Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  He didn’t say anything, though. He only watched, eyes burning, as the Teacher raised his hands to the black moon. The fingers began to move, weaving through the air with disturbing grace, the gestures of magic. He spoke spidery words, the same ones the shadows had been chanting. His voice was deep and resonant, carrying an unmistakable sneer. Hult knew it well. The aura around the Teacher grew brighter, and he bent down and seized one of the kender by the arm. The poor creature whimpered as he wrenched it up into the air.

  Eldako already had an arrow nocked; now, his face pale and stony, he pulled his bowstring back to his ear. Shedara shook her head, mouthing wait. For a moment, it seemed he might not listen, but finally he relaxed his grip on the string.

  Hult knew the kender in the Teacher’s grasp was doomed, that they would have to watch him meet his fate, unable to help without throwing their own lives away. That knowledge made it no easier. As they looked on, the Teacher placed his free hand over the wriggling creature’s face. The kender’s struggles grew frantic—then ceased, his entire body going slack. The air around him grew hazy, like he was wreathed in black smoke, swirling around and around his small, limp form. His flesh, already wan in the witch-light, began to wrinkle and wither, stretching thin over his bones and skull.

  Hult made a low, animal sound. Shedara glared at him, eyes glittering.

  “Not yet!” she breathed. “Wait for the signal … and remember, we need that bastard alive.”

  Hult said nothing, his lips curling into a snarl.

  Shedara shook him. “Hey! Do you understand?”

  He blinked at her, then came back to himself. He nodded, and she let him go. Atop the ziggurat, the Teacher dropped the wasted kender, who fell to the stones in a boneless heap … then twitched and rose, darkness swelling around him, his bonds falling away. A quiet sigh rose from the congregation of shadow-fiends as their newest kin started down the steps to join them. Nodding in satisfaction, the Teacher bent to reach for another kender.

  Then, at last, they heard it: a soft, hooting noise, from the direction of the outcrop where they’d left Tanda. A commotion, too—shadow-fiends shrieking their death-cries as the first stones rained down on them. In moments, the gathering dissolved into chaos, dark forms streaming away into the night. Oblivious, lost in the rapture of the ritual, the Teacher lifted the second kender from the ziggurat’s roof.

  Hult and Forlo exchanged glances, then looked at Shedara and Eldako. The elves nodded. It was time.

  His hate bubble bursting, Hult began to row.

  Chapter

  22

  LAKE STARSHIMMER, MARAK

  They were still five paces from shore when Hult leaped out of the boat, ripping his sword from his scabbard as he vaulted over the side. Eldako tried to grab him, but the Uigan was too quick, and the next thing they knew he was splashing through knee-deep water, his face red with rage as he slogged toward land. With him gone from his oar, the boat began to slew sideways, out of control. Forlo let go of his own paddle and jumped out too, leaving it unmanned to coast the rest of the way, crunching at a slant onto the stony beach.

  The shadow-fiends didn’t see them as Hult hurled himself toward them: their attention was either on the commotion caused by Tanda and the other kender or on the Teacher atop the ziggurat. Forlo followed on the barbarian’s heels, his own sword ringing clear of its sheath. Uncertain, the creatures turned to face this new threat. Shedara cursed and jumped down onto the beach, a throwing dagger in each hand. Eldako rose where he stood, steadying himself as the grounded boat shifted beneath his weight, then drew back and loosed an arrow at the fiends.

  The shaft tore through shadow-stuff. There was a howl and one of the creatures faded away.

  The merkitsa drew a second arrow, sighting down its length. He was visible now, and the fiends charged, sickles slicing through the air, pointed teeth bared—right into the path of Hult and Forlo.

  They laid into the shadows like a pair of farmers scything a field of millet. Swords rose and fell, then rose again, trailing wisps of blackness. Shrieks of the damned filled the air, and shredded shadows erupted all around them, leaving a smoky haze in their wake. They drove straight through the shadows’ midst, bound for the ziggurat, where the cloaked figure of the Teacher stared down at them, his face inscrutable in the shade of his hood. The sorcerer dropped the kender he’d picked up and walked to the edge of the pyramid’s roof to look down at the sword-wielding maniacs who were streaming toward him.

  He began to chant. His hands danced. He extended a finger. Forlo saw it but couldn’t do anything to stop it—could only keep hewing at the shadows, cutting them apart as they surged and boiled around him.

  “Shedara?” he shouted. “Eldako!”

  The warning wasn’t necessary; the wild elf had already seen. With a yell, he let go a shot, straight at the Teacher. The shaft was aimed at his knee, rather than any vital part … enough to bring him down without killing him. But the Teacher saw the attack coming. He barked a sharp word, and the arrow burst into flame, burning away in an instant. All that hit him, when it was done, was a puff of white ash that powdered the hem of his robe.

  The hooded head rose toward the boat. The hands followed. A spear of white-hot flame flared from the Teacher’s fingertips and screeched through the air, over Forlo’s head. The boat exploded in a gout of fire and burning splinters that peppered the ground like hail. Forlo risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Eldako lying on the rocks, his arms covering his head as scraps of smoldering wood came down all around him.

  The Teacher’s fingertips danced as he spoke the words of another spell. Forlo had to fight the urge to fling his sword at the sorcerer: it might save the merkitsa’s life, but the blade was the only thing keeping the shadows from ripping him apart. He clenched his teeth, preparing for Eldako’s death-cry.

  It never came. Instead, the Teacher let out a howl, and one leg gave way beneath him, buckling. He stumbled and barely kept himself from falling down the ziggurat’s steps. Forlo craned his neck, looking to see what had happened, and caught sight of the hilt of a knife, sticking out of the back of the Teacher’s thigh.

  Shedara.

  She was there now, on top of the pyramid with him—had taken advantage of the shadows’ attention on Forlo and Hult to skirt around and climb the ziggurat from behind. Now she stalked forward, drawing her shortsword as the Teacher spun to face her. The black moon’s power seethed around the sorcerer, and he shaped it with an incantation that twisted in Forlo’s mind like brambles. His hand came up again, and with a crack a bolt of green lightning flashed toward Shedara.

  She dropped her sword, bringing her own palm around just before the bolt could strike, and shouted a counter-spell. The lightning struck her hand and erupted in a storm of sparks that fell, harmlessly, to the ground—but the effort was taxing, and she gritted her teeth to hold back the Teacher’s magic. Finally, with a yell, she lost control and the bolt burst into a storm of flaring energy, blowing her back over the pyramid’s edge, down the stairs, out of sight.

  The Teacher watched her fall, satisfied, then his knee gave out and he fell onto one side with a shout. After that, Forlo lost track of what was going on up there: the shadows were thickening around him, knives spinning in deadly circles. He snapped his sword left and right, quick, precise. Two patches of darkness vanished, but many more advanced. Hult was pressed against him now, a whirlwind of steel and Uigan curses, killing and killing again.

  Then Eldako was there too, battered and bloodied by the boat’s destruction but still fighting hard, in the dancing style of his people. He came in low, his long, slender sword whipping around and down, catching a shadow across its neck. The shadow-fiend ripped apart, and Eldako ducked and rolled to thrust the blade straight through another’s gut. Forlo let out a whoop of joy as the merkitsa carved his way to them: the third blade was all they needed to break the wall of shadows between them and the ziggurat. Hult leaped through the breach, bounding up the stairs with a roar of
fury. The Teacher was waiting, and stabbed a finger at the Uigan. With a flash, a dart of magic launched and plunged deep into Hult’s left shoulder. The smell of burning flesh hit Forlo, fierce and sharp.

  But the wound didn’t even slow Hult down. Too angry to know he was hurt, he leaped up the last few steps, to the ziggurat’s roof. Stunned by his ferocity, the Teacher tried to back away, but his leg gave out and he stumbled again. He raised a hand, fingers tensing to unleash another spell. Hult bellowed, hacking down with his sword. The sorcerer’s arm came off at the elbow and fell over the edge of the pyramid, flopping halfway down the stairs to lay still.

  The Teacher screamed, clutching the stump where the limb had been. Blood poured over the stones as he collapsed. The remaining shadows hesitated at the sound, turning to look—giving Forlo and Eldako time to cut them to pieces. They looked up at Hult as the Teacher tried to scuttle away. The Uigan’s face was a mask of vengeful madness as he strode forward, sword held high.

  “No!” Forlo shouted, running up the stairs. Eldako was charging up behind him, and both of them knew they wouldn’t be able to make it in time. His face twisted into a crazed grin, Hult brought the sword down.…

  A second blade appeared out of nowhere, blocking it with a crash. Hult staggered back, startled, and looked to see Shedara. Pale and shaking, she shoved him away from the Teacher.

  “No!” she said. “We need him alive.”

  He stared, dazed, not comprehending. Forlo made it to the top and stood with her, putting himself between Hult and the Teacher. Eldako did the same. When the Teacher tried to drag himself farther away, though, the wild elf turned and held his blade at the sorcerer’s throat.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “He has to die!” Hult said through clenched teeth.

  Forlo shook his head. “He has to talk. I haven’t come all this way to lose Essana because you want quick justice for your people.”

  “And I want the Hooded One,” Shedara added.

  For a moment everyone was still, and Forlo thought they might come to blows. But in the end, the madness lifted from Hult’s eyes, and he let his sword drop. It clattered down onto the ziggurat’s roof.

  Forlo looked around. Eldako still had his blade at the Teacher’s throat. The surviving kender lay where they had been throughout the fight, bound and gagged. He pointed at them with his sword.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get the little folk free—and then get out of here. There are still a lot of shadows out there. We need to get away before they regroup. And keep a close eye on the Teacher. He may still have some tricks.”

  “Don’t worry,” Eldako said with a cold smile. “If he makes a move, the other arm comes off. And after that, the legs.”

  The Teacher glared up at him, his hood still hiding his face. Forlo thought about ripping that mask, off but decided to let that wait for later. Instead, he followed Shedara and Hult, in a hurry to set the kender free.

  Tanda and her warriors found them an hour later, in a ravine not far from the fisherman’s house. Forlo and Eldako met them with swords drawn, but stood down when they called out with their hooting signal. The rescued kender, unbound and gathered in a miserable cluster as far from the Teacher as possible, perked up and looked curiously toward the path as Tanda’s group made their way down to join the group. There were only four of the six left. One of the missing was Jaster.

  “The others?” Forlo asked.

  Tanda shook her head, her expression grim.

  They took a moment, after the kender had all introduced themselves to one another and sorted out whose possessions were most likely to be whose, to mourn those who had died. Then Tanda posted her three remaining warriors as guards around the camp, and they turned their attention to their prisoner.

  Eldako had managed to get the stump of the Teacher’s arm to stop bleeding, tying a bandage up near his shoulder during a pause as they’d fled around the edge of the lake. The sorcerer was delirious, though, drifting in and out of shock.

  Grimacing, Shedara pulled back the man’s hood. Tanda cried out in horror at the grisly skull-mask that glared back at them. Forlo felt his stomach turn at the sight, even now. Eldako muttered something Elvish under his breath.

  Hult bent down, a dagger glinting in his hand. He set its tip against the Teacher’s left cheek. The blade made a sickening click against the exposed bone.

  “You remember me,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  The Teacher didn’t answer; only stared, his eyes ablaze with hate.

  Hult moved the dagger up, slowly, until the tip was a finger’s breadth from the Teacher’s eye. “Don’t you?” he asked again, an edge of steel creeping into his voice. “You’ve seen me before, with Chovuk Boyla.”

  With an effort, the Teacher swallowed. With the dagger so close, his nod was almost imperceptible.

  “Good,” Hult said. The blade didn’t waver. “Then you know I am Uigan. Because of your meddling, my people rode to their deaths. We horse-folk take vengeance seriously. It is a cleansing rite for us. I would like nothing more than to make you scream before you die.”

  The blade flicked, serpent-quick. The Teacher tried to draw back, but wasn’t quick enough. The jab was aimed just wide of his eye, though, and left the orb untouched. Instead, it cut a small nick out of the bony bridge of his nose. He hissed between his teeth, resentment blazing in eyes—but fear, too.

  Hult flashed an evil smile, then pulled back and motioned to Shedara and Forlo. “Ask him what you will. I’ll be here if he needs … encouragement.”

  They all nodded. They had scripted this part, working it out while the Teacher was slipping in and out of consciousness. Now Shedara sat closer to the Teacher, resting a hand on his good shoulder. Forlo crouched down on the other side, his swarthy face stern.

  “You serve Maladar the Faceless,” he said. “You’re part of some cult. You bred the shadows to help you steal the Hooded One and to spread chaos to cover your tracks. True?”

  The Teacher only glared at him. Shedara shook her head.

  “Hult?” she asked.

  Smiling, the young barbarian stepped forward, balled his hand into a fist and punched the Teacher in the leg—right where the throwing-knife had struck him. The sorcerer cried out, writhing, his stump waving in a pathetic effort to clutch the wound. Hult hit him again, and a third time; then Shedara held up a hand.

  Forlo grabbed the skull-face, his lip curling at the feel of it against his fingertips. He wrenched it around, made the Teacher look at him. The sorcerer’s eyes had dulled a little.

  “He’ll do that again when we ask,” Shedara said, her voice carefully devoid of emotion. “And if he gets tired, Forlo here will take over. And then maybe the kender would like a chance as well. We all have scores to settle with you—especially me. You tried to kill me, didn’t you? In the Necklace, and again at Coldhope.”

  The Teacher shook his head. His voice, when it came, was weak and scratchy. “That was not me,” he gasped. “That was the Slayer. It is not my role to murder for the Brethren.”

  “No,” Tanda said. “It’s your role to destroy. To corrupt. To enslave our people and turn them into … into.…”

  Forlo shook his head at the kender. “Easy, Tanda. He’ll answer for those crimes. But he must talk first.” He turned back to the Teacher. “These Brethren … how many of you are there?”

  “There were six … six of us,” the Teacher answered. “But now there are five. The Keeper betrayed us, tried to help the prisoner escape before her child could come. But he failed, and he paid the price.”

  Forlo stiffened. The world around him sharpened, as if a veil had lifted. His heart beat quickly. “Prisoner?” he asked. “Essana? You have her still?”

  The Teacher’s eyes flicked to him, sparkling with cruel humor. If his face were capable of it, Forlo knew the man would be smiling. They locked gazes for a long moment; then the Teacher turned away.

  Forlo reacted without
hesitating, before any of the others could react. Snarling, he ripped his dagger from its sheath, reversed the blade, and hammered the pommel into the Teacher’s face. There was an awful chorus of snapping sounds as the blow broke half the man’s teeth … and his jaw besides. He raised the knife again, but Eldako and Hult caught his arm and pulled him back. Forlo struggled, but Eldako pressed a spot on the inside of his elbow and his hand went slack. The dagger fell into the dirt.

  The Teacher lay gasping, his jaw askew, splinters of teeth dropping from his mouth. His head drooped. Shedara shook him, trying to rouse him, but his head lolled and he didn’t wake. “Damn it!” she growled. “We were so close!”

  Forlo shook his head, breathing hard, his face red with anger. “Don’t lecture me!” he snapped. “If it were your brother instead of Essana, and he gave you that look, you’d have done the same.”

  “I think I’d have more brains than that,” she shot back. “If he dies, your wife dies with him. And your child. Now stay back and let me finish this, if I can.”

  She leaned forward, touching her fingertips to the Teacher’s throat, feeling for the life-beat. A moment passed; she shook her head and shut her eyes.

  “Is it bad?” Eldako asked.

  She gave him a look. “As opposed to good?”

  “I mean, are we losing him?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “But I don’t know if he’ll come around again before he dies … and he probably won’t be able to talk if he does. Not with his mouth all in pieces.”

  “Khot,” Forlo swore, then turned away, angry at himself.

  “What now, then?” Tanda asked. “Is there anything you can do?”

  They all looked at Shedara, who hesitated, then nodded. “My magic,” she said. “I can search his mind. I was hoping to avoid that—reading the thoughts of a man like this is never pleasant. But it may be all we have left.”

  “Do it, then,” Eldako said.

  She nodded, then closed her eyes, turning her face up to the heavens. The red moon was high and waxing; the silver was almost new, and had set shortly after sunset. She calmed herself, the lines of worry fading from her face, then lifted her hands and began to chant in the sorcerers’ tongue.