eldako. “I had to do that.”

  “You could have warned me,” Hult grumbled.

  “Then you wouldn’t have let me.”

  Hult shrugged. That much was true.

  “The wound will kill you,” said Eldako evenly. “It may take days, but the venom already burns in your blood. The other will last hours, at best.”

  Hult followed his gaze, feeling queasy as his eyes settled on Forlo. “How do you know this?”

  “I have seen this sort of wound before. My people fought monsters like the ones you faced, during the Second Destruction. They were larger, and some took the form of dragons, but they were much the same. They came out of great rents in the earth. I was young then, but I watched many of my kin die by their poison.” A ripple of emotion passed over Eldako’s face, before he regained his former sternness.

  “Then is there nothing to be done?” Hult asked. He could feel his heart beating, and knew that with every pulse, the venom worked its way deeper and deeper into his body. When it reached his heart, it would kill him.

  Eldako shook his head. “There is always something to be done. The wounds can be treated, but we must be quick. Help me bring this one back into the castle. If we don’t act immediately, he will fade beyond all hope.”

  Hult considered this advice—but only for a moment. He nodded. Eldako turned to Shedara and explained in her language, too. He studied her injured arm, and her eyes widened when he told her that it, too, would prove fatal sooner or later. He pointed to the castle. She nodded.

  Together, th
ey lifted Forlo’s body and carried him back into Coldhope.

  Hult got a fire going on the hearth, and Shedara fetched water while Eldako stripped off Forlo’s armor. The wounds seemed to fester, but gave off no stink of rot. Forlo’s face, normally a deep tan, had grown so pale that it had become translucent, with small, blue veins showing through. His black beard, frosted with gray, seemed to turn whiter with every shuddering breath he drew.

  “He is nearly gone,” the wild elf declared, feeling again for the life-beat. “It will be a near thing, even with my help.”

  Hult hovered near. “Help him. You must do what you can.”

  “He slaughtered your people,” Eldako noted, one eyebrow rising.

  “Even so. He is a good man.”

  Eldako nodded, though he clearly didn’t understand Hult’s motives. Hult didn’t blame him—he didn’t, either. Vengeance was the way of the Uigan, as it was of the merkitsa. But if Forlo died, Hult knew, he would be alone in a dangerous place, with only elves for company. And he owed the man, as well. Forlo could have had him killed after the battle, but hadn’t. That counted for something.

  The wild elf shrugged off a leather bag he wore at his hip. He pulled out bundles of dried herbs, several clay phials, and a small holy sign: the twin teardrops of Mislaxa, carved of dragon-horn. Shedara brought the water, several bowls, and a mortar and pestle, then stood nearby to watch.

  “You are a Mislaxan?” Hult asked, staring at the teardrops. “You never mentioned it.”

  “I am trained in the healing arts,” Eldako replied, not looking up as he sorted his medicines, picking some dried leaves here, a pinch of mold there. One by one, he dropped them into one of the bowls. “All royalty are, among the merkitsa. But Chovuk Boyla needed me for my archery, not my healing. Now, let us share our tales, son of Holar. How did you survive the flood at the Lost Road?”