Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  “Where’s this Vaka?” whispered Forlo, crouched in the brush beside him. They were far enough back that leaves and shadows hid them from view, and the cha’asii talismans kept their minds out of the monsters’ reach.

  “I think it was there,” Shedara replied, pointing at a spot near the rightmost group of Maws. The black earth there was broken, churned like a freshly dug grave. But there was no sign of the creature the elves had spoken of.

  Eldako coughed, his good eye darting this way and that. “It could be anywhere, if the ones in these lands burrow to hunt, rather than waiting for prey.”

  They all glanced down. Hult drew his sword, feeling ill.

  “You’ve seen these things,” he said. “Is there any sign before they attack?”

  The merkitsa shook his head. “Not much. The ground will tremble a little, then heave and burst. It happens in an instant.”

  “Great,” Forlo said, sliding his own weapon from its scabbard. His eyes fixed on the soil at his feet.

  “Don’t worry about the Vaka,” Shedara said. “I said I’d deal with it. You handle the Maws.”

  Hult nodded, glancing back toward the bridge. “We could rush them,” he said. “Take them by surprise. They won’t put up much of a fight.”

  “But we’ll draw the Vaka right to us,” Eldako said, then glanced at Shedara. “I’m sorry. I can’t not think about it. I saw one of those things kill half a hunting party once before we brought it down. It ripped them limb from limb.”

  Forlo licked his lips. “Push through to the bridge, in that case. It can get under us on solid ground, but there we’ll be safe.”

  “Safe?” Hult repeated. “Trapped on that thing, surrounded by the Maws?”

  “You just said they won’t put up much of a fight.”

  “Keep your voices down,” hissed Shedara.

  “Forlo is right,” Eldako said. “When my people fight the winlesh, we always try to put stone under our feet. The bridge will keep us from harm.”

  Hult looked at the wild elf, then at Forlo, then back at Eldako again. He was outnumbered, but couldn’t shake the bad feeling the bridge gave him. In the end, he shrugged.

  “All right,” Forlo said. A cunning smile curled his lips. He was a man born for battle. Hult understood—he was the same way. “On three. One—”

  The ground beneath them trembled.

  “Go!” Eldako yelled, leaping out of cover. He grabbed Shedara’s arm to drag her away. “It has come! Go!”

  They hurled themselves forward just in time. Behind, there was a thump as the soil flew up; great clots of it struck Hult in the back as he ran, and finer powder rained down all around, pattering into the underbrush. Then there was a massive, furious screech, and something whipped by, just over Hult’s head. He glanced up, and his mind went blank: it was a long, black tentacle, as thick as his leg and covered in bony barbs like thorns. A sharp, white hook protruded from the end. He ducked, stumbled, somehow kept his balance, and kept running.

  More tentacles lashed the air. They jumped, twisted, ducked—and suddenly Forlo was gone, yanked off his feet with a yell and hauled into the air. Hult whirled, his sword whipping around. It slit open a tentacle, exposing bulging gray flesh beneath. Ichor sprayed, stinking like rotten meat. The limb lashed at him, and he cut it again, catching it closer to the tip. Two twitching, rubbery feet of it flopped down among the ferns, and the stump jerked away, slime spurting from the wound. Somewhere behind it, the horrible screech rang out again.

  I made it angry, Hult thought with satisfaction.

  “Khot!” shouted a voice above him. “Rut with your mother, you stinking whore-son!”

  Hult glanced up. Forlo dangled among the treetops, held aloft by a tentacle that had curled around his legs. Somehow, he’d held on to his blade, and was hewing the air wildly, trying to cut through the Vaka. It wasn’t working. Gritting his teeth, Hult started forward.

  Shedara flung out an arm, hitting him in the chest and shoving him back. “Let me handle it, I said!” she yelled. “Deal with the Maws!”

  Hult was about to argue when a pair of tentacles shot toward them out of the churning earth. Shedara pointed, shouting in the language of magic, and a bolt of white lightning arrowed from her fingertip, searing through one and blackening the second. The Vaka howled, pulling the limbs back into the soil.

  “Go!” Shedara yelled. “Help Eldako!”

  With a glance, Hult saw that the merkitsa had run ahead without them, awkward-gaited from his wound, but holding his sword high as he charged the Crawling Maws. Hult swallowed hard and turned and ran as Shedara blasted another of the Vaka’s tentacles.

  It was easy to catch up to Eldako, slowed as he was by his burns. They hit the first group of Maws side by side, blades carving the air in unison. Two pallid heads came free, whirling away. Two slimy bodies crumpled to the ground. The third leaped back, eyes narrowing, gill-like slits opening on either side of its bulbous skull. Hult felt a weird, shivery sensation, like claws scrabbling at the edge of his mind, and he knew the Maw was trying to break through the magic of the talisman.

  Hult stopped it by ramming his sword through its gut. Gargling, the thing groped at the blade, then went limp. Hult swung the weapon, flinging the dead creature off; it flopped near the chasm’s edge, rolled, and vanished into nothingness.

  The other six Maws were regrouping, drawing hooked blades, somewhere between knives and swords in length. Hult and Eldako barreled onto the bridge. The Maws milled about in disarray, then followed them onto the span. Eldako killed one, hewing off its sword arm and then hacking deep into its face. Brains spattered them.

  Cilia waving, the Maws backed away, leaving Hult and Eldako standing back-to-back. Behind them, there was a peal of thunder, a flash, and a scream. Hult saw Shedara pull Forlo away from the smoldering remains of a tentacle, ripped out and blackened at its root. Of the rest of the Vaka, there was no more sign.

  Then the Maws made their move. They came on in perfect coordination now, their minds linked together. Hult could sense their thoughts, cold and gruesome. Their swords danced; he parried and nearly had his weapon wrenched from his grasp as a Maw twisted its blade’s hooked tip around it. With a grunt, he stepped back, then punched the Maw in the face with his free hand. Its flesh was soft and spongy, absorbing the blow as its mouth-tentacles shot out and wrapped around his wrist.

  He howled as tiny hooks dug into his flesh, anchoring the creature’s grip, then he kicked another Maw in the stomach as it tried to stab him. The creature folded up, dropping to its knees. Meanwhile, the one that had hold of him swung a blow of its own, cutting his leg just above the knee.

  Pain bloomed, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he thrust the sensation aside and swept his sword in low. It sliced into the Maw’s side. The creature squealed, knees buckling, and dropped its sword as the life ebbed from its body. It nearly dragged Hult down with it, but he brought his sword around as the tentacles pulled taut and cut them off in a mass. Spinning, he aimed another kick at the Maw he’d winded, hit it in the neck, and knocked it off the bridge.

  His side of the bridge clear, he tore the severed tentacles from his wrist and turned to see that Eldako had killed one of the Maws on his side. Now only two remained—and Forlo was attacking them from behind. He drove his sword through one Maw’s back, then reversed the stroke and hit the second between the eyes with the pommel. The creature stumbled back and toppled into the canyon.

  Shedara was there too, standing on the bridge, looking back the way they’d come. Her fingers curled and uncurled, sparks dancing between their tips.

  “What happened?” Eldako asked, cringing with pain. He’d been cut too, a bloody furrow running half the length of his forearm. “Is the Vaka dead?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I fried it, and it let Forlo go, but then it disappeared, down into the dirt. Hard thing to kill.”

  “At least we’re safe here,” Hult said. “You were right about that, Forlo. As long a
s we stay—”

  Before he could finish the thought, though, a geyser erupted right at the bridge’s end, spraying them with dirt. Five tentacles burst out of the soil at once … then wrapped around the span and heaved. The bridge shuddered, driving Eldako to his knees and sending Hult stumbling toward its edge. Forlo caught his arm before he could fall into the misty fissure and hauled him back.

  “It’s going to rip the whole bridge out!” Forlo yelled. “Do something!”

  “Not yet,” Shedara said, squaring her stance as the bridge shuddered again. She backed away from the creature, lips moving, hands held out before her. Hult glanced behind him, at the far end, and knew they couldn’t make it to safe ground before the span toppled into the chasm.

  “If not now, when?” Forlo muttered, his mouth twisting.

  The tentacles tightened their grasp, shaking the bridge again. Shedara tensed, her fingers curling … then relaxed, shaking her head. “It’s no good. I can’t kill it if I can’t see it. We’ve got to bring it up out of the ground.”

  “How?” Hult asked, grabbing Forlo as the other man stumbled.

  “Cut it!” Eldako said, fighting to regain his footing. “Make it angry! That’s how my people do it!”

  Hult and Forlo needed no more goading. Together they lunged, pushing past Shedara and driving their swords into the Vaka’s limbs. They stabbed, hewed, and hacked, sending ichor spurting in all directions—and with a bellow, the creature heaved itself up out of the ground.

  Its body was shaped like one of the Maws’ heads, but much, much larger—a bloated, black bag of flesh with two tiny, yellow eyes and a snapping beak in the midst of its mangled and blackened tentacles. Hult stood transfixed, appalled by the sight, and by the hideous stench billowing from its jaws. It mewled like a hungry baby.

  “Get down, damn it!” Shedara yelled. “Move!”

  Forlo knocked Hult down then leaped back, out of the way. Thunder roared, deafening them, and every hair on Hult’s body stood up as a lance of lightning seared the air, right above his back. He shut his eyes. The darkness flashed red. The Vaka screamed … and then there was a spluttering, exploding noise, and the sound of wet things falling from the sky. Something rank and slimy slapped his cheek, making him retch.

  Hult opened his eyes and beheld the carnage. The Vaka’s remains lay ruptured and smoking at the end of the bridge. Shedara’s lightning had hit it square in the beak and blown it apart, throwing innards all over the place. Gray sludge dripped from the bridge and ran in rivulets over the cliff’s edge. The reek of burned flesh made his eyes water. The tentacles wrapped around the span had gone slack and unwound as he watched, to slide down over the abyss. Their weight made the whole creature pitch forward, and he stared in disgusted silence as it finally slipped over the edge and disappeared into the fog.

  “Khot,” Forlo swore.

  Hult rolled over, looking up at Shedara. She smiled at him, wiping slime from her face. “See?” she asked. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  Chapter

  31

  AKH-TAZI, NERON

  Silence. Pure. Complete.

  Essana had thought it was quiet in the cell before, but she hadn’t realized just how much noise her tormented cellmate made. Now, with Azar gone—his ruined body bled dry and burned upon the altar—the small noises he made had gone with him. She was alone, in a way she had never been before. Even before the Keeper became her ally, she’d had the life inside her to give her hope. Now, though, there was only emptiness—in the cell, in her womb, in her heart.

  Her son had never known her. And now, with the black moon high and fat above the temple—she could feel its power, though she had never beheld it before—the time was nigh. Her turn to die. And her own child would wield the blade.

  Kill me, Mislaxa, she prayed. Kill me, Sargas. Kill me, you gods of the Uigan. Whoever might be listening … if my life is the key to freeing this faceless monster … kill me now, and save the world the suffering he would cause.

  A sound from the door interrupted her misery. Essana turned her head—she no longer had the strength to raise it; hunger and despair had weakened her too much—and saw a crack of pale light, then darkness again as the portal shut. Whispering footsteps: human, not yaggol. A quiet cough. She squinted, trying to see.

  “They say you gave me birth,” whispered a voice. “They tell me you are my mother. Is this the truth?”

  Essana caught her breath. She wanted to raise her arm, touch the face so close to hers, just out of sight. But she couldn’t. Her eyes burned: for lack of water, she could no longer make tears.

  “I am,” she croaked. “You are my son. Mine … and Barreth’s.”

  “My father,” said the voice in the dark. A bitterness there. “They have told me about him as well. How he rode off to battle and left you alone while you were carrying me.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. He went to protect—”

  The boy snorted—only, by the sound of him, he was a boy no longer. He would appear sixteen now, at the rate he’d been aging. Perhaps eighteen. Her son, only weeks old … a grown man now. She shuddered.

  “The man abandoned you,” he said. “He abandoned me. I will hear no more.”

  “Why have you come, then?” she shot back, surprised by her sudden anger. “Just to torment me? Or did the Brethren send you for a reason?”

  He was quiet a time, stung by her bitterness. When he spoke again, his voice sounded flatter, farther away. “They did not send me,” he murmured. “I came on my own. The Brethren do not know I am here.”

  Oh, Essana thought, but they do. They always know.

  “Then speak,” she said, “and have done.”

  Again, the silence. She had snapped the last words; she couldn’t help herself. Here he was, her own offspring, and he hadn’t shown any concern for her condition, though she knew she was a horror to behold. He hadn’t offered to save her. No, he would soon cut her throat because the Faceless told him to. He had no right to be stung by her tone. No right at all.

  “I am grown,” he said. “I am a man. And yet … I have no name. The Brethren call me the Taker, but that is what I shall do. It is not who I am.”

  “And you wish me to name you,” she said, understanding. “You wish something to call yourself, in these last hours before Maladar takes you.”

  “You are my mother. It is your place.”

  And who taught you that? she wondered. Anger boiled inside her—this was some sick game, some diversion by the Master. The boy didn’t know he was being manipulated … this visit was meant to hurt him … or her. Probably both. She thought of just telling him to leave … but no, she couldn’t. The need to do this small thing, to play some part in her own child’s life, was too great.

  “Your father and I spoke of this, when we learned I was pregnant,” she said. “It is the custom of our people to name children after dead family and friends. We chose my own father’s name, if you proved to be a son. Varyan Forlo, future Baron of Coldhope.”

  “Varyan,” he said, tasting the name.

  “But,” she added, “I will not give you that name.”

  Another pause. “No? Why not?”

  “Coldhope is lost, so you will not be its heir. You speak ill of your father, so I will not name you after mine. There is another name, one more fitting.”

  “Speak it, then. Give it to me.”

  “Azar.”

  He snorted. “After the Keeper? You would give me a traitor’s name?”

  “I give you the name of one who tried to save me,” she said. “Of a man who sacrificed all in the hope of stopping this darkness. The Keeper was a good man. Perhaps, with his name, some part of that goodness will pass to you.”

  She could feel him glaring at her, the fury in his eyes. She smiled. The Brethren would be displeased at this: they would want no reminder of the Keeper. The Master, in particular, would be infuriated.

  “I do not accept this name,” he said.

/>   She shrugged. “All the same, it is yours. You can change it if you like, but other names are fleeting. This one shall remain with you always, your mother-name. When you stand before the gods, at your life’s ending, it is the one you must give them. Azar Forlo, son of Barreth.”

  “And you will give them yours,” he said, “much sooner than that.”

  There was a ring of steel, a sudden movement. Essana felt a blade press against her throat, its edge dimpling her flesh.

  “I will use this blade,” he said. “I will stand before you as you lie upon the altar. And I will send you to your vaunted gods.”

  “Why wait?” she whispered through gritted teeth. She let none of her fear show through her voice. “Do it now.”

  One last time, he was silent. Then, with a frustrated snarl, he withdrew the blade and strode away. The door opened again, the crack of light spilling through. In the glow, she saw his face. He looked older than she’d thought possible. Twenty or more, now. Hate had twisted his features, made them ugly.

  “Your time will come, Mother,” he said. “As it will for my father, when he comes.”

  She blinked, her mouth opening. “Barreth? He’s coming?”

  “Did you not know?” He smiled, an expression of sheer cruelty, devoid of mirth. “A yaggol patrol sighted him, the day before yesterday. Him, and several others. They are coming for you, Mother. But the Faceless are ready. They will capture my father, and bring him to the sacrifice. He will watch as I kill you.”

  Finally, after all this time, after all her suffering, this news was too much to bear. Essana screamed and screamed. Her only answer was the door booming shut and her son’s retreating footsteps, lost in her cries.

  It was a calm night, cloudless, the air hot and still. The sky over the temple was a riot of stars—more than Essana could ever remember seeing, as if someone had tried to paint the heavens and didn’t know when to quit. Solis and Lunis were nowhere to be seen, but an eerie luminance bathed the jungle nonetheless: a light whose hue she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t blue or violet, or even gray. It made everything seem weirdly vibrant, but the colors were all wrong. The ocean of leaves surrounding the temple were yellow. Her own skin was tinted green. The flames that leaped from the braziers were almost white. The weird colors of the night made her shiver, gooseflesh rising on her arms.