Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  Hult felt a spasm of grief. “He is lost, Grandmother. Eldako fell to the dragon.”

  Yu-shan stared at him, fear widening her eyes. “No,” she said. “It is not possible. The spirits spoke of four, not three! Three is an ill number. The fourth must come—without him, we cannot prevail.”

  “Eldako is dead, wise one,” Hult insisted.

  “And the body? You saw his corpse?”

  He frowned. “Well … no, but.…”

  “Ah!” Yu-shan grinned, her eyes lighting. She snapped her fingers. “You should not have left him, if he fared so badly that you thought him slain. Bad luck, bad luck. Now it falls to me. I must find him. We must, together. Come.”

  She turned and, her handmaidens guiding her, hobbled quickly away. Hult took a step to follow, bewildered by what the ancient elf had said, but Shedara caught his arm, stopping him. He turned, staring at her, then saw the confusion on her face. He and Yu-shan had been speaking the cha’asii tongue. The others had understood only one word they’d spoken: Eldako’s name.

  “What’s going on?” Shedara whispered.

  He told her. She slapped him, then turned on Forlo.

  “You made me leave!” she shouted at them both. “You told me there was no hope. Now we’re told he’s alive?”

  Hult looked away, his cheek burning where she’d hit him. Forlo shook his head.

  “How were we to know?” he asked. “You saw what happened to him, Shedara. How could he survive that?”

  She glared at him, then turned and walked away, following the Grandmother and her attendants. The cha’asii parted to let her pass. Hult stayed behind a moment with Forlo. They traded glances, sharing the same thought: how could Eldako still be alive? And if he lived, what was left of him? Wouldn’t death be better?

  Shaking his head, Forlo walked after Shedara. Hult went last of all, his thoughts as dark as the jungle below.

  The Grandmother’s hut was higher than the rest of the village, rising up among the topmost branches of the trees, dappled with moonlight that broke through the leaves. Many dried heads surrounded it, both Crawling Maws and other monsters Hult didn’t recognize: a great cat with a third eye in the middle of its forehead, a snake with curling horns, and something that looked to be equal parts ogre and bat. Gloomwing’s head would soon join the others, a crowning trophy among Yu-shan’s collection, the enemies of the cha’asii brought low.

  The hut itself was long and low, the near end covered by a blanket of grasses that served as a door. Branches of twisted wood stuck out of the top like spines. Its sides crawled with the glowing moths that lit the rest of Ke-cha-yat—free, not trapped in crystal globes, their cold shimmer making a mosaic that illuminated the platform as bright as day. The glow rippled as Hult watched, the moths spreading their wings to flit from one point to another.

  The platform was a circle some twenty paces across, with no rail around its edges; glancing over the side, Hult felt overcome by dizziness. They were so high, he couldn’t see the ground: just fluttering leaves and bridges and huts, down and down into shadow. It felt as if, if he fell over, he would plunge forever through the moth-lit trees. Catching his breath, he stepped back, turning toward the hut.

  The Grandmother stood alone, quietly watching them. As Hult watched, moths rose from the walls and alighted on her headdress and cloak. Their light made her seem swathed in stars. She gazed at him with her pale eyes, then at Forlo and Shedara, beckoning them closer. As she did, Hult noticed something he hadn’t seen before—a bowl-shaped depression in the platform’s midst, perhaps two paces across and lined with multicolored seashells. Yu-shan hobbled to its edge and held her hand over the bowl. She spoke a word, and the familiar shimmer of magic poured down. When it was done, the bowl was filled to the brim with clear water. Hult and the others drew near, surrounding the pool.

  “There’s no reflection,” Forlo said, peering in.

  “It’s for scrying,” Shedara explained. “The Voice had something like this, in my homeland.” She looked over at the old elf. “This is to search for Eldako.”

  The Grandmother eased herself down to sit by the pool’s edge, waving Forlo and Hult away when they stepped forward to help her. She smiled at them, then gestured to the pool’s edge.

  “Sit,” she said. “I will need your memories of him to know exactly what it is I seek. Do you have a token of his? Something he carried, that you took when you thought him dead?”

  Shedara and Forlo looked at Hult, not understanding. He translated, and Shedara nodded, unslinging Eldako’s bow from her back. She had refused to leave it by the seaside, and now she held it out to the Grandmother, its wood gleaming in the light of moths and moons.

  Yu-shan shook her head. “I cannot accept this,” she said. “It is a weapon of great power. The spell will unbind its magic, destroy it. Have you nothing else?”

  Hult repeated her words. Shedara shook her head and offered the bow again. “It is all there is,” she said. “He will understand.”

  Regretfully, the Grandmother accepted the bow. She ran her hands over its curves, whispering to it as if apologizing. Then, with a wistful sigh, she laid it on the water. The bow floated out, drifting into the pool’s midst.

  “Sit,” she said again. “We will begin.”

  They did as she bade and shut their eyes, each remembering Eldako as Yu-shan began to chant. Hult thought of the first time he’d met the merkitsa, deep in the Dreaming Green. He remembered how Eldako had killed Hoch and Sugai, the rebellious lords who had sought to usurp Chovuk on the eve of battle—shooting them from a distance Hult still couldn’t credit, his arrows seeming to descend from the heavens. He thought of the wild elf rescuing them at Coldhope and again in Kristophan … of his solemn face as the Wyrm-namer died, and the song of his bowstring at Starshimmer Lake. Last, he saw him standing on the shore, his arrows spent, waiting without fear as Gloomwing skimmed toward him over the waves.

  Sorcery surged around him, blasting him from all sides like a whirlwind. There was a flash of light, and he opened his eyes to see white flames leap from the surface of the pool—flames filled with faces, appearing and disappearing too quickly to recognize. The bow caught fire and vanished amid the inferno. Across the burning water, the Grandmother’s head snapped in his direction, her eyes rolling back in her head. She pointed a finger and spoke in a shrill, brittle wail.

  “Hold to your thoughts! Remember him! Remember, or the spell will fail!”

  Terrified, Hult shut his eyes again, summoning the memories where he’d left them. He watched Eldako lower his bow, let it drop into the sand. Drawing his blade, the merkitsa walked forward into the water. Waves lapped around his shins, foaming. His eyes never left the black dragon, shrieking in like death itself, his mouth gaping wide, filled with glistening fangs. Acid boiled up the monster’s throat.

  “No,” Hult groaned as he found himself running forward. This confused him for a moment: he hadn’t done this before. He had stayed with Forlo, back where beach met jungle. Now, though, his feet flew across the sand as he hurried to help his friend.

  The spell had taken hold. He felt its claws sinking into him, burrowing in his mind as the Grandmother searched his memories. He fought the urge to resist, letting the magic work its way deeper and deeper as he sprinted to Eldako’s side.

  “Get out!” he cried as the dragon came soaring closer. “Get away from here!”

  The wild elf didn’t notice him. His gaze was fast on Gloomwing, so close now Hult could count the dragon’s teeth. Hult grabbed for Eldako, but his hands didn’t reach him. The spell could not change what had happened; it only let him see things better, closer. He wondered, briefly, if that was so good an idea—then the dragon made the terrible, vomiting roar he recalled, and he looked up in time to see sizzling green slime fly through the air and splatter the merkitsa.

  “Eldako!” he shouted. He heard Shedara cry out as well. Only Forlo, who hadn’t beheld this moment, and so had no memory of it, remained silent.

/>   An awful smell hit him then, and Hult knew it came from the wild elf. The acid ate through Eldako’s beetle-shell breastplate, burned away his tunic, seared his flesh. Greasy, yellow fumes rose from him. Eldako opened his mouth to cry out but could only make a retching sound—then leaped forward, hurling himself into the water and vanishing from sight.

  Leaped. Did not fall.

  Wracked with despair. Hult dove after him. Every instinct told him this was suicide—he was no swimmer—but the magic compelled him. Panic whitened his mind as he plunged into the surf; when it cleared again he was under water, following Eldako as the tide dragged him away. The acid had stopped eating the elf, but Hult caught glimpses of the damage it had done—armor and clothing in tatters, skin bubbled and blackened, hair scorched away—as the merkitsa tumbled over and over, helpless, unconscious. Above the water, the wyrm’s shadow passed overhead, and he heard a muted roar—Gloomwing’s cry as the cha’asii loosed their deadly volley. A few moments later came the crash as the dying dragon plowed into the forest.

  Then, all was quiet. Eldako’s body kept drifting, pulled by current and tide. Hult glided after, more flying than swimming, no longer troubled by thoughts of drowning. He felt the Grandmother’s mind touching his, driving him on. He wondered if she was doing the same with Shedara, or even Forlo. She probably was. If it came to it, he could break the spell simply by opening his eyes.

  Minute after minute crept by. The water darkened as twilight settled into night. Still Eldako drifted, limp as a dead man, the current bearing him along. Finally, ahead, something loomed close—something large and solid. Hult pulled up and burst through the surface of the water to see craggy coastline—the same rocks Shedara had wanted to search when he and Forlo had convinced her to stop. Shame burned in his heart as he watched the wild elf’s charred body break the surface and slam against the rocks. He groped impotently toward his friend as a wave pinned him against the stones—wanted to help him but couldn’t. What he was watching was already done, though no one had been around to see it until now.

  The wave receded, leaving Eldako bobbing in the shallows. A moment later, however, another swell came in, larger than the last. This time it broke over the rocks, pushing the merkitsa with it. Hult lost sight of what was happening and searched frantically as the foaming breaker drained away—and finally saw his friend, sprawled at the edge of a tidal pool, surrounded by starfish and urchins.

  Then he saw the miracle: Eldako stirred, gave a great, wracking cough, and vomited sea water onto the stones. When he was done, he lay groaning, huddled in a heap until another wave broke over the rocks and shoved him deeper into shore, smacking and bumping against the stones. He clung to the rocks, whimpering in pain as the surge tried to pull him back out to sea.

  It was too dark to see just what the acid had done to him. For that, Hult was thankful. He didn’t sound right, though—his breathing had a reedy wheeze. Eldako lay gasping, groaning—then gathered enough strength to crawl, scraping his way over the rocks, away from the pounding surf. When he finally collapsed again, he’d made it almost to the trees. The waves kept bursting against the stones behind him.

  He lay there a long time, face-down in the dark. Hult felt hours pass. The stars wheeled across the night sky; clouds formed and tore apart; the moons glided westward. Eldako remained still, near death or sleeping.

  Then, finally, something happened. Midnight had come and gone, though dawn was still hours away. There was movement in the blackness, but it wasn’t Eldako; three shadowy figures slipped out of the trees. Hult moved toward them to get a better look and felt horror crawl over his skin. The creatures were man-shaped, clad in pale robes, with slimy skin like the flesh of something that had crawled up from the bottom of the sea. One was pale violet, another bilious green, and the third the yellow-gray of disease. Their heads he recognized, for he had seen them already, dark and shriveled on stakes all over Ke-cha-yat. Alive they were even more horrible, their eyes white and empty, their mouth-tentacles writhing as though they had minds of their own.

  The Crawling Maws had come.

  The akitu-shai hesitated, looking at one another, and Hult had the sense of silent conversation, unspoken thoughts buzzing through the air. A conclusion reached, they strode forward, moving among the rocks toward Eldako. Spindly, alien hands reached out, clutching for the merkitsa … then stopped, the creatures straightening and glancing at one another in wordless communion. Then, to Hult’s amazement, they turned and looked straight at him.

  LEAVE! shouted three voices in his mind, so loud he cried out, and opened his eyes.

  The spell broke. The flames that covered the pool flickered out, leaving no sign of Eldako’s bow—not even ashes. Hult held still, trembling at the memory of the Maws. Forlo sat across the pool from him, pale and confused; he hadn’t shared the vision. Shedara had, though, and she bowed her head, her shoulders shaking. Tears shone on her cheeks.

  “So it is,” said the Grandmother. “The akitu-shai have him. We must get him back, if you are to succeed at your task.”

  Hult rose. “I will go. It is partly my fault that they have him.”

  Yu-shan nodded.

  Hult explained things to the others, and Forlo offered to help as well. Shedara remained quiet, staring into the emptiness of the pool as the water vanished from within.

  “And you, girl?” asked the Grandmother. “What will you do?”

  Shedara looked up, her face creased with anguish. Her eyes were fierce, though—so much so it was Yu-shan who glanced away, flushing beneath her stare.

  Chapter

  27

  THE EMERALD SEA, NERON

  He awoke.

  Eldako hadn’t expected to live—at best, he thought he’d find himself among his ancestors in the gods’ hunting grounds, as the shamans said happened to the dead. Drawing breath, after what he’d been through, came as a surprise.

  It also came as a relief, for it would have been a bad death, a foolish death. The merkitsa believed their spirits returned to the world after a time in the afterlife, and their place in things was determined by how they died. Standing out in the open, daring a dragon to attack him—then misjudging and not getting out of the way before it unleashed its deadly breath—was a stupidity that would make him certain to come back as a cockroach or a goblin. It would mean a downward turn of fortune’s great wheel, and Eldako was glad he didn’t have to face that.

  Not yet, anyway. He could already sense a wrongness to things, even drifting at the edge of consciousness. He was hardly safe. An awful smell, like rotting fish, hung heavy in the air—and there was something even worse. A slimy feeling, sliding through his mind. He was not alone in his own head.

  He opened his eyes, or tried to. That was the first inkling he had of how bad his wounds were. He’d felt a brief but incredible flare of pain when the acid struck, in that moment before he’d hurled himself into the sea. Luckily, the water had washed away the dragon’s breath, sparing his life. But the vision in his right eye was cloudy, as if someone had covered it with gossamer. He guessed it would never be clear again.

  His left eye wouldn’t open at all. After a moment, he understood why. It was gone.

  Nor did the rest of his face feel right—the flesh on the whole left side, from scalp to jaw, felt taut and ill-fitting. His face stung worse than the harshest sunburn he’d ever had. He knew what he must look like and felt a surge of revulsion: the dragon’s acid had seared and melted his skin, leaving it misshapen and hairless, his left eye an empty, staring socket. He realized, with no small amount of regret, that he would never be able to shoot a bow properly again.

  His arm felt equally maimed, and the left side of his chest as well. Only his right leg had escaped Gloomwing’s spittle. He would be hideous to look upon and probably a poor fighter as well. He was ruined, a broken semblance of what he’d been. A lesser man would have given up and died on the spot, but Eldako was a prince of his people and one of the finest warriors of the Dreaming Green. He
thrust aside self-pity and concentrated on surviving whatever was next.

  He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. Tried to raise his head, but failed at that as well. He didn’t have a broken back, for he could twitch his toes and fingers, nor did he feel anything binding him. It felt as if someone lay on top of him, physically holding him down. But there was no one there, not that he could see.

  He was alone, staring up at a dark canopy of branches. His hearing was almost as bad as his sight—the acid had taken his left ear as well—but he could make out the sound of movement and a soft, wet noise he didn’t recognize. He gritted his teeth, the most he could do with his mouth—the invisible hand was holding his jaw shut as well—and pushed as hard as he could against whatever was restraining him.

  It wakes, said a voice inside him.

  Eldako startled, then felt the slithering in his mind again, probing at thought and memory. He tried to block it out but didn’t know how. It slipped about like an eel, twisting and flopping whenever he tried to grasp it. He understood, then, why he couldn’t move. His captors had hold of his mind.

  He fought even harder, struggling to wrest back control of his thoughts. There was a white flash, like a star exploding in his head, followed by a wave of pain and nausea. He groaned, nearly blacking out, and forced himself to remain calm. Only when his thoughts were tranquil again did the agony abate, leaving him exhausted and shivering on the jungle floor.

  Strong, said a second voice, as toneless as the first. Not like the cha’asii.

  Yes, said the first speaker. Strong.

  A good catch, agreed a third. Better than any since the woman came.

  The Brethren will be pleased, noted the second.