Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  You bastard.…

  “Barreth,” murmured Shedara, touching his arm. “That’s enough.”

  But it wasn’t. It never would be. Forlo worked the blade back and forth, left and right, carving flesh, snapping ribs. He felt its tip grind against the cobblestones beneath Rekhaz’s body. The emperor had long since stopped moving, quit writhing and choking, fallen still. Forlo kept twisting the blade. There was so much blood, more than he’d thought a body could hold. The emperor was big, nearly nine feet tall, though he seemed smaller now that he lay broken in the street. Forlo wrenched the blade, more violently than ever.

  “Barreth!”

  Shedara was in front of him now, grabbing his hands, shaking him. He blinked, looking up at her, wondering, why are you here? Where am I? What is happening?

  He remembered only dimly. One moment he’d been trying to free Hult while the last horax worked at sawing off the barbarian’s foot. Then there were arrows, and elves everywhere, and a minotaur who turned into Shedara as it ran toward them across the sands.

  And now he was a regicide. A traitor to the League, a villain forever. No hope ever of returning to his old life, to Coldhope. If the bull-men caught him, they would cut off his hands and feet, tear out his tongue, blind him, and hang what remained in a cage for the crows and anyone who could throw a rock.

  It was worth it, though. Rekhaz was dead. He’d died unarmored, unarmed, helpless. A dishonorable ending, early in his reign. The history books would record him merely as a footnote. The old proverb was right—revenge was as sweet and deep as autumn wine.

  He yanked the blade free and handed it back to the elf who’d given it to him, the leader with the gruesomely scarred face. Then, for good measure, he kicked the emperor’s corpse—hard—in the head. There was a crack, and a wetter thump beneath it.

  “Enough,” said the elven leader disapprovingly. “We must get moving. Nalaran will be looking for us.”

  “Not to mention half the Imperial Army,” added Shedara. “In fact, here’s some now.”

  They turned and looked down the avenue. A detachment of soldiers had emerged from a side street into a square with a garden of pear trees. They had stopped now and were staring at the elves, as if not truly believing their quarry was right in front of them. It was only a moment, though, before their officers barked an order and they lunged forward, spears leveled.

  The elves needed only a moment. Raising their bows, they launched a volley into the charging minotaurs. Half the bull-men went down; the rest kept coming. Eldako loosed three arrows in what seemed like a single breath. Two soldiers fell.

  “Treason! They’ve murdered the emperor! Attack—”

  The merkitsa’s third shaft found the officer, silencing his cries in a gurgle.

  A couple of soldiers shot crossbows. One of the Silvanaes made an unpleasant coughing sound, his head snapping back with a quarrel in his cheek. He hit the ground hard and stayed there.

  “Get moving!” said the elves’ leader. “We’ll all die here if we linger and fight! Go!”

  They went. Forlo grabbed Hult; so did Eldako. The Uigan was barely conscious, his face gray with pain. His wounded leg was a red mess, the foot twisted at an awkward angle. Still, Hult stayed conscious, hopping with every other step on his good leg. He grunted with pain.

  They left Rekhaz lying dead and mutilated in the middle of the road.

  Some ways ahead, the street suddenly stopped. Forlo knew what it was: he’d surveyed the damage the quake had done to Kristophan, the last time he’d been to the city. The whole northern half was gone. In its place yawned a chasm, broken stone cliffs littered with chunks of white masonry, all the way down to the water. The street they were on—called Bortold’s Way, after the realm’s fourth emperor—ran straight up to the abyss and rose onto a bridge that had once spanned a much narrower gully dividing the city in two. Now half the bridge was gone, swallowed by earth and sea; the other half remained, flanked by statues of the marshals who’d led Bortold’s armies, ending in a jagged stump high above the raging water.

  We have to turn, Forlo thought. We have to find a side street. We’ll be trapped if we don’t. Won’t we?

  Shedara chanted words that entered his brain. She touched him. A strange sensation ran through his body, like he’d just swallowed something with many tickling legs. He shuddered. What spell had she cast on him?

  She turned to Hult, laid her hand on him as well. “Trust me this time,” she said. “Will you?”

  Bleary as he was, the barbarian managed a smile.

  Several soldiers emerged from an alley before them. The Silvanaes ran them down without breaking pace, swords dancing as they drove through their midst. Another of the elves fell. The rest kept going. Forlo hewed at the minotaurs as best he could with Shedara’s shortsword—then he got a better look at them, caught a glimpse of the colors they wore: crimson and blue. The Sixth. His men, once … but never again.

  Bile soured his throat.

  Shedara moved from elf to elf, first Eldako, then the leader, then the rest. She worked the same spell, over and over, finishing with herself as they reached the bridge. Forlo glanced over his shoulder: the street was packed with soldiers, in every legionary color. They were furious. Their emperor was dead. But Forlo would jump into the maw of the sea before he let the bull-men take him again.

  “Keep moving!” cried Shedara. “The spell doesn’t last forever.”

  Forlo blinked. Keep moving? But there was nowhere to go, except.…

  The elves backed up, away from the soldiers, shooting arrow after arrow to keep their pursuers at bay. They were on the bridge now, moving closer and closer to its end. Sea-spray soaked them.

  “Sargas’s horns!” Forlo yelled. “What are you doing?”

  “Escaping,” Eldako replied. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Oh, Forlo thought, all right. Backed up on a dead end, caught between half the Imperial Army and a two-hundred-foot drop to sharp rocks and violent water. What’s to be afraid of?

  Some part of his mind knew the elves were disappearing over the edge of the broken bridge, but common sense refused to let him believe it. Still, there was no question that, when he finally reached the fractured stone lip, there were considerably fewer Silvanaes still with them. He looked at Shedara.

  “What in the name—?” he began, and saw the last of the elves climb off the bridge. Among them was their leader, the scarred one whose sword Forlo had used to murder the emperor. They just stopped shooting their bows, turned, and stepped into the void where half of Kristophan had died.

  He looked at Shedara. She gave him a wink and nodded down toward the water. Forlo glanced over, expecting to see no sign of the Silvanes—or maybe a couple of their bodies, smashed to ruin on the stones. Instead, he started in amazement: they were scuttling, with unsettling speed, down the sheer face of the cliff. To his eyes, they looked less like elves than strange lizards … or spiders. At the bottom, a small boat waited. Waves surged and boiled all around it, but it stayed improbably still. The air around it shimmered, like a road at midsummer.

  Magic, he thought, his stomach clenching.

  Crossbow bolts soared over their heads. One hit the tip of the bridge and spun away with a ping. Eldako shrugged off Hult, letting the Uigan lean his full weight against Forlo, then raised his bow and started shooting back. He was fast. Four crossbowmen fell, pierced. The soldiers’ advance faltered. But there were far too many for one archer to hold off for long.

  “Go!” the wild elf yelled. “I’ll stall them!”

  Shedara turned to Forlo, grabbed her sword from his hand, took Hult’s weight off him too. “Jump,” she said. “Catch the edge as you fall. The spell will help you. Climb down the cliff after the others. Take Hult, and help him.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!” Forlo shouted. “I can’t—”

  Shedara pushed him. He stumbled backward, unable to stop himself, and fell over the edge, dragging Hult with him. He yelled and lashed out, grabb
ing for the bridge as she’d told him. His hands slapped the end of the stone and scrabbled, but knew it wasn’t enough. He didn’t have a grip. He waited to drop, to watch the bridge rise swiftly away from him as he plummeted to his death.…

  He didn’t. He stuck.

  Shock gave way to pain as the rest of his body swung down, jerking his arms in their sockets. His injured wrist felt like it had been dipped in burning oil—but his hands were bonded fast to the bridge, while his feet dangled free. Looking up, he saw Shedara peering down at him, Hult slumped against her shoulder.

  “Quit messing around,” she told him. “No time. Swing your legs up—they’ll stick, too.”

  He did and they did. He was clinging to the underside of Bortold’s Bridge! And now Shedara was helping Hult down, lowering the barbarian so he could grab the stones himself. His injured leg hung limp as he pulled himself, three-limbed, down beside Forlo.

  “What about you?” Forlo asked Shedara.

  “We’ll be along,” she said. “You were the last out at Coldhope, and it didn’t work out so well. Let’s try this instead. Now go, before things get really bad. Climb!”

  He did as she bade, scurrying along the bridge to where it met the cliffside. Glancing up—no, it was down, and his head spun—he saw the Silvanaes moving swiftly to the waiting boat. Their escape. He looked at Hult.

  “You first,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Another time, the Uigan might have argued, but he was pale and glassy-eyed, and obeyed without question. He moved with surprising speed, feet-first down the sheer rock face. Forlo licked his lips, listening to the minotaurs shouting and the song of Eldako’s bowstring above, then scurried after, head-first.

  It was, without question, the single strangest, most disorienting thing he’d ever done in his life. As he went, he watched the Silvanaes reach the bottom, where the surf had darkened the rocks and spray erupted just below them. The ship moved to meet them, completely ignoring both wind and wave, and one by one they let go of the cliff, dropping lightly on its deck. An elf mage stood at the tiller, his white robes whipped by the wind. He pointed up past them, and a bolt of silver lightning sprang from his fingertip, sizzling past Forlo to strike the tip of Bortold’s Bridge. The stone exploded with a deafening crack, raining down into the rift as fine gravel. It peppered Forlo’s back, stinging him. Then he saw Shedara and Eldako, clambering down the cliff fifty feet above him. He laughed at the madness of it all, his ears ringing from the thunderclap.

  Then the water was beneath him, and the ship’s deck, too. He let go, as the elves had done, and hit the deck hard, falling on his side and rolling to a halt. Hult landed on top of him. He lay there, gasping, while the elves hurried about, grabbing oars. Shedara and Eldako came down last.

  “That’s all of us,” she answered the wizard’s questioning look.

  “Cast the last spell, Nalaran,” said the scarred elf.

  The wizard nodded, looking tired. His powers were spent. Still, he managed to speak a few spidery words. Shedara joined him, lending what remained of her own strength to his. The air around the boat glowed golden, and Forlo understood: this was the same magic that had gotten them out of the arena, only much more powerful. He gritted his teeth, waiting for it to take hold.

  The golden aura turned sun-bright. The cliffs above them vanished. The world dropped away.

  Three days later, the elven boat was bobbing quietly in a little inlet that was little more than a hook-shaped notch, carved into bluffs that bristled with thick brush and spruce trees. Its hull bumped softly against the stone, on waves much calmer than in Kristophan’s chasm. Sunlight slanted through branches overhead, throwing bright slashes across cliffs, ship, and sea.

  It had been a hard chase. There were no better mariners in Taladas than the minotaurs, and no navy greater than the League’s. Its warships—huge, hulking dreadnoughts and swift, deadly cutters—had spilled out of Kristophan’s harbor the moment trouble began, and the mariners knew of the emperor’s death before most land-dwellers, thanks to a system of beacons and mirrors set upon towers all along the waterfront. Nalaran’s spell had given the elves a head start, putting them a quarter mile from the nearest of the bull-men’s vessels, but it had stood out on the open water, and the lookouts spotted it right away.

  The next six hours had been a test of the elves’ skill as sailors, and they let the sails out full and tacked again and again to keep them fully winded. Shedara and the mage, Nalaran, spent the whole time hunched in the stern, alternately resting and studying their spellbooks, trying to get back their strength while the boat skipped over the waves. Forlo kept near the bow, with Hult and Eldako, who tended their wounds as they swapped tales. Hult finally passed out.

  Listening to Eldako’s account, Forlo glanced up every now and then to peer past the boat’s scrambling crew and swinging boom. There were three ships after them, flying black and gold sails emblazoned with the Horns of Sargas. Sometimes they came dangerously close, near enough to count heads on their decks—more than a hundred minotaur mariners in all. The elves’ vessel always managed to dart ahead, but the minotaurs gained steadily as time passed.

  One of the cutters got close enough to fire its ballistae. The heavy bolts hit the water a few yards aft of the elves and a bit to starboard. The bull-men shouted, working to adjust their aim. Quivris, the elves’ leader, snapped quick, fierce orders, and the elves obeyed without hesitation, hauling on ropes and bringing the foresail around, forcing the boat to jibe. It seemed to stop for a breath, then swung violently to port, the boom flying from one side to the other so hard that the whole thing nearly capsized. Then it caught the wind and was off in a different direction, even faster than before. The ballistae fired a second time, but the shots came nowhere near, and the minotaurs dropped behind again, cursing. Forlo yelled with the exhilaration of it, but the Silvanaes stayed silent, attending to their work, their bows at hand if they needed them.

  Or when.

  Evening came on. Solis rose full, turning the sea from dusk’s fire to molten platinum. The coast slid by, capes and coves and lighthouses that shone with white brilliance. Later, as word of Rekhaz’s death spread, those same beacons would turn red to report the news to ships at sea. For now, though, most of the League still believed it had a living ruler, and that the winter would bring peace after a difficult year.

  It was nearly midnight when Nalaran finally snapped his book shut. The wizard was frail, shivering as he pulled himself to his feet. Shedara, looking pale and weary herself, rose to support him as he walked back to stand before Quivris.

  The elves’ leader met his gaze, his one good eye glinting like steel. “Do you have it?”

  Nalaran nodded, not speaking.

  “We’ll have one good chance,” Shedara said. “Then we’ll be spent till morning.”

  The elves nodded. They didn’t have until morning. At the rate they were gaining, the minotaurs would catch them an hour before dawn—maybe sooner if the wind went bad. A hundred mariners, against about twenty. The minotaurs would kill everyone aboard, and burn the elves’ boat to the waterline.

  “Get it right, then,” Quivris said and went back to his work.

  Nalaran nodded, turning to Shedara. “Hold me steady.”

  He faced backward, gazing across the gleaming water at the dark shapes of their pursuers—two of the ships lay a hundred yards back, the third lagging farther behind. Shedara rested a hand on the wizard’s shoulder, helping him move with the rocking of the deck. He shut his eyes and began to chant, pulling the magic in, weaving it between delicate fingers that never stopped dancing. This went on for nearly a minute, the elf’s voice fading to a croaking breath by the end. He raised his hands in a grand, sweeping motion … then slumped in Shedara’s arms. She caught him and eased him down onto the deck.

  Forlo rose, looking around. So did Eldako. All was silent, except for the rushing of water and the creak of the rigging.

  A new sound rose, a faint susurrus,
like a voice speaking a language made of sibilants. Forlo felt a pressure against his face, saw Eldako’s long braids begin to move, and couldn’t help but grin. The wind was rising!

  In moments the noise had grown from a whisper to a scream, howling gusts slamming into the boat from behind. The sails snapped tauter than ever, and the elves drew them down and in, angling them to catch the full force of the gale. Forlo crouched, suddenly afraid the bluster would knock him overboard. Eldako hunkered beside him, and Shedara and Nalaran came to join them, while the Silvanaes toiled to keep the ship thundering onward. It leaped from wave to wave, nearly taking flight as the magical gusts propelled it. Behind them, the minotaur ships, without the same magic wind, dropped away into the distance.

  By morning, when the spell finally faltered and gave out, their pursuers were nowhere to be seen. The elven boat continued on natural wind alone, hugging as close to the coast as it could as the sky brightened above. They were far south of Kristophan now, in waters dotted with islets like stone knives, and nothing but wilderness on the shore. Eldako climbed the mainmast to look behind them but saw no sails besides the occasional fishing boat, miles off shore.

  At midday they reached the notch, and Quivris guided the ship in. They moored there, posting watchers among the trees to keep an eye out for the bull-men. Most of a day passed before they saw them: the three cutters who had led the chase and two more behind. They sailed right past the elves’ hiding place, and when they were over the horizon the Silvanaes finally began to relax. Some even laughed a little.

  Not Quivris, though. He stayed grim and quiet. Though Forlo could see that he and Shedara were kin, neither went near the other. Forlo didn’t interfere, but offered his thanks to the elflord, who nodded politely in reply. Day drifted into night, then back to day again. Hult awoke at last, still ashen-faced from his injuries, but looking better every hour. They rested. They recovered.